Golgotha: The King Lifted Up in Shame

“And over His head they put the charge against Him, which read, ‘This is Jesus, the King of the Jews’” (Matt. 27:37). 

When Matthew brings us to Golgotha, he slows the narrative. The placename itself arrests us: Golgotha, Γολγοθᾶ, from the Aramaic/Hebrew גֻּלְגֹּלֶת (gulgōlet), “the place of a skull” (Matt. 27:33). This was not a hidden, dark corner of Jerusalem. Rome preached terror from crosses; God preached redemption from one. Mark notes that “those who passed by” reviled Him (Mk. 15:29), suggesting a location along a busy roadway, especially crowded during Pesach/Passover. Rome chose prominence for deterrence. God chose prominence for redemption. 

 Matthew records that Yeshua/Jesus was offered wine to drink mixed with gall (27:34). Mark specifies wine mingled with myrrh (Mk. 15:23). It was a mercy of sorts. Women in Jerusalem were known to provide a narcotic in this mixture to dull the agony of crucifixion. Yet Messiah tasted it and refused. He would not numb the cup the Father had given Him. The Cross would not be endured in partial consciousness. The Son would drink suffering to its dregs. The agony—physical, spiritual, judicial—would be fully borne. The Lamb would be lucid.

 Still, crucifixion was not just execution; it was humiliation. The victim was stripped naked. The One who clothed Adam and Eve (Gen. 3:21) now stands unclothed before the world He made. “They divided His garments among them, casting lots” (Matt. 27:35). The soldiers, indifferent and methodical, gamble at the foot of the Cross. Matthew alludes unmistakably to Psalm 22: “They divide my garments among them, and for my clothing they cast lots” (Ps. 22:18). What David lamented in poetic anguish becomes literalized in Messiah’s suffering. The Scripture does not just echo here—it unfolds.

 Christ bears not only pain but shame. The stripping of His garments mirrors the stripping away of dignity. But this is no accident of history. As Isaiah 53 declares, He bore our griefs and carried our sorrows; the chastisement that brought us peace fell upon Him. Our shame is transferred. Our nakedness is covered by His exposure.

 “And sitting down, they kept watch over Him there” (Matt. 27:36). They waited for Him to die.

What chilling ordinariness. The soldiers settle in beneath the Cross as though beneath a tree’s shade. They are numb to the agony just above them. And the passing world watches its Maker gasp for breath.

 Above His head they fasten the charge visible for all who care to know: “This is Jesus, the King of the Jews” (27:37). While Rome intends mockery, heaven declares truth. The sign is meant as accusation; it becomes proclamation. The King reigns from a throne of wood stained with blood.

 The humiliation crescendos. Passersby wag their heads. Chief priests, scribes, and elders sneer with theological precision: “He trusts in God; let God deliver Him now, if He desires Him” (Matt. 27:43). Again, the language of Psalm 22 resounds: “He trusts in the Lord; let Him deliver him” (Ps. 22:8). The religious leaders, supposed guardians of Scripture, unknowingly recite prophecy as they ridicule its fulfillment. Their scorn is not only aimed at the Son—it is aimed at the Father. If this Man is the beloved Son, let God prove it.

 Even the robbers crucified with Him join in the reviling (Matt. 27:44). Messiah is encircled by contempt: Rome below, Israel above, criminals beside Him. And there He hangs in total rejection.

 Yet herein lies the mystery: the mockery confirms the mission. The One they challenge to “come down from the Cross” remains upon it precisely because He is the Son. Salvation requires endurance, not escape. Psalm 22 reads as a prophetic crucifixion narrative centuries before Rome perfected the practice: pierced hands and feet (Ps. 22:16 LXX), exposed bones, mocking crowds, divided garments. David writes in lament, but the Spirit carries his words forward into redemptive history.

 Yet Psalm 22 does not end in despair. It moves from abandonment to proclamation: “All the ends of the earth shall remember and turn to the Lord” (Ps. 22:27). The Cross is both the depth of humiliation and the seed of global mission and worship. Likewise, Isaiah 53 frames the suffering as substitution. He is pierced for our transgressions. He bears the punishment rightly due to us. What appears as defeat is covenant fidelity. What appears as abandonment is atonement.

 Here, at the place of Golgotha, we see the theology of the Cross of Messiah. 

 Public shame: Messiah exposed before the nations.

Prophetic fulfillment: Scripture embodied in flesh and blood.

Substitutionary suffering: the Innocent in the place of the guilty.

Unyielding obedience: the Son trusting the Father amid abandonment.

 He refuses the narcotic. He endures the scorn. He remains upon the Cross. Not because He lacks power, but because He loves His people. The place of the skull becomes the place of new creation. The King enthroned in mockery inaugurates a kingdom not of coercion, but of sacrifice. The One stripped naked clothes a redeemed humanity in righteousness. Golgotha stands as both warning and wonder: a deterrent to rebellion in Rome’s design, and the decisive act of redemption and reconciliation by the Lord’s design.

 Maranatha. Shalom. 

Simon of Cyrene: The Cross We Did Not Choose

“As they went out, they found a man of Cyrene, Simon by name. They compelled this man to carry His cross” (Matt. 27:32).

In the midst of the Passion narrative in Matthew 27, when brutality and injustice permeate the air, Matthew pauses to name a man otherwise unknown to us: Simon of Cyrene. It is a brief verse that almost seems incidental, yet it opens a window into discipleship, suffering, and the mysterious providence of God.

Simon was from Cyrene, located in present-day Libya in North Africa. Cyrene had a substantial Jewish population dating back centuries. Luke’s account of Pentecost (Acts 2:10) mentions Jews from Cyrene present in Jerusalem for the feast. That Simon was in Jerusalem during Passover strongly suggests he was either Jewish or a proselyte, having come up to the city to worship the God of Israel.

Mark’s Gospel, likely written to a Roman audience and reflecting the testimony of Peter, includes a striking detail: Simon was “the father of Alexander and Rufus” (Mk. 15:21). It seems likely that Alexander and Rufus were known to the wider messianic community, even in Rome. The apostle Paul later greets a Rufus in Romans 16:13. While we cannot say with certainty that it is the same man, the connection is plausible. If Paul is greeting the same Rufus, then the cross that Simon carried likely left an indelible mark not only on him, but on his household. What began as forced service may have ended in faithful discipleship.

Matthew tells us Simon was “compelled.” Roman soldiers had the legal authority to press any civilian into temporary service. Messiah Yeshua/Jesus had already taught His disciples: “If anyone forces you to go one mile, go with him two” (Matt. 5:41). Under the shadow of the cross, that teaching is embodied in the final hours of the Master’s life. 

Simon does not resist. There is no recorded protest, no struggle. He steps into a burden not his own and carries it behind Yeshua. Luke makes this even clearer: Simon carried the cross “following Him” (Lk. 23:26). The language is unmistakable. To follow behind Yeshua bearing a cross is the very image of discipleship (Matt. 16:24).

Simon becomes, in that moment, a living parable. He bears the instrument of execution behind the condemned Messiah. He walks the road of suffering in the dust of the Son of David. What the Romans intended as humiliation becomes, in the providence of God, a revelation of what it means to follow the King.

Simon did not wake that morning expecting to carry a cross. He was likely arriving from the countryside (Lk. 23:26; Mk. 15:21), perhaps having secured lodging outside the crowded city. Suddenly, soldiers seize him. His plans are interrupted. His Passover pilgrimage is forever altered.

So it is in the life of faith. We do not always know when our cross will come. We do not choose the timing. We do not select the weight. We do not script the circumstances of our suffering. Yet in an instant the cross can appear. The call to follow Messiah includes crosses we would never volunteer to carry.

Simon’s experience reminds us that discipleship is not always born from intention, but sometimes from interruption. The cross finds us. 

There is another profound dimension here. Yeshua, scourged and beaten, is physically unable to carry the cross alone. The One who calmed storms and raised the dead now staggers beneath wood and splinters. Earlier in Gethsemane, an angel strengthened Him (Lk. 22:43). Heaven ministered to the Son. But now, no angel appears. Instead, a man does.

This is not weakness in the sense of defeat; it is redemptive vulnerability. The Son of God allows Himself to be helped. He permits a human hand to steady the burden that will lead to the redemption of the world. And in doing so, He dignifies human participation in divine purposes—preparing us for the Great Commission, where redeemed men and women are entrusted with carrying the message of the cross to the nations. Yeshua not only teaches us to bear one another’s burdens (Gal. 6:2); He demonstrates what it means to receive help. In His weakness, He creates space for Simon’s obedience.

What began as coercion may well have become conversion. To walk so near to Messiah in His suffering—to feel the weight of the crossbeam, to hear His labored breath—would be no small encounter. Tradition has long imagined that Simon never forgot that road.

Perhaps that is why Mark names his sons. Perhaps the cross did not just brush against Simon’s shoulders; perhaps it entered his heart and impacted generations. We cannot prove the outcome, but we can see the pattern. God often meets us in unchosen burdens. The very thing we resent may become the place of revelation.

Simon of Cyrene speaks to us in several ways:

First, be ready for divine interruptions. The cross may meet you on an ordinary day. Faithfulness begins with availability. 

Second, do not despise compelled obedience. Even reluctant service can become holy ground when done in proximity to Messiah. 

Third, carry the burdens of others. Simon bore a cross not his own. In a fractured world, the community of believers must be known for stepping under weight that belongs to another. 

Fourth, allow yourself to be helped. Messiah Himself received assistance. Humility includes both giving and receiving grace. 

Fifth, follow behind Him. Simon’s position was not beside or ahead, but behind Yeshua. The place of the disciple has not changed. 

Simon’s story is brief, but it is luminous. On the road to Golgotha, amid unimaginable cruelty and chaos, a North African pilgrim became a sign of the way of the cross. The Messiah walked before him. The wood pressed upon him. In that unexpected moment, he learned what it truly means to follow the crucified King.

Maranatha. Shalom. 

James Part 1

Tap pic for link!

The Epistle of James stands among the most direct, uncompromising, and Jewishly grounded writings of the New Testament. It confronts the reader not with abstract theology, but with lived faith, faith tested by suffering and trial, expressed through obedience, and made visible in righteous conduct. To understand this epistle correctly, one must first understand its author, his historical reputation, his martyrdom, and the volatile religious and social world in which he wrote.