Simon, a man from Cyrene, Alexander and Rufus’ father, was coming in from the countryside. They forced him to carry his cross.
Reflection
This reflection is a little longer, but hopefully worth the time…it’s a piece I wrote about 20 years ago for a Good Friday worship service, picturing the crucifixion from Simon’s perspective. Try to imagine yourself there as you read. – Joe
I came to Jerusalem to worship, not to take part in a public execution.
I had so looked forward to this moment, and dreaded it. To make the pilgrimage for Passover – that was the event I’d imagined my whole life. At the table, we always say, “next year in Jerusalem.” But who among us actually does it? Not many African Jews, I imagined.
I will never forget rounding a bend in the road and suddenly having the city of David come into view: shining, beautiful, almost heavenly as we approached from the east, from the port of Joppa. The way was jammed with pilgrims traveling via every imaginable mode of transport: most on foot, but some on the backs of donkeys, or mules. Little children bounced by in ox-carts as weary old men rested, leaning on sticks.
We were very near the city gate when it seemed as though we faced a turn of the tide: a crowd surging toward us, out of the city. An advance guard of Roman soldiers forced pilgrims off the road, into fields and pastures, into the alleyways between homes. I pulled my wife and sons close as the soldiers approached, and looked for an out-of-the way spot. But we were caught in a narrow stretch of the road, in between a tightly-clustered group of houses. The best we could do was to flatten ourselves against a wall.
As we did, the homeowner stepped out to see what the commotion was about. He muttered something to his wife standing behind him. “Looks like Pilate’s been busy again today.”
The soldiers in the vanguard shouted various insults and obscenities at those they forced off the road, but their shouts were quickly drowned out by the front edges of the crowd now swirling around us.
Their cries seemed somehow even uglier to me than the soldiers’ taunts. “See what happens to false Messiahs!” “Fraud!” “Charlatan!” “What’s wrong, Nazarene? Cross too heavy for you?”
By now, the leading edge of the crowd was already past, and I could see into the center of the throng, the focus of the mob’s venom. A dozen legionnaires, some with spears, others with whips and swords, marched three condemned men out to the place of crucifixion.
The crossbeams they carried seemed grotesquely heavy for men in their condition. Each one looked worse than the next: pale and thin, the bruises on their faces and bodies were hideous, black, and swollen. They staggered under the weights perched on their bloody backs. I covered my sons’ eyes as one of the soldiers cried out, “Look here, you Jews! This is what we say to your kings! This is what we say to your holy men!”
I didn’t understand what this meant, at first. But then I saw the sign, carried by the soldier going before the last of the three men: “The King of the Jews.”
And then I got angry. I wasn’t sure precisely what I was angry at, whether it was the blasphemy of the charge, the cruelty of the Romans, or the viciousness of the mob taunting a dying man. But I was angry.
I tried to get a look at the man’s face. It was streaked with dust and blood from a thorny branch that someone had twisted around his head. His eyes were on the ground, all his concentration bent on the next step. He seemed to move forward only by sheer force of will.
All the time, his lips were moving, slowly, almost imperceptibly. But no sound came. Was he praying? Cursing the soldiers? Or just talking to himself?
He tripped over something, what I couldn’t see. He moaned just a little as he hit the ground and the beam bounced off his back. As he lay with the wood across his body, a soldier bent over and screamed for him to get up. But he could not. He cracked his whip on the ground once, but still the man did not move. The next lash fell across the fallen one’s calves. He cried out, but did not get up.
“I don’t want to drag a dead man up the hill,” the centurion said. “Get someone to carry this cross for him. How about this one?”
They pointed at me. “We’ve got a job for you.”
I started to protest, “I have come to celebrate the Pass-” But one of them came alongside me and jammed the butt of his spear into my ribs. “Come on, you. The emperor needs your help stringing this one up. Do your patriotic duty.”
I squeezed my wife’s hand and whispered, “it will be okay.” I wasn’t at all sure of that, but I said it anyway. I took a few trembling steps forward until I stood alongside him. “Well, pick it up!” I bent over and looked him in the face as I lifted the weight, gingerly, off his back.
What I saw in his face will never leave me, so long as I draw breath. There was no pleading for help, no search for pity, no anger. Instead, I saw the face of an old man of 30. I saw in his eyes only a profound sadness – and gratitude. And I just barely heard the words that crossed his lips: “Bless you. Thank you.”
I could not imagine that I deserved thanks. Here I was, participating in this man’s crucifixion. I was taking part in his murder. I could not help feeling that I deserved this man’s condemnation, not his thanks. As we walked that long road to the site of the execution, my white pilgrim’s robe, so crisp and new when we left Cyrene, was stained with the blood of this one condemned as “King of the Jews.” It was frayed and torn by the splintering wood. And this man’s crucifixion seemed my own.
by Joe Monahan
For Pondering and Prayer
What did you feel as you read this? What scenes did you imagine? Could you picture yourself there with Jesus & Simon?
Prayer: Lord Jesus, help us to remember that those whose stories we read in scripture were real people, just like us. They made life-or-death, in the moment decisions, sometimes choosing fear, sometimes choosing faith, and all the array of human emotions in between. Help us to put ourselves in their sandals to understand how profound their sacrifices were. In all our thanksgivings for Jesus, let us also remember their contributions to his story. Amen.
