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

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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.

The Mocked King:Victory Hidden in Humiliation

In Matthew 27:27–31, the evangelist draws back the veil on one of the most haunting scenes in the Passion narrative. A Roman cohort, potentially numbering several hundred soldiers, was assembled in the Praetorium to take possession of Messiah Yeshua/Jesus and lead Him away from Pontius Pilate. Jerusalem was swollen with pilgrims for Pesach/Passover. Political tension simmered. Messianic expectation ran high. It would not take much to set the city into violence, but Rome would tolerate no uprising. What unfolds is not just cruelty—it is calculated humiliation, a spectacle designed to break the spirit of the messianic hopeful.

Yeshua had already endured the brutal scourging recorded in Matthew 27:26. Roman flogging was not incidental; it was preparatory for crucifixion, often leaving a man scarcely recognizable, his flesh torn and his strength drained. Into that agony the soldiers stepped, not with mercy, but with mockery.

They stripped Him and draped a scarlet robe over His shoulders, the color of imperial authority. They twisted together a crown of thorns and pressed it upon His head. Thorns, symbol of the curse in Genesis 3, pierced the brow of the One who bore that very curse. In His hand they placed a reed, a pitiful substitute for a royal scepter. Matthew’s Jewish audience would not miss the irony. The scepter promised in Genesis 49:10, “The scepter shall not depart from Judah,” was not absent. It was present, though disguised as an object of ridicule. The prophetic significance is monumental: the Messiah had indeed come. Those charged with His execution unwittingly announced the fulfillment of Jacob’s prophetic word.

They knelt before Him in feigned homage. “Hail, King of the Jews!” they cried. They mocked the very One before Whom every knee will bow and every tongue confess (Phil. 2:10–11). Their mocking was meant to deride Jewish hope and to disparage any claim to kingship that rivaled Caesar. Yet heaven heard a deeper truth. What they spoke in scorn was proclaimed in sovereignty. The One they mocked was, in fact, the true King.

Then came the spitting—an act of utter contempt. They took the reed from His hand and struck Him with it, beating the crowned King with His own mock scepter. The scene is grotesque. The Creator of all things stands silent while creatures fashioned from dust strike His face. The fullness of the Godhead bodily, abused as though powerless, is in reality the righteous Judge of all the earth.

Finally, they stripped Him of the scarlet robe, returned His own garments, and led Him away to be crucified. The pageantry of humiliation was complete. Rome had displayed its power. Religious leadership believed it had silenced its rival. The crowd would soon see a condemned man lifted up in shame.

But where others saw defeat, heaven was establishing victory.

Messiah’s apparent helplessness was not impotence; it was submission. He was not unable to save Himself; He was unwilling to do so, for the sake of saving others. The One who could have summoned legions of angels chose instead the path of suffering. The Judge stood in the place of the judged. The King bore the penalty of His subjects. What looked like Rome’s triumph was in truth the enthronement of the Son.

This passage confronts us with a profound theological paradox: divine power revealed through voluntary weakness. The kingdom of God does not advance by coercion, but by sacrifice. The crown comes through thorns. The scepter is first a reed of mockery. Glory is preceded by the deepest shame.

Contemporary application presses close to home.

First, discipleship means embracing misunderstood obedience. Faithfulness to Christ may invite ridicule in a culture that rejects His kingship. Yet the mockery of the world does not invalidate the authority of the King. Like our Lord, we entrust ourselves to Him who judges justly.

Second, this scene recalibrates our understanding of victory. We are conditioned to equate success with visibility, strength, and dominance. The Cross reveals another metric. God’s greatest triumph unfolded beneath the appearance of total collapse. In seasons where the Church feels marginalized or weak, Matthew 27 and the mocking of our King, reminds us: heaven’s purposes are not thwarted by earthly scorn.

Finally, the mocked King demands allegiance. The soldiers bowed in jest; we bow in truth. The question is not whether He is King, but whether we will openly acknowledge Him as such.

The reed was a parody, yet the scepter remains. The crown was of thorns, yet it testified to a kingdom unshakable. The One led away to crucifixion is the reigning Messiah. And in His humiliation, our redemption was secured.

Maranatha. Shalom.