1 When they had come near Jerusalem and had reached Bethphage, at the Mount of Olives, Jesus sent two disciples, 2 saying to them, “Go into the village ahead of you, and immediately you will find a donkey tied and a colt with her; untie them and bring them to me. 3 If anyone says anything to you, just say this, ‘The Lord needs them.’ And he will send them immediately.”[a] 4 This took place to fulfill what had been spoken through the prophet:
5 “Tell the daughter of Zion,
Look, your king is coming to you,
humble and mounted on a donkey,
and on a colt, the foal of a donkey.”6 The disciples went and did as Jesus had directed them; 7 they brought the donkey and the colt and put their cloaks on them, and he sat on them. 8 A very large crowd[b] spread their cloaks on the road, and others cut branches from the trees and spread them on the road. 9 The crowds that went ahead of him and that followed were shouting,
“Hosanna to the Son of David!
Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord!
Hosanna in the highest heaven!”10 When he entered Jerusalem, the whole city was in turmoil, asking, “Who is this?” 11 The crowds were saying, “This is the prophet Jesus from Nazareth in Galilee.”
Matthew 21:1-11
Palm Sunday is one of the most dramatic scenes in the Gospels. It is a story of praise that hides deeper uncertainty. As Jesus approaches Jerusalem, crowds gather along the road. Cloaks are spread before him. Branches wave in the air. Voices rise together in celebration: “Hosanna to the Son of David! Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord!” (Matthew 21:9). It looks like the arrival of a king. The scene resembles a royal procession, filled with hope and anticipation.
Yet Matthew quietly unsettles the celebration with a question. When Jesus enters Jerusalem, the Gospel tells us that “the whole city was in turmoil, asking, ‘Who is this?’” (Matthew 21:10). The same moment that appears triumphant is also marked by uncertainty. Palm Sunday, therefore, holds together two realities that rarely sit comfortably together: affirmation and confusion.
Matthew’s narrative itself hints that more than one response to Jesus is present in this scene. The crowds accompanying Jesus proclaim him as the “Son of David,” a royal and messianic title. Yet the city of Jerusalem reacts with uncertainty, asking, “Who is this?” The Gospel, therefore, portrays not a single unified response but a mixture of recognition and questioning. Some perceive in Jesus the hope of liberation, while others remain unsure about his identity. This tension reflects a deeper human pattern. Communities often recognize the need for justice, deliverance, and hope. Yet the way people imagine liberation is frequently shaped by the political and social worlds they inhabit.
Paulo Freire’s reflections on social consciousness help illuminate this dynamic. Freire reminds us that human beings interpret reality through patterns formed by their historical and social environments. Without critical reflection, communities may internalize the assumptions of the systems that shape their lives. In societies formed by structures of domination, the very meaning of power is often defined through conquest and control. As Freire observes, people who long for liberation may still interpret freedom through the same frameworks of power within which they have experienced oppression. Palm Sunday reveals such a moment. The crowd affirms Jesus enthusiastically, but their understanding of salvation remains shaped by the political imagination of empire.
The crowd’s praise (affirmation) is sincere. For generations, Israel had lived under the domination of imperial power. Roman occupation brought political humiliation, economic inequality, and social uncertainty. In such circumstances, the hope for a Messiah carried enormous significance. Many longed for a leader who would restore justice and dignity. The cry of “Hosanna,” meaning “Save us now,” expresses that longing.
Matthew’s gospel shows Jesus quietly disrupting that imagination. Instead of entering Jerusalem on a war horse, he rides a donkey, recalling Zechariah’s vision of a king who comes “humble and riding on a donkey” (Zechariah 9:9). Instead of displaying military authority, he embodies humility. His kingship will ultimately be revealed not through conquest but through suffering. From the perspective of conventional political imagination, such power appears weak. Yet the Gospel suggests that this apparent weakness exposes the illusion on which violent power depends.
The tension of Palm Sunday becomes clearer when we read the story within the wider narrative of Holy Week. The crowds who welcome Jesus into Jerusalem express hope and expectation, yet the city itself remains unsettled. As the week unfolds, the responses to Jesus become increasingly divided. Some mock and condemn him, while others follow him on the road to the cross in grief and bewilderment. Matthew’s narrative does not present a single unified reaction but a community struggling to understand the kind of king Jesus truly is. The movement from “Hosanna” to “Crucify him” reveals the depth of the confusion surrounding Jesus’ mission. The Passion narrative reveals a community caught between recognition and misunderstanding,
When he refuses to embody the political expectations that many people had for the Messiah, the affirmation surrounding him begins to fracture. The king who enters Jerusalem does not resemble the savior many expected. I have occasionally seen a similar tension reflected in pastoral conversations.
Not long ago, I was part of a discussion among several Christian leaders responding to a political event in the Middle East. News had spread that a powerful political figure associated with violence had been killed in a sudden military operation. In the conversation, one participant expressed strong approval. The event was interpreted as justice finally being served. The removal of an enemy was seen as a necessary step toward restoring order.
Another voice in the conversation responded differently. Rather than celebrating the event, he spoke about the suffering that often follows such acts of violence. Whenever conflict escalates, he reminded us, ordinary people – families, children, and communities – often bear the consequences.
What struck me about that exchange was that both responses emerged from a concern for justice. Both individuals believed they were defending what was right. Yet their imagination of justice differed. One response interpreted justice through the language of decisive power and the removal of enemies. The other saw justice through the lens of human vulnerability and the fragile lives caught within political conflict.
Reflecting on that conversation, I realize how closely it resembled the tension present on Palm Sunday. The crowd in Jerusalem also affirmed the hope of salvation. Yet their imagination of liberation remained shaped by the political patterns of their world.
Freire argues that liberation begins when people learn to see differently. What he calls conscientization is the awakening of awareness that allows individuals and communities to recognize how our assumptions have been shaped by the structures around us.
Palm Sunday invites precisely such an awakening. Yet such awakening should not be mistaken for a call to quiet disagreement or to avoid confronting injustice. Freire insists that liberation requires exposing the structures of domination that shape our social imagination and entering into solidarity with those who suffer under them. In the Gospel narrative, Jesus does not simply invite people to see the world differently; he embodies a form of kingship that stands with the poor, the excluded, and the vulnerable while challenging the systems that sustain inequality. To see differently, therefore, is not to soften the pursuit of justice but to recognize how easily even our desire for liberation can mirror the patterns of domination we seek to overcome. For the kingdom Jesus announces does not secure privilege; it unsettles it.
Palm Sunday, therefore, confronts every community that confesses Christ. The king who enters Jerusalem does not resemble the rulers people had learned to recognize. He does not arrive with armies or weapons. Instead, he embodies a kingdom grounded in humility, service, and reconciliation.
Matthew ends the story with a question: “Who is this?” Palm Sunday leaves that question deliberately open. Perhaps, this is where the affirmation and confusion of Palm Sunday can help us meet our own lives. In many congregations today, communities find themselves divided by political conviction, national loyalties, and competing visions of justice. Members often affirm the same Christ while imagining different paths towards peace and justice.
From the perspective of pastoral care, seeing differently may begin with something simple yet difficult: listening without immediately condemning, acknowledging fear without dismissing conviction, and seeking solidarity even when agreement feels distant.
Palm Sunday reminds us that communities can affirm Christ while still living in confusion about the nature of his kingdom. Yet the Gospel also suggests that transformation begins precisely there. We may sing “Hosanna” with conviction. Yet the story invites us to keep asking the question the city asked that day: “Who is this?”
