#mark 15

although our hero died far from home, in a world of destruction, death and stone, all his suits did not follow where he roamed, and now they are at Stark tower, alone.

tony installed windows long ago it seems, and the sunlight over the empty suits gleams. gentle afternoon sun, gold as a reactor beam. over tony’s cocoon, his safety net, his esteem.

no one touches the suits, no one dares, but the sunlight notices, the sunlight cares. carefully, carefully, not before human stares, the morning glow polishes, shines, glares.

In our previous lesson, we studied the first two of six trials Jesus underwent before He was crucified. Today we will examine the third and fourth trials.

Let’s read together Matthew 27:1; Mark 15:1; and Luke 22:66-71.

The Sanhedrin was a religious counsel made up of the chief priests and leaders of the people of Israel. Jewish tradition states the Sanhedrin was comprised of 71 men, including the high priest.  

The Sanhedrin convened early Friday morning to discuss Jesus’ case, but it was a mere formality. While there may have been a few dissenters like Nicodemus (John 3:1; 7:50-51), the majority clearly intended to convict Jesus and condemn Him to death before the assembly was convened (Matthew 26:3-4; Mark 14:1).

Let’s read together Matthew 27:2 and Mark 15:2-5.

Although the Pharisees wanted to kill Jesus, they did not dare do so by their own hand.  The Pharisees claimed to not have the power to kill, yet in the past they wanted to stone the woman caught in adultery (John 8:1-11).  They knew Jesus was still popular among the people and did not want to cause an uproar (Matthew 26:5; Mark 14:2).  

The Pharisees claimed Jesus committed a religious crime (Mark 2:5-7; John 10:33), but they wanted the state (the Roman authorities) to execute Jesus.  The Pharisees tried to hide their complicity in Jesus’ murder.

Let’s read together Psalm 44:21 and Jeremiah 17:10.

Do you remember the story of David and Bathsheba?  David murdered Uriah the Hittite using the sword of the Philistines to cover up his sin of adultery.  However, David could not hide his sins from God.  The Pharisees may have fooled many in Israel with their outward displays of piety, but God knows the truth.  We cannot hide our sins from a holy God.

Let’s read together Mark 27:11-14 and John 18:28-38.

Pontius Pilate presided over many trials as the prefect of Judea.  Pilate would not have cared about the fate of one Jew, as he had mercilessly executed many Jews before (Luke 13:1).  However, there was something about Jesus that perturbed Pilate.  Jesus seemed nothing like the hardened criminals Pilate had judged in his court.

Pilate privately interviewed Jesus and asked a crucial question: “What is truth?”  However, Pilate walked out on Jesus before waiting to hear the answer.  Pilate was in the presence of ultimate Truth, but he failed to recognize it.

Photo by Brett Jordan on Pexels.com In Mark 15–16, Jesus endures unjust suffering, dies as the true Passover Lamb, shatters the barrier between God and humanity, rises in unstoppable power, and sends His followers into the world with the news that the crucified King now lives and reigns forever. Teaching Summary of Mark 15 🌿 Overall Themes in Mark 15 The innocence of Jesus and the guilt of…

There are days in human history that feel like a scream frozen in time. Mark chapter fifteen is one of those days. It does not rush. It does not soften. It does not look away. It stands in the middle of the gospel story like a witness who refuses to be silenced. This is the chapter where the word “crucified” becomes flesh and blood. It is the chapter where politics, fear, faith, and cruelty all meet at the same crossroads. It is the chapter where Jesus is no longer just teaching about suffering but entering into it. And the strange thing is this: the more closely you look at this chapter, the more you realize it is not just about what they did to Him. It is about what humanity does when confronted with perfect innocence.

The chapter opens in the early morning, and already you can feel the machinery of injustice warming up. The religious leaders have decided the verdict before the trial even begins. They bind Jesus and lead Him to Pilate, because they do not have the legal power to kill Him themselves. That alone tells us something about how evil often works. It rarely gets its hands dirty directly. It looks for a system. It looks for authority. It looks for a process it can hide behind. Pilate stands as the man in the middle, and history has not been kind to him, but Mark’s account shows us something deeply human about him. He asks Jesus, “Art thou the King of the Jews?” and Jesus answers, “Thou sayest it.” It is not a denial, and it is not a defense. It is a mirror. Jesus does not argue His way out of suffering. He does not beg. He does not manipulate. He simply stands in truth.

What is striking is how quickly the crowd turns. Pilate sees that Jesus is innocent. He sees through the envy of the priests. He even tries to release Him. But the crowd, stirred up by the leaders, demands Barabbas instead. Barabbas, a man guilty of insurrection and murder, is set free while the Prince of Life is condemned. This is not an accident of history. It is a portrait of substitution. The guilty man walks free. The innocent man walks toward a cross. The gospel is not something that begins after the crucifixion. It is already being acted out in the choice of Barabbas. One life exchanged for another. One condemned so another can go free. This is not poetic symbolism later added by theology. It is happening in real time, in dust and sweat and shouting.

Pilate, wanting to satisfy the people, delivers Jesus to be scourged. This detail is easy to pass over, but scourging was not a symbolic punishment. It was designed to tear flesh from bone. It was meant to weaken a man so that he might die faster on the cross. The soldiers mock Him, clothe Him in purple, press thorns into His scalp, and kneel in fake worship. They are playing at kingship while beating the true King. They strike Him with a reed and spit on Him. It is grotesque theater. And yet, there is something hauntingly accurate about their mockery. They call Him King, and He is. They dress Him as royalty, and He is royalty. They kneel before Him, even if they do not know what they are doing. Humanity is often closest to truth when it thinks it is joking.

Then they lead Him out to crucify Him. They compel a man named Simon of Cyrene to carry His cross. This small detail carries enormous weight. Simon is not part of the story by choice. He is pulled in from the crowd. He is forced into contact with suffering. And that is how discipleship often begins. Not with a sermon, not with a vision, but with a burden placed unexpectedly on your shoulders. Simon carries the wood that will kill Jesus, but in doing so, he becomes part of the story of redemption. No one remembers who was shouting that day. But the name of the man who helped carry the cross is preserved forever.

They bring Jesus to Golgotha, the place of a skull. The name alone tells you this is not a holy-looking place. It is not a cathedral. It is not a garden. It is a site of execution. They offer Him wine mingled with myrrh, a kind of crude sedative, and He refuses it. He chooses to remain conscious. He does not numb Himself to pain. He does not escape the moment. He enters fully into suffering, fully aware, fully present. When they crucify Him, Mark does not linger on the mechanics. He simply states the fact. Scripture does not sensationalize the cross. It does not need to. The power is not in description. The power is in meaning.

They divide His garments by casting lots. Even stripped, He is fulfilling prophecy. Even in humiliation, Scripture is unfolding. Two thieves are crucified with Him, one on His right hand and one on His left. And suddenly, the mockery widens. Passersby wag their heads. The chief priests sneer. Even those crucified with Him revile Him. This is perhaps the loneliest moment in human history. He is rejected by rulers, rejected by the crowd, rejected by criminals. The Son of God hangs in the middle of everything humanity fears and despises.

And yet, the insults they throw reveal something tragic about human thinking. They say, “He saved others; himself he cannot save.” They think this is a weakness. In reality, it is the entire point. He does not save Himself because He is saving others. The cross is not a failure of power. It is the chosen shape of divine love. Love that refuses to step down. Love that refuses to retaliate. Love that absorbs hatred without becoming it.

At the sixth hour, darkness covers the land until the ninth hour. Creation itself seems to respond. Light withdraws. Time feels suspended. And then Jesus cries out with a loud voice, “My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?” These words are not a breakdown of faith. They are the opening line of Psalm 22. Jesus is not abandoning trust in the Father. He is expressing the depth of human abandonment. He is standing where every sufferer stands, in the place where heaven feels silent. This is not God turning His back on Jesus in cruelty. It is Jesus entering the deepest human question: where is God when it hurts?

Some misunderstand Him and think He is calling for Elijah. They offer Him vinegar. They wait to see if someone will rescue Him. But rescue does not come from the sky. Instead, Jesus cries with a loud voice and gives up the ghost. The centurion, a hardened executioner, looks at Him and says, “Truly this man was the Son of God.” The first human confession at the cross does not come from a disciple or a priest. It comes from a soldier who has seen many men die and recognizes that this death is different. Faith does not always rise in holy places. Sometimes it is born at the foot of a cross, in the presence of injustice and blood.

And then something happens that feels quiet but is seismic. The veil of the temple is torn in two from top to bottom. The barrier between God and humanity is ripped open, not by human hands, but by God Himself. The Holy of Holies is no longer hidden. Access is no longer restricted. The place where only a high priest could enter once a year is now symbolically thrown open to the world. The death of Jesus is not just a tragedy. It is a transformation of spiritual geography. God is no longer confined behind curtains and rituals. God has moved into human pain.

Mark does something very important next. He names the women who were watching from afar. Mary Magdalene. Mary the mother of James the less and of Joses. Salome. These women had followed Him and ministered to Him. They did not run. They did not vanish. While most of the disciples are gone, these women remain as witnesses. The story of the cross is not only preserved by apostles. It is preserved by faithful women who refuse to look away. Their presence tells us something essential: when power collapses and courage fails, quiet faith often endures.

Even after death, Jesus is still treated as a problem to be managed. Joseph of Arimathaea, a respected counselor, goes boldly to Pilate and asks for the body. This is a risky act. He is associating himself with a condemned man. But something about the cross has already begun to change people. Pilate is surprised that Jesus is already dead. He confirms it with the centurion and grants the body. Joseph wraps Him in linen and lays Him in a tomb hewn out of rock. A stone is rolled against the door. And Mary Magdalene and Mary the mother of Joses see where He is laid. The gospel does not end in chaos. It ends in burial. It ends in stillness. It ends in a sealed tomb.

And this is where the weight of Mark 15 settles in your chest. Because this chapter does not resolve itself. It leaves you with a dead Savior and a closed grave. It leaves you with unanswered questions. It leaves you with the feeling that something terrible and holy has happened, but you do not yet know what it will mean. That is part of the spiritual power of this chapter. It forces you to sit with loss before you get resurrection. It forces you to see the cost before you feel the victory.

There is something deeply uncomfortable about this chapter because it shows us who we are. We see crowds that choose safety over truth. We see leaders that protect their position instead of justice. We see soldiers that obey orders instead of conscience. We see bystanders who mock instead of intervene. And if we are honest, we see ourselves somewhere in that crowd. Mark does not write this chapter so we can blame ancient people. He writes it so we can recognize human patterns that still exist. We still trade innocence for convenience. We still wash our hands while others bleed. We still shout with the loudest voices instead of listening to the quiet truth.

But this chapter also shows us who God is. God is not distant. God is not detached. God does not remain in heaven while humans suffer. God steps into the machinery of injustice and allows it to grind against Him. Not because He is weak, but because He is determined to heal from the inside. The cross is not God losing control of the world. It is God taking responsibility for it.

And there is another layer here that is easy to miss. Mark does not record long speeches from Jesus on the cross. He does not give us theological explanations. He gives us actions. Silence. Endurance. Forgiveness implied but not shouted. Obedience without drama. The gospel is not being argued at Golgotha. It is being lived. The cross is not a lecture. It is a revelation.

When the centurion confesses Jesus as the Son of God, he is standing under a sign that reads “King of the Jews.” Rome intended that sign as mockery. God intended it as truth. This is how the kingdom of God announces itself: not with armies, but with surrender; not with domination, but with sacrifice; not with fear, but with love that refuses to flee. The throne is a cross. The crown is thorns. The victory is invisible until the stone is rolled away.

Mark 15 teaches us that suffering is not evidence of abandonment. It is sometimes the place where redemption is being written. Jesus does not die because He failed. He dies because He succeeded. He fulfills His mission to stand between God and humanity, to carry the weight of sin, to enter the darkness so that darkness cannot be the final word.

And yet, the chapter ends without light. It ends with burial. It ends with watchers. It ends with waiting. It teaches us that faith sometimes has to sit in silence. That trust sometimes has to breathe in a tomb’s shadow. That hope does not always look triumphant at first. Sometimes it looks like a stone rolled into place.

This is where the chapter leaves us. In the quiet after execution. In the ache of loss. In the space where heaven seems absent and earth feels heavy. Mark does not rush us forward. He makes us stay here. Because if we do not understand the cross, we will never understand the resurrection. If we do not feel the weight of this day, we will never grasp the miracle of the next.

Mark 15 is not just about what happened to Jesus. It is about what happens to us when we realize what love is willing to endure. It is about what happens to our excuses when we see innocence crushed. It is about what happens to our definitions of power when we see God die with open eyes and a steady heart. It is about what happens to our fear when we realize that even death could not make Him stop loving.

And in the stillness of the sealed tomb, a question is hanging in the air. Not yet answered. Not yet resolved. But waiting.

What kind of God would choose this path?

And what kind of people will we become if we believe Him?

There is something about the silence at the end of Mark 15 that feels heavier than the noise that came before it. After the shouting crowd, after the hammering of nails, after the tearing of flesh and the tearing of the veil, there is only a tomb and a stone and a handful of witnesses who refuse to forget where He was laid. The chapter does not give us relief yet. It gives us a pause. It leaves us standing in the space between tragedy and meaning. And that space is not accidental. It is sacred. It is the place where faith is either abandoned or forged.

One of the hardest things for human beings to endure is unresolved loss. We want answers immediately. We want closure. We want the story to move on. But Mark forces us to stay with the death of Jesus long enough for it to change us. The burial is not a footnote. It is a testimony. Joseph of Arimathaea steps forward when almost everyone else has stepped back. He risks his reputation, his safety, and his standing by asking for the body of a condemned man. This is not the act of a coward. It is the act of someone who has been quietly listening to Jesus long enough for courage to grow inside him. Faith does not always shout. Sometimes it waits until the worst moment and then finally speaks.

Joseph wraps the body in linen and places it in a tomb cut from stone. A real body. A real tomb. A real burial. Mark does not allow us to turn this into metaphor. The death of Jesus is not symbolic. It is physical. It is final. It is witnessed. And that matters, because the resurrection will not be a poetic idea. It will be a historical disruption. You cannot rise from the dead unless you truly die first. Mark 15 insists on that reality so that Mark 16 cannot be dismissed as imagination.

And still, the women watch. They see where He is laid. Their grief is not passive. It is attentive. They are not theorizing about God. They are tracking a body. Their devotion is not abstract. It is practical. This is often the difference between religious interest and genuine love. Love stays close even when there is nothing to gain. Love shows up even when the story seems over. These women do not know yet that they will become the first witnesses of resurrection. They only know that someone they loved has been executed unjustly, and they refuse to let Him disappear without honor.

There is a strange humility in the way Mark tells this story. He does not wrap the crucifixion in glory language. He does not rush to explain it. He lets the weight of it rest on the reader. And in doing so, he invites us to see something about ourselves. Because the people in this chapter are not monsters. They are familiar. They are afraid leaders. They are crowds influenced by noise. They are soldiers doing their jobs. They are bystanders trying to make sense of what they see. Mark 15 is not a story about uniquely evil people. It is a story about ordinary people in an extraordinary moment.

This is why the cross still speaks. Not because it shows us how bad they were, but because it shows us how easily we can be the same. How quickly we can choose comfort over conscience. How easily we can let injustice happen as long as it does not inconvenience us. How often we are tempted to wash our hands of suffering instead of stepping into it.

Pilate is a masterclass in moral avoidance. He knows Jesus is innocent. He says so. And yet he still hands Him over to be crucified. He does not want blood on his hands, but he is willing to let blood be spilled. This is the logic of modern life. We do not want to feel responsible, but we are comfortable benefiting from systems that hurt others. We prefer neutrality when truth requires action. Pilate is not remembered because he hated Jesus. He is remembered because he refused to protect Him.

The crowd, too, reveals something uncomfortable. Days earlier, many of them likely shouted “Hosanna.” Now they shout “Crucify him.” This is not proof that people are evil. It is proof that people are easily led. The loudest voices shape the mood. Fear spreads faster than truth. And righteousness often sounds quieter than rage. Mark 15 is not only about what happened to Jesus. It is about how quickly public opinion can be manipulated when power is threatened.

The soldiers, meanwhile, treat Jesus as a joke. They dress Him up, kneel in mock worship, and strike Him. But what they think is entertainment becomes prophecy. They unknowingly act out the truth of who He is. The irony is devastating. The King of the universe is being crowned with thorns by men who think power means control. This is one of the deepest reversals in Scripture. God does not reveal His kingship through domination. He reveals it through endurance.

And endurance is what defines Jesus in this chapter. He does not argue with Pilate. He does not plead with the crowd. He does not curse the soldiers. He does not save Himself. This is not weakness. It is obedience. The gospel writers do not present Jesus as trapped by events. They present Him as walking into them. He has already said what will happen. He has already accepted it. The cross is not an interruption to His mission. It is the mission.

This is where many people misunderstand Christianity. They imagine the cross as a terrible accident that God somehow turned into a blessing. But Mark 15 does not read like an accident. It reads like a collision between divine love and human fear. The cross is what happens when holiness meets a world built on power, pride, and preservation. Jesus does not die because God loses control. He dies because God refuses to abandon humanity to its own broken systems.

The cry from the cross, “My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me,” is often misunderstood as despair. But it is actually the language of Scripture. It is Psalm 22. It is a prayer. It is the voice of someone who knows God and is speaking honestly from the depths of suffering. Jesus is not losing faith. He is expressing what faith feels like when it stands inside pain. He is giving voice to every human moment where God feels far away. This is not divine distance. It is divine solidarity.

And then there is the centurion. A man trained to execute. A man hardened by violence. A man who has likely watched many people die. And yet something about this death breaks through him. “Truly this man was the Son of God.” The first clear confession after the crucifixion does not come from the disciples. It does not come from the temple. It comes from Rome. From the machinery of death itself. Mark is showing us that the cross reaches places sermons never will. It speaks in a language suffering understands.

The tearing of the temple veil is the most symbolic moment in the chapter, but it is also deeply practical. The barrier between God and humanity is removed. No more restricted access. No more priest-only presence. No more holy space separated from human pain. God has stepped out of the inner sanctuary and into the execution ground. The cross is not only about forgiveness. It is about nearness. God is no longer hidden behind ritual. God is found in wounds.

And this is where Mark 15 becomes personal. Because it asks us what kind of God we are willing to believe in. A God who dominates? Or a God who suffers? A God who rules by force? Or a God who rules by love? The cross does not fit neatly into human ideas of power. It redefines them. It says that true authority is willing to bleed. That true leadership is willing to serve. That true divinity is not proven by avoiding pain, but by redeeming it.

The burial of Jesus is also a challenge to shallow faith. Because it reminds us that following God does not always look like victory in the moment. Sometimes it looks like wrapping a body in linen. Sometimes it looks like standing near a grave with unanswered prayers. Sometimes it looks like trusting that God is still working even when nothing seems to be happening.

Mark ends this chapter without resolution because faith is not built on instant outcomes. It is built on trust in the middle of uncertainty. The women do not yet know what will happen. Joseph does not yet see resurrection. The disciples are scattered. The sky is dark. The tomb is closed. And yet the story is not over.

That is the power of this chapter. It teaches us to live faithfully in the in-between. To love even when it costs. To stand with truth even when it is crucified. To remain present when hope feels buried. Mark 15 does not just describe the death of Jesus. It teaches us how to face death, injustice, fear, and silence without abandoning God.

It also confronts us with the cost of love. Jesus does not die surrounded by honor. He dies surrounded by mockery. He does not die admired. He dies misunderstood. And yet, He remains who He is. He does not change His character to survive. He does not compromise His mission to avoid pain. This is what makes the cross meaningful. Not that it hurts, but that love does not stop when it hurts.

And that raises a hard question for anyone who claims to follow Him. What kind of love do we practice? Do we love only when it is safe? Only when it is praised? Only when it is convenient? Or do we love in a way that risks rejection? That absorbs insult? That refuses to return cruelty for cruelty? Mark 15 is not just history. It is a mirror.

There is also something profoundly hopeful hidden in this chapter’s darkness. Because if God can work through betrayal, mockery, injustice, and death, then He can work through the broken pieces of our lives too. If redemption can come out of a Roman execution, it can come out of grief, failure, and fear. The cross tells us that nothing is too ruined for God to enter.

Mark does not yet show us the resurrection, but he prepares us for it. He shows us the full weight of what must be overcome. He shows us the finality of the tomb so that when it opens, we understand the magnitude of what has happened. Without Mark 15, Mark 16 would be meaningless. Without death, there is no resurrection. Without loss, there is no restoration.

And so this chapter ends where many human stories end: with a body in the ground and people watching in sorrow. But unlike most stories, this one does not end in defeat. It ends in waiting. And waiting is not nothing. Waiting is the posture of faith. Waiting is the space where God works unseen. Waiting is the silence before the impossible becomes visible.

Mark 15 teaches us that God’s love is not theoretical. It is embodied. It bleeds. It breathes its last. It is buried. And in doing so, it enters the deepest human fear so that fear does not get the last word.

This is the day the world tried to wash its hands of God. And this is the day God chose to hold the world anyway.

Not with force. Not with fire. But with a cross.

Your friend, Douglas Vandergraph