Jesus or Barabbas: The Palm Sunday We Refuse to See

Palm Sunday is one of the most misunderstood moments in the Gospel. It looks like a celebration, but it is actually a confrontation. It looks like a coronation, but it is a protest. And if we are honest, it forces a question that most of us would rather avoid: what kind of Messiah do we actually want?

The crowds gather as Jesus Christ enters Jerusalem. They wave palms, they shout “Hosanna,” they lay down their cloaks. It feels like triumph. It feels like hope breaking into history.

But beneath the surface, something else is happening.

They are not celebrating Jesus as He is. They are projecting onto Him the Messiah they want Him to be.

They want someone who will overthrow the Roman Empire. They want someone who will restore their national identity, secure their borders, and reestablish their dominance. They want power—not the kind that heals or restores, but the kind that conquers. They want a king who will fight.

And Jesus refuses.

He does not enter on a war horse. He comes on a donkey. Not as a poetic gesture, but as a deliberate rejection of everything Rome represents. In the ancient world, kings rode horses into cities when they came for war. They rode donkeys when they came in peace.

Jesus is making a statement: My kingdom will not be built the way yours are.

This is not just humility. It is resistance. It is a refusal to participate in the machinery of domination, violence, and control. Jesus does not simply oppose Rome—He exposes it. He unmasks the entire system of power that runs on fear, coercion, and force.

And more importantly, He refuses to replace Rome with a “better” version of Rome.

That is the part we often miss.

The people didn’t just want freedom. They wanted control. They didn’t just want liberation. They wanted to become the ones in charge. And Jesus will not give them that. He will not sanctify their desire for dominance. He will not baptize their thirst for power.

And that is why, just days later, the same crowd turns on Him.

Because when Jesus will not take power, they go looking for someone who will.

And that is where Barabbas enters the story.

Barabbas is not just a random criminal. The Gospels describe him as an insurrectionist—a man who had taken part in violent rebellion. In other words, he is exactly the kind of “messiah” many were hoping for. A fighter. A nationalist. Someone willing to meet power with power, violence with violence.

So when the crowd is given the choice—Jesus or Barabbas—they do not hesitate.

They choose force over mercy.
They choose domination over humility.
They choose violence over love.

They choose Barabbas.

And here is where Palm Sunday stops being a story about them and becomes a mirror for us.

Because we are making the same choice.

We may not stand in a courtyard shouting for a prisoner to be released, but we reveal our choice in what we celebrate, what we defend, and what we are willing to justify in the name of God.

There is a form of Christianity rising in this country that is deeply entangled with power, nationalism, and control. It wraps itself in the language of faith, but it operates according to the logic of empire. It speaks the name of Christ, but it does not resemble Christ.

It demands dominance.
It fears weakness.
It confuses authority with righteousness.

It blesses power instead of questioning it.

What is often called “Christian nationalism” is not rooted in the life of Jesus—it is rooted in the same instincts that fueled Rome. It is a desire to control culture, enforce morality through power, and secure a version of “Christian identity” by force if necessary.

It is Rome with a cross on top.

It is Barabbas baptized.

And we need to be honest enough to say that out loud.

Because the Jesus being promoted in these spaces is not the one who rides into Jerusalem on a donkey. It is a reconstructed Jesus—a Jesus who carries a sword, who crushes enemies, who wins at all costs, who aligns Himself with national power.

But that Jesus does not exist.

The real Jesus stands in direct opposition to all of it.

He refuses violence—not because He is weak, but because He is free.
He refuses domination—not because He lacks authority, but because He redefines it.
He refuses to coerce belief—not because He doesn’t care, but because love cannot be forced.

He heals enemies.
He touches the unclean.
He forgives those who are actively killing Him.

And He allows Himself to be executed rather than become what the world expects Him to be.

That is not failure. That is revelation.

Because the kingdom of God is not built by taking life. It is revealed by giving it.

And that is precisely why He is rejected.

Because the way of Jesus does not “work” in the way empire works. It does not produce quick results. It does not dominate headlines. It does not guarantee control.

It transforms hearts—and that is slower, quieter, and infinitely more threatening to systems built on fear.

So when we turn our gaze toward America, we have to be willing to ask a question that cuts deeper than politics or party lines:

What story are we actually living?

We like to call this a “Christian nation.” We invoke God in speeches. We place Scripture in courtrooms. We print “In God We Trust” on our currency.

But if we measure ourselves against the life of Jesus—against humility, enemy-love, mercy, and self-giving sacrifice—we are confronted with a harder truth.

We are far more comfortable with Barabbas than we are with Christ.

We reward strength over compassion.
We celebrate power over service.
We justify violence in the name of security.
We build systems that protect the strong and discard the vulnerable.

We call it order. Jesus calls it something else.

And the danger is not just that we do this.

The danger is that we do it while invoking His name.

We have learned how to shout “Hosanna” while quietly aligning ourselves with everything Jesus rejected.

We have learned how to praise Him in worship while resisting Him in practice.

We have learned how to build a version of Christianity that feels strong, decisive, and victorious—but bears little resemblance to the crucified Christ.

Palm Sunday does not let us hide from this.

It places two figures before us—clearly, uncomfortably, unmistakably.

Barabbas—the way of force, control, and domination.
Jesus—the way of surrender, mercy, and self-giving love.

One looks powerful.
The other looks weak.

One promises immediate victory.
The other walks straight into suffering.

One secures kingdoms.
The other reveals one that cannot be taken.

And we are still choosing between them.

The tragedy of Palm Sunday is not that the crowd got it wrong once.

It is that humanity keeps getting it wrong—again and again, in every age, in every nation, in every heart.

Including ours.

So the question is not whether we will praise Jesus.

The question is whether we will follow Him.

Because you cannot wave palms on Sunday and shout for Barabbas on Friday.

You cannot claim Christ and cling to empire.

You cannot worship the Prince of Peace while defending the very systems He came to expose.

Palm Sunday demands a decision.

Not in theory. Not in theology. But in the way we live, the way we love, and the way we understand power.

Who is our king?

The one who takes power?

Or the one who lays it down?