To appreciate the theological and political significance of Psalm 22 in Mark’s passion narrative, it is necessary to first examine how the evangelist appropriates the psalm within his Gospel. This requires both an intertextual and a theological analysis of the citation itself, especially as it climaxes in Mark 15:34, where Jesus utters the anguished cry of abandonment from the cross.

The climactic cry of Jesus in Mark 15:34 – ‘My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? [Ὁ Θεός μου, ὁ Θεός μου, ἱνατί με ἐγκατέλιπες;]’ – occupies a pivotal position in the Gospel’s passion narrative. Preceded by cosmic darkness (15:33) and followed by the tearing of the temple veil (15:38), this utterance intensifies the sense of divine silence and abandonment. The Markan passion is distinctively shaped by apocalyptic motifs (deathly silence, darkness, cosmic rupture), reinforcing a theological atmosphere of disruption and judgement (Marcus 2009:1042–1046). Yet, the placement of Jesus’ cry within this narrative structure is neither arbitrary nor simply expressive of despair; it functions as a theologically loaded moment where divine absence paradoxically affirms divine involvement.

In the broader literary structure of Mark, abandonment is thematically anticipated throughout. Jesus is betrayed by Judas (14:10), denied by Peter (14:72) and deserted by his disciples (14:50). The culmination in divine abandonment [ἐγκατέλιπες με] deepens the motif of complete isolation (Donahue & Harrington 2002:451). Mark presents Jesus as undergoing total forsakenness by friend, follower and now seemingly by God, thus reaching the depth of human suffering. However, this moment is not framed as a theological defeat; it is saturated with intertextual echoes that open up fresh interpretive horizons.

The Greek phrase ὁ Θεός μου, ὁ Θεός μου, ἱνατί με ἐγκατέλιπες (Mk 15:34) is grammatically concise, yet theologically and literarily profound. The repetition of ὁ Θεός μου [‘my God, my God’] follows a Semitic pattern of intensification, conveying deep emotional anguish and personal lament (cf. Gunkel 1998), while the possessive pronoun (μου) maintains a paradoxical intimacy with God even amid perceived abandonment (France 2002:662). The interrogative adverb ἱνατί [‘why?’], a solemn and somewhat archaic alternative to the more common διὰ τί, introduces a tone of liturgical lament and philosophical questioning, heightening the dramatic weight of Jesus’ cry (Caird 1963:180). The accusative με [‘me’] underscores the personal and relational nature of the abandonment, while the verb ἐγκατέλιπες [‘you have forsaken’] – a second-person singular, aorist indicative active – emphasises the finality of the action. The verb itself, a compound of ἐν + καταλείπω, suggests not mere absence but complete and tragic desertion, resonating with the tradition of divine abandonment in the LXX Psalter (cf. Ps 21:2 LXX) and prophetic literature (Is 62:4) (Hays 2016:221–223; Mays 1994). Literarily, this utterance forms a direct intertextual bridge to Psalm 22, a lament that begins in despair but moves towards vindication and universal praise, thereby embedding within the crucifixion a narrative arc that holds both abandonment and eschatological hope in theological tension (Levine & Brettler 2011:175; Marcus 2009:1061). Mark strategically positions this citation at the climax of the Passion to evoke the full theological weight of Jesus’ suffering, not only as a political or imperial victim but as one undergoing cosmic estrangement – a suffering that paradoxically fulfils the redemptive arc anticipated in Israel’s Scriptures. Thus, the phrase functions as a theologically rich and literarily dense hinge within Mark’s Gospel, encapsulating both his apocalyptic imagination and his theology of the cross (Myers 1988; Wright 2013).

The question of why Jesus felt abandoned on the cross in Mark 15:34 is both historically grounded and theologically subversive. Mark recounts Jesus’ anguished cry – ‘My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?’ – a direct citation from Psalm 22:1, placing the crucified Messiah within the tradition of lament literature. At its most immediate level, this utterance reflects the extremity of Jesus’ human suffering. Having been betrayed by Judas, denied by Peter and deserted by his disciples, Jesus now confronts the isolation imposed by the machinery of imperial crucifixion and religious condemnation (Hooker 1991:368). The social and existential dimensions of this cry should not be minimised; they signify the culmination of a trajectory of forsakenness that began in Gethsemane and now finds its climax in a death devoid of comfort, justice or divine intervention.

Yet this expression of abandonment in Mark is not merely psychological, but profoundly theological. Unlike Luke, who portrays Jesus commending his spirit into God’s hands (Lk 23:46), or John, who offers a triumphant ‘It is finished’ (Jn 19:30), Mark presents no divine reassurance, no interventionist epiphany and no vindication at the moment of death. Instead, divine silence looms large. As Marcus (2009:1045) points out, this narrative strategy is intentional – it underscores the scandal of the cross not only as a site of execution but as the locus of theological ambiguity and divine hiddenness. The silence resists the impulse to sanitise the Passion through premature resurrectional lenses. Instead, it preserves the rawness of abandonment as a legitimate theological space.

This portrayal has significant implications. It invites readers not to resolve the lament too quickly but to dwell within its unresolved tension. In this regard, Mark’s Jesus embodies a solidarity with those who have suffered under the silence of God in moments of atrocity – be it colonised peoples, victims of genocide or the oppressed under systemic injustice. For communities shaped by histories of erasure and disempowerment, Jesus’ lament functions not as a breakdown of faith, but as a protest within faith, echoing the voices of lamenters throughout history (Beavis 2012:47). Rather than signalling divine rejection, it signifies a moment where human suffering and divine mystery converge in paradox.

Theologically, then, this cry may be interpreted as an invitation to wrestle with the divine Deus Absconditus – the hidden God – not as absence per se, but as a presence that does not coerce or explain itself in neat categories. This challenges deterministic atonement theories that reduce the cross to a mechanistic transaction. Instead, it suggests a model of divine engagement where God is most profoundly present in the experience of forsakenness, precisely because God refuses to insulate the divine self from the full depth of human suffering (Moloney 2002:78; see Balthasar 1988:350). Thus, Mark’s Gospel offers a theology in which divine abandonment is not the terminus of hope, but the threshold of a mystery that remains open-ended, inviting both lament and faith.

For communities in postcolonial contexts – particularly in South Africa – Jesus’ cry of abandonment offers a powerful analogical framework. The historical legacy of apartheid, systemic poverty, land dispossession and socio-political marginalisation has produced conditions where many continue to feel abandoned by God and society alike. Jesus’ cry thus becomes a mirror and mouthpiece for those whose lives are marked by structural injustice and spiritual silence.

In this sense, Jesus stands in solidarity with the crucified peoples of history. His experience on the cross resonates with the collective memory of black South Africans who, under colonialism and apartheid, endured state-sanctioned violence, exclusion and theological misrepresentation. The analogy does not flatten historical difference but reveals a shared grammar of suffering (West 2016:140). Jesus does not merely represent the forsaken; he joins them, embodying what James Cone (2011:150) calls the ‘God of the oppressed’ in cruciform solidarity.

This postcolonial analogy reframes the Gospel not as a doctrine of escape but as a text of protest – a theological language for naming and confronting the felt experience of divine absence in contexts of enduring trauma (Dube 2000:98). In classroom settings, this connection often evokes deep engagement from students, who see their historical pain reflected in the passion of Christ. The Gospel, then, becomes a living document through which abandonment is not denied, but voiced and validated.

Although abandonment is foregrounded in Mark 15:34, it is not the telos of the narrative. Psalm 22 itself offers a hermeneutical key: the movement from desolation in verses 1–21 to restoration and cosmic praise in verses 22–31. This shift affirms that lament is not a theological cul-de-sac, but a gateway to hope. When read in tandem, Mark and Psalm 22 offer a hermeneutic of survival – a theological logic that enables communities to persist in faith even amid divine silence.

In the South African postcolonial context, this interpretive framework affirms the spiritual intelligence of surviving with lament. Rather than suppressing grief through triumphalist readings, the Gospel embraces lament as a mode of protest, survival and transformation. Psalm 22 becomes a script for resilience, articulating a journey through pain towards reimagined identity and communal restoration (Gerstenberger 2002:45–46).

Pedagogically, this reading enables students to develop a nuanced theology of hope – one that is not naïve or escapist, but critically engaged and socially rooted. It invites theological formation that honours emotional truth while cultivating spiritual endurance. As such, hope is not an abstract ideal, but a redemptive resource generated through faithful reading, community lament and dialogical engagement with the Gospel’s deepest wounds.

Teaching the Passion narrative in a South African postcolonial theological context demands pedagogical methods that are critically contextual, dialogical and emotionally resonant. In engaging Mark 15:34 and Psalm 22, I have integrated lament traditions – both biblical and African – as central interpretive tools in the classroom. These lament traditions mirror the lived experiences of black South Africans, many of whom carry intergenerational trauma shaped by colonial dispossession, apartheid violence and persistent economic exclusion (Boesak 2009:41–43).

A key aspect of this pedagogy involves drawing upon township theology,⁶ a grassroots theological orientation developed during the struggle against apartheid, which emphasises embodied resistance, lived suffering and spiritual agency (West 1999:22–24). Within the classroom, students are invited to read the Passion narrative not merely as an event in salvation history but as a living script that intersects with township grief, protest and hope.

To foster deeper engagement, I employ performance-based methods, including the dramatisation of Psalmic laments and Jesus’ cry on the cross. This multisensory pedagogy is complemented by the incorporation of lament poetry, particularly from South African poets like Samuel Edward Krume Mqhayi, Nontsizi Mgqwetho and Mzwakhe Mbuli, whose works voice the cries of the forsaken in the idiom of protest and praise (Brown 2010:79). These practices encourage students to embody the text, feel its emotional weight and interpret it in solidarity with marginalised communities.

Dialogic pedagogy further empowers students to become co-interpreters of the Gospel text. Rooted in Paulo Freire’s liberative approach to education (Freire 1970), this method decentralises authority, affirming student experience as a theological resource. As such, teaching becomes a space of co-constructed meaning where theological knowledge emerges from the encounter between Scripture, tradition and the cries of the oppressed.

The author of this paper has had the privilege of teaching at three institutions of higher learning, as well as engaging in several grassroots theological training initiatives associated with a variety of ecclesial traditions. These range from African Initiated Churches (AICs) to historically mission-founded mainline denominations, encompassing a wide theological spectrum – from conservative and Reformed evangelical to more liberal theological orientations. A noteworthy development within the landscape of South African theological education in recent years has been the significant shift in student demographics. As a result of broader socio-political changes in the country, students from black communities now constitute the majority in many institutions that were historically designated as white and elitist.

Over the years, the author has been involved in the design, adaptation and compilation of theological modules across a range of academic levels, from undergraduate (first year to third year) to postgraduate diploma programmes. This curriculum development work has often required attentiveness to the diverse theological sensibilities present in classrooms composed of students from various denominational, cultural and socio-political backgrounds.

While teaching, particularly when engaging students with critical approaches such as postcolonial, imperial-critical or contextual hermeneutics, I frequently encountered initial resistance. Such methods are often perceived by some students and stakeholders as attempts to politicise the biblical text, views rooted in the assumption that the Bible is strictly a religious or spiritual document devoid of socio-political entanglements. This resistance is especially prominent among students from conservative theological traditions, who may view critical methodologies with suspicion or as foreign impositions.

However, pedagogical experience suggests that when these interpretative approaches are clearly articulated, contextually grounded and demonstrated through exegetical engagement with specific biblical texts, student reception notably improves. Once students begin to see how these readings uncover layers of meaning often obscured by traditional interpretations – and how they speak to historical and contemporary struggles, particularly those rooted in African postcolonial contexts – there tends to be a growing appreciation for their relevance and theological depth. This shift underlines the importance of pedagogical strategies that both challenge inherited assumptions and remain pastorally sensitive to students’ theological and cultural locations.

As already noted above, introducing students to postcolonial and lament-centred readings of the Passion often evokes initial resistance. Many have been formed within theological traditions that emphasise penal substitutionary atonement as the primary framework for understanding the cross (Stott 1986:32). The idea that Jesus’ cry of abandonment might reflect not divine punishment, but a theological protest rooted in lament, is often met with scepticism. However, as students are exposed to postcolonial and African biblical scholarship, their perspectives begin to shift. The works of Gerald West, who emphasises reading the Bible with the poor, and Musa Dube, who critiques imperialist hermeneutics and centres the experiences of African women, provide alternative interpretive models that resonate with students’ social realities (Dube 2000; West 1999). By facilitating engagement with these thinkers, students begin to see Mark 15:34 not as a theological anomaly but as a site of spiritual resistance and epistemic reorientation. In classroom discussions, students often remark that the lens of lament opens a space for honesty in theological discourse. Some express that this reading affirms their own experiences of abandonment – personal, familial or communal – while others identify the Passion as a narrative of God’s identification with the structurally forsaken. Through sustained engagement, resistance often gives way to transformation.

As students immerse themselves in lament-based, postcolonial readings of Mark, they begin to exhibit signs of critical consciousness. Freire (1970) describes this as the capacity to read not only the text but the world with discernment, locating systems of oppression and imagining alternatives. Students begin to perceive theological education as a platform for social engagement, not merely doctrinal affirmation.

A recurring theme in reflective essays and oral responses is the reimagination of the cross as a call to ethical praxis. No longer viewed solely as a mechanism of substitutionary atonement, the cross becomes a site of protest, where divine solidarity with the poor and suffering issues a summons to prophetic witness. Students articulate a theology where resurrection hope emerges from within suffering, not beyond it – a hope that sustains resistance, not just spiritual endurance (Hombana 2025:1–8).

This shift in understanding has led to transformative learning outcomes, where theological formation moves from cognitive accumulation to ethical reorientation. Students express a renewed commitment to justice, community healing and the construction of contextual theologies that address South Africa’s socio-economic crises. In this way, lament becomes both a hermeneutic and a pedagogical strategy for theological formation and public engagement (Knoetze 2020:1–8).