The King Who Couldn’t Save Himself
I want you to picture something with me. You’re scrolling through social media—Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, wherever you waste time pretending you’re being productive—and you see it happening. Someone said something. Maybe it was dumb, maybe it was offensive, maybe they just had a bad day and posted the wrong thing. And the pile-on begins.
One comment becomes ten. Ten becomes a hundred. Strangers who’ve never met this person are suddenly experts on why they’re terrible. The jokes start. The memes. Someone digs up something they said five years ago. Their employer gets tagged. And you watch this person—this human being made in God’s image—get systematically destroyed by a mob that will forget about them by next Tuesday.
We call it “getting ratioed” or “being canceled.” It’s entertainment. It’s a blood sport played with keyboards instead of swords. And if we’re honest? Sometimes we’ve been part of it. We’ve piled on. We’ve shared the meme. We’ve enjoyed watching someone get what we thought they deserved.
Two thousand years ago, the Son of God experienced the ultimate version of what I just described. Except it wasn’t on social media. It was in a governor’s courtyard, on a public street, and on a hill outside Jerusalem. And the people mocking Him weren’t strangers behind screens—they were soldiers doing their job, religious people protecting their religion, and random folks just passing by.
Let me read you Mark 15, starting at verse 16:
“And the soldiers led him away inside the palace (that is, the governor’s headquarters), and they called together the whole battalion. And they clothed him in a purple cloak, and twisting together a crown of thorns, they put it on him. And they began to salute him, “Hail, King of the Jews!” And they were striking his head with a reed and spitting on him and kneeling down in homage to him. And when they had mocked him, they stripped him of the purple cloak and put his own clothes on him. And they led him out to crucify him.
And they compelled a passerby, Simon of Cyrene, who was coming in from the country, the father of Alexander and Rufus, to carry his cross. And they brought him to the place called Golgotha (which means Place of a Skull). And they offered him wine mixed with myrrh, but he did not take it. And they crucified him and divided his garments among them, casting lots for them, to decide what each should take. And it was the third hour when they crucified him. And the inscription of the charge against him read, “The King of the Jews.” And with him they crucified two robbers, one on his right and one on his left. And those who passed by derided him, wagging their heads and saying, “Aha! You who would destroy the temple and rebuild it in three days, save yourself, and come down from the cross!” So also the chief priests with the scribes mocked him to one another, saying, “He saved others; he cannot save himself. Let the Christ, the King of Israel, come down now from the cross that we may see and believe.” Those who were crucified with him also reviled him.”
THE FIRST WAVE: WHEN THE POWERFUL MOCK (vv. 16-20)
The soldiers took Jesus into the Praetorium. That’s not a building—it’s wherever the Roman governor sets up shop. Think of it as the mobile seat of imperial power. Pilate normally lived at the beach in Caesarea, but during Jewish festivals, he came to Jerusalem to keep the peace. Or more accurately, to crush any riots before they started.
And verse 16 says the whole cohort gathered. Now, that’s about 600 soldiers. Mark’s probably exaggerating a bit—probably not every single soldier in Jerusalem showed up—but the point is clear: this wasn’t a handful of guards. This was Rome itself turning Jesus into a joke.
They dressed Him in purple. Do you know how expensive purple dye was in the ancient world? This probably wasn’t even real purple—it was likely some old military cloak they had lying around. But it’s close enough for government work, close enough to mock a guy claiming to be a king.
They twisted together a crown of thorns. And listen, I grew up in church hearing about the “crown of thorns” like it was some theological concept. But this was physical. Thorns—the kind that rip your scalp open. The kind that make blood run down your face. They shoved it on His head. This wasn’t symbolic. This was cruel.
And then they started the game. “Hail, King of the Jews!” Again and again they struck Him on the head—driving those thorns deeper. They spit on Him. And here’s the word Mark uses: he says they ἐνέπαιξαν Him—that’s the aorist form of the verb empaizō, which comes from the word for “play,” like a child playing with a toy. They treated the Son of God like He was nothing. Like He was a plaything for their amusement. Like He was a meme they could share and forget.
And you know what Jesus did?
Nothing.
Isaiah 53:7 says,
“He was oppressed, and he was afflicted,
yet he opened not his mouth;
like a lamb that is led to the slaughter,
and like a sheep that before its shearers is silent,
so he opened not his mouth.”
He didn’t curse them. Didn’t call down angels. Didn’t even defend Himself. He just… took it. Why? Because these soldiers—doing what soldiers do, following orders, entertaining themselves at a condemned man’s expense—these soldiers didn’t know what they were doing. And hundreds of years before this moment, David wrote Psalm 22 describing exactly this scene. God knew. This wasn’t plan B. This was the plan.
But here’s the thing that should wreck us: every single insult they hurled was accidentally true. I’ve been in a…we’ll call it “discussion” with my wife, where the following four words I have left my mouth: “See? I was right!” And the look on her face made it very clear that the point of that discussion wasn’t just “being right.” That wasn’t the issue. Meaning I was maybe being accurate, sure, but also missing the entire point.
That’s what’s happening here. Their words about Jesus are more accurate than they realize, but because they’re using them to mock Him instead of trust Him. “Hail, King of the Jews!” Mockery. Except… He is the King. Not just of Jews, but of everything. They were bowing—sarcastically—before the One every knee will eventually bow before voluntarily or involuntarily. They put a crown on His head—meant to humiliate Him—and unknowingly crowned Him as the King of Kings. They put a reed in His hand as a mock scepter, and they had no idea they were in the presence of the One who holds actual authority over life and death. The most powerful empire the world had ever seen gathered to mock a carpenter from Nazareth. And they lost. They just didn’t know it yet.
THE SECOND WAVE: CARRYING THE CROSS (vv. 20-22)
“And when they had mocked him, they stripped him of the purple cloak and put his own clothes on him. And they led him out to crucify him.
And they compelled a passerby, Simon of Cyrene, who was coming in from the country, the father of Alexander and Rufus, to carry his cross. And they brought him to the place called Golgotha (which means Place of a Skull).”
After they finished their game, they stripped the purple robe off Him and put His own clothes back on. Even in mockery, there was a limit to how much imperial property they’d waste on a dead man.
And then they led Him out to crucify Him.
Now, normally, the condemned man carried his own cross—or more accurately, the crossbeam. It weighed about a hundred pounds. You’d carry it through the streets while someone walked in front of you holding a sign announcing your crime, so everyone could see what happens when you mess with Rome. But Jesus couldn’t do it. Not because He was weak in character—He’d just endured scourging. Do you know what Roman scourging was? They’d strip you, tie you to a post, and beat you with a whip embedded with bits of metal and bone. It tore flesh down to the bone. Medical experts say many people died from scourging before they ever made it to a cross.
Jesus was shredded apart.
So the soldiers grabbed a random guy. His name was Simon. He was from Cyrene—that’s in North Africa, modern-day Libya. He was probably a Jewish pilgrim who’d come to Jerusalem for Passover. Wrong place, wrong time. The soldiers used a technical term—they “compelled” him. That’s the legal right of a Roman soldier to force you into service. You had no choice. Simon carried the cross.
And here’s what’s beautiful and tragic at the same time: remember what Jesus said back in Mark 8:34?
“If anyone would come after me, let him deny himself and take up his cross and follow me.”
The disciples heard that. They all agreed. “Yes, Lord, we’ll follow you! We’ll carry our cross!” And where are they now? Well, besides John, they were scattered. Hiding.
Not necessarily their finest ministry moment.
But this guy—this random African pilgrim who didn’t even volunteer—he literally does what Jesus commanded. He picks up the cross and follows Jesus to Golgotha.
The word “Golgotha” is Aramaic. It means “Place of the Skull.” We don’t know exactly why—maybe the hill looked like a skull, maybe skulls of executed criminals were there, maybe it was just what they called the execution site. But it was outside the city walls, near a major road, elevated so everyone could see. Because Rome wanted you to see. That was the whole point. Crucifixion wasn’t just execution—it was also advertising. “This is what happens when you challenge us.”
They offered Jesus wine mixed with myrrh. This was actually a mercy. Wealthy women in Jerusalem would provide this narcotic mixture based on Proverbs 31:6—“Give strong drink to him who is perishing.” It would dull the pain, make you less aware of what was happening. Jesus refused it. He chose to feel everything. To experience the full weight of what He was doing. Because He wasn’t just dying—He was bearing sin. Your sin. My sin. And He wouldn’t let anything diminish that.
THE THIRD WAVE: THE CRUCIFIXION ITSELF (vv. 24-28)
“And they crucified him and divided his garments among them, casting lots for them, to decide what each should take. And it was the third hour when they crucified him. And the inscription of the charge against him read, “The King of the Jews.” And with him they crucified two robbers, one on his right and one on his left. ”
Verse 24: “And they crucified him.”
Four words. Mark doesn’t elaborate. Doesn’t describe the nails or the process or the gore. His original readers knew. They’d seen it. They didn’t need details.
But we do. If we’re honest, most of us see crosses so often we stop really seeing them. They’re on necklaces and logos and church signs, and we can forget that this was an instrument of slow, public execution. Crucifixion was invented to maximize three things: pain, humiliation, and public deterrence. You’d be stripped naked. Your arms stretched out and nailed—not through the palms, which would rip, but through the wrists between the bones. Then lifted up and your feet nailed to the vertical beam.
And then you’d hang there. And you’d hang there.
To breathe, you’d have to push up on the nails in your feet. Which would send searing pain through your body. Eventually, your strength would give out. You’d slump down, which would make breathing harder, so you’d push up again. This cycle would continue for hours. Sometimes days. You’d die from exhaustion, asphyxiation, shock, or dehydration. Usually in six hours to four days. Jesus lasted six hours.
The soldiers divided His clothes. Standard practice—executioners got the victim’s possessions. Four soldiers, four pieces of outer clothing. But His tunic was seamless, woven top to bottom, too valuable to tear. So they gambled for it. And while they’re rolling dice at the foot of the cross, while Jesus is dying ten feet above them, they have no idea they’re fulfilling Psalm 22:18—written a thousand years earlier, before crucifixion was even invented:
“They divide my garments among them, and for my clothing they cast lots.”
God’s sovereignty is terrifying and beautiful. Even the casual indifference of soldiers gambling for a dead man’s clothes fits the eternal plan. Verse 26: They put up an inscription. “The King of the Jews.”
Pilate wrote it. Probably to mock the Jewish leaders—“Look at your pathetic king.” But again, accidentally true. That’s exactly who He is.
And then verse 27—detail that’s easy to miss: “And with him they crucified two robbers, one on his right and one on his left.” Most translations say “robbers” or “thieves.” But the Greek word is λῃστάς (lay-STAS). It doesn’t mean pickpockets. It means violent revolutionaries. Terrorists. These were likely associates of Barabbas—the guy the crowd had demanded be freed instead of Jesus. These men tried to change the world through violence. Jesus changed the world by refusing violence even when it killed Him. And remember James and John back in chapter 10? They wanted to sit at Jesus’ right and left in His kingdom. Jesus asked if they could drink His cup of suffering. They said yes—sure, Lord, whatever! Well, here are the positions at His right and left. Two criminals. Dying cursed deaths. This is what it looks like to share in His glory.
THE FOURTH WAVE: PASSERSBY (vv. 29-30)
“And those who passed by derided him, wagging their heads and saying, “Aha! You who would destroy the temple and rebuild it in three days, save yourself, and come down from the cross!””
The location wasn’t random. Golgotha was near a road. People passed by. And as they did, they saw Him. And verse 29 says they “derided him, wagging their heads.” You know that gesture? That slow head shake of contempt? “Tsk, tsk, tsk. What a shame. What a waste.” And listen to what they said: “Aha! You who would destroy the temple and rebuild it in three days, save yourself, and come down from the cross!”
This goes back to Jesus’ trial. False witnesses had twisted His words. Jesus had said, “Destroy this temple, and in three days I will raise it up”—He meant His body. They turned it into an accusation of threatening the literal temple. And now random people walking by are throwing it in His face. “Big talk for a guy who can’t even save Himself!” Can you imagine? You’re going about your day. Running errands. Heading to the market. You pass by an execution, “Oh look, Rome’s doing their thing again, might as well mock the guy dying.”
This is humanity at its most casual cruelty. We’ll mock what we don’t understand. We’ll kick people when they’re down. And we’ll feel clever doing it.
THE FIFTH WAVE: THE RELIGIOUS ELITE (vv. 31-32)
But the worst mockery comes from the people who should have known better. Verse 31:
“So also the chief priests with the scribes mocked him to one another, saying, “He saved others; he cannot save himself.”
The religious leaders. The Bible experts. The ones who’d spent their lives studying the Scriptures that pointed to this exact moment. They’re standing at the foot of the fulfillment of Isaiah 53, and they’re laughing.
“He saved others; he cannot save himself.”
Let that sentence sit for a minute.
Because it’s the most accidentally accurate thing anyone says in this entire passage. It’s the gospel in one taunt. They thought they were mocking Him. They were preaching.
They think they’re doing theology against Him, and they accidentally write a line that belongs on a worship slide.
He saved others—yes! He healed the sick, cast out demons, forgave sins, raised the dead. He absolutely saved others.
He cannot save Himself—yes! Not because He lacked power, but because saving Himself would mean abandoning us.
D.A. Carson says it perfectly:
“If he had saved himself, he could not have saved others; the only way he could save others was precisely by not saving himself.”
It wasn’t the nails holding Jesus to that cross. It was love. It was mission. It was the will of the Father. He could have called twelve legions of angels (Matthew 26:53). He spoke and the universe existed—you think He couldn’t speak and walk off that cross?
But then we’d still be in our sins. Dead. Lost. Condemned.
So He stayed.
Verse 32:
“ Let the Christ, the King of Israel, come down now from the cross that we may see and believe.” Those who were crucified with him also reviled him.”
Here’s the tragic irony: they demanded a sign so they could believe. But the sign was right in front of them. The King of Israel was reigning from a cross. The Christ was accomplishing exactly what Christ came to do.
They wanted power that impresses. God gave them love that saves.
They wanted a king who conquers. God gave them a king who dies.
They wanted vindication on their terms. God gave them redemption on His.
“Come down and we’ll believe.” No. He stayed up so they could believe.
WHAT THIS MEANS FOR US
So what do we do with this?
We have to see ourselves in this passage. And I don’t mean in the nice way. I mean honestly.
We’re the soldiers making a joke out of Jesus. Every time we treat church like entertainment. Every time we show up to be inspired but not transformed. Every time we reduce the gospel to a self-help message that makes us feel better about ourselves.
We’re the passersby casually mocking. Every time we dismiss Jesus because His claims interfere with our plans. Every time we shake our heads at Christians and think, “How quaint. How naive. How weak.”
We’re the religious leaders demanding Jesus prove Himself on our terms. Every time we say, “God, if you’re real, do this thing and then I’ll believe.” Every time we want a Jesus who fits our politics, our preferences, our comfort zones.
We put Him on that cross.
Not the Romans. Not the Jews. Us. Our sin. Our rebellion. Our insistence on being our own kings.
The first part of Isaiah 53:5 says,
“But he was pierced for our transgressions;
he was crushed for our iniquities;”
Our transgressions. Our iniquities.
But here’s the second thing, and this is where the gospel hits: He stayed there for us.
The King who had every right to come down, every power to come down, every reason to come down… stayed up.
Because that’s what love does.
R.C. Sproul said,
“It wasn’t nails that held Jesus to that wretched cross; it was his unqualified resolution, out of love for his Father, to do his Father’s will—and, within that framework, it was his love for sinners like me.”
Like me.
Like you.
Every mockery we’ve participated in—forgiven. Every time we’ve walked by Him on our way to something more important—forgiven. Every demand that He prove Himself on our terms—forgiven.
Not because we deserved it. Because He bore what we deserved.
WHAT THIS DEMANDS FROM US
But the passage doesn’t end with warm feelings. It ends with a choice. Actually, it ends with two criminals, which is really the same thing—a choice.
Mark doesn’t give us the details here, but Luke does. Two men dying next to Jesus. Same crime. Same sentence. Same view of the King.
One mocks. One repents.
One dies cursed. One dies saved.
The only difference? How they responded to the King on the cross.
And that’s the question this passage asks you: Who are you in this story?
Are you still mocking? Still walking by? Still demanding Jesus prove Himself before you’ll take Him seriously?
Or are you the criminal who finally sees? Who realizes, “I’m getting exactly what I deserve, but this Man is innocent, and somehow He’s doing this for me”?
Because here’s the reality: that criminal did nothing. He didn’t clean up his life first. Didn’t go to church. Didn’t get baptized. Didn’t make amends. Didn’t promise to do better.
He just said, “Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.”
And Jesus said, “Today you will be with me in paradise.”
That’s. the. gospel. That’s the King who reigns from a cross.
But there’s one more piece. Because if you’re a Christian—if you’ve already come to the cross, if you’ve already repented and believed—then this passage has a different question for you:
Will you take up your cross?
Jesus said in Mark 8:34, “If anyone would come after me, let him deny himself and take up his cross and follow me.”
Simon of Cyrene did it literally. We are to do it daily.
What does that look like?
It looks like dying to yourself. Your preferences. Your reputation. Your comfort. Maybe even your rights.
It looks like loving people who mock you. Serving people who use you. Forgiving people who hurt you.
It looks like obeying God even when it costs you.
It looks like staying when you want to come down.
Dietrich Bonhoeffer—who was hanged at the Folssenburg concentration camp at age 39 for his role as a German pastor and theologian who opposed the Nazis—wrote this:
“When Christ calls a man, he bids him come and die.”
- Dietrich Bonhoeffer
That’s not popular preaching. That’s not “your best life now.” But it’s what Jesus said.
So let me ask you: Where in your life are you being called to take up your cross this week?
Is it a relationship that requires you to die to your need to be right?
Is it a job that requires you to have integrity even when it costs you?
Is it a cultural value that conflicts with Christ’s kingship over your life?
Is it a comfort you need to sacrifice? A dream you need to surrender? A grudge you need to bury?
Where do you need to stay on the cross when everything in you wants to come down?
CONCLUSION
The chief priests were wrong about a lot of things. But they accidentally got one thing right:
“He saved others; he cannot save himself.”
That sentence is the heartbeat of the gospel.
Jesus saved others by refusing to save Himself.
And now He calls us to the same upside-down logic: we find life by losing it. We gain by giving away. We reign by serving. We win by surrendering.
The King didn’t come down from the cross because that’s not how kings save their people in the kingdom of God.
In God’s kingdom, the King wears a crown of thorns. He holds a reed scepter. He’s mocked by His subjects. He dies between criminals.
And three days later, He walks out of a tomb.
Every mockery becomes vindication. Every taunt becomes testimony. Every humiliation becomes glory.
The soldiers unknowingly crowned the true King.
The passersby unknowingly proclaimed His power.
The priests unknowingly preached the gospel.
And the centurion—standing there after Jesus died—said what we’re all invited to say: “Truly this man was the Son of God.”
So the question is: Do you see Him?
Not the sanitized Jesus of stained glass. Not the tamed Jesus of religious tradition. Not the imaginary Jesus who exists to bless your plans.
But the King who reigns from a cross. Who saves others by not saving Himself. Who calls you to die so you can live.
Do you see Him?
And if you see Him… will you follow Him?
Let’s pray.
Communion
Father, we see the cross and we don’t know whether to weep or worship—so we do both. We’re devastated that our sin put Your Son there. We’re overwhelmed that He stayed there for us. Forgive us for the times we’ve mocked, dismissed, or walked by Your Son. Thank You that even then, He was dying for us. Help us take up our crosses daily. Help us die to ourselves. Help us follow the King who couldn’t come down—not because He lacked power, but because He loved us too much. In Jesus’ name, Amen.
As we come to the Lord’s Table, I want you to keep one sentence in your mind from this passage:
“He saved others; he cannot save himself.”
That’s what communion is about.
The bread and the cup are God’s way of saying to His church,
“He saved others…”
“…by not saving Himself.”
The bread reminds us of His body, given for us.
The cup reminds us of His blood, poured out for us.
We just spent time at the cross watching people mock Jesus, misunderstand Jesus, walk by Jesus… and then that one criminal who finally turns and says, “Jesus, remember me when You come into Your kingdom.”
Communion is for people who have done that. It’s for those who have said, “I’m guilty. I can’t save myself. Jesus, remember me. Save me.” If that’s you—if you’re trusting in Christ alone—this table is for you. Not because you had a great week, not because you got everything right, but because He stayed on the cross for you.
If you’re here and you’re not yet a follower of Jesus, first, I’m really glad you’re here. Instead of taking the bread and the cup, I’d ask you to let them pass and use this time to consider the One we’ve just been talking about—the King who refused to save Himself so He could save others. What He wants from you first isn’t a ritual; it’s your trust.
For those who do belong to Him, communion is also a moment to respond to that call we heard at the end of the sermon: “Take up your cross and follow Me.”
So as we come to the table, let’s ask:
Where have I treated the cross lightly?
Where am I resisting taking up my own cross?
Where am I saying, “Jesus, come down and prove Yourself,” instead of, “Jesus, help me follow You”?
We’re not trying to dig up old guilt. We’re bringing real sin to a real Savior who really paid for it.
Before we take the elements, let’s pray.
Father,
We come to this table looking at Your Son on the cross. We hear that sentence in our ears: “He saved others; He could not save Himself.” Thank You that He would not come down. Thank You that He stayed, that His body was given and His blood was shed for us.
We confess that we are too often like the crowds and the leaders in this passage. We have treated Jesus lightly. We’ve wanted Him to fit our plans. We’ve demanded that You prove Yourself on our terms. We’ve wanted the benefits of the cross without taking up our own.
Right now, by Your Spirit, search us. Show us where we need to repent. Show us sins we need to bring into the light. Show us places where we are clinging to our own way instead of following Jesus. We don’t want to rush past the cross. We want to receive what was done there for us.
Thank You that for everyone who turns to Christ, His body was broken in our place. Thank You that His blood covers all our sin—past, present, and future. Thank You that, like that criminal on the cross, we can say, “Jesus, remember me,” and hear You answer with mercy.
Set apart this bread and this cup. Use them to preach the gospel to our hearts again—that our hope is not in our performance, but in Christ crucified and risen. As we take these elements, strengthen our faith, deepen our love, and help us to take up our crosses and follow our King.
We ask this in Jesus’ name. Amen.
