The Cross       

A new day was born in the desert of Judea. Night had faded into dawn and thin threads of light crept over the mountains giving birth to a blood-red sun. The air was cool and crisp, carrying a sweet scent like lilac that lingered, drifting slowly like a mist over the ocean. At the foot of the mountains, bathed in the amber glow of dawn, lay the ancient city of Jerusalem. Thousands of pilgrims had made journeys from countries near and far to participate in the great festival. It was to be a joyous time of celebration, reverence, and prayer.

But this Spring Day would be different from all the others before it. It would be remembered by most as the darkest moment in history.

Among the many faces on the streets was a man who had come in from the country to worship. His name was Simon. It was mid-morning and Simon walked methodically along the cobbled streets and alleyways, between ancient buildings etched with splintered veins of age. He passed other travelers and vendors peddling their wares, and as he approached the center of the city, he heard raucous cries in the distance that grew louder with each step he took.

As he mixed with others on the street, he felt himself being drawn and pushed forward by the movement of the crowd. He finally stopped at the edge of a narrow alley leading to a steep hill east of the city. A mob lined the narrow street, many were screaming in anger, while others stood docilely silent.

Suddenly a handful of Roman soldiers burst through the melee pushing the people to the edge of the street. Behind them came a procession of three prisoners, each struggling under the weight of huge wooden crosses.

“What crime have these men committed?” he asked a woman beside him.

“Don’t you know?” she cried out with tears streaming from her eyes. “They are crucifying the One who has come to save us.” Then her voice was overwhelmed by the frantic screams of the masses.

He watched the first two stumble past him, then the third man followed, one different from the others. His robe was shredded, and his shoulders and back were bleeding as he staggered under the weight of the cross. There was a circle of thorns placed on his head and droplets of blood trickled down his face. A group of soldiers marched behind him, striking him with whips, and he watched in horror as the man fell to the street.

Suddenly, huge hands grasped Simon by the shoulders and tossed him to the ground. He fell alongside the man they had been scourging, and as their eyes met, he knew this was the One the woman had spoken of.

“You will help this one carry his cross!” one of the soldiers screamed.

Simon looked up into the fiery eyes of the soldier and leaned against the splintered edge of the cross, groaning as the wood cut into his shoulder. Then he and the One who was to be crucified stood and began their trek up the hill known as Golgotha.

The grade was steep, and Simon struggled under the massive weight, his legs burning from the strain. He glanced at the bloodied face of the prisoner. His dark mahogany eyes were filled with sadness and resignation of the fate that lay before him. A thin trail of blood flowed from cuts on his chest and shoulders and Simon pushed with all his strength to bear more of the weight to help him.

“Faster,” one of the guards shouted. “Or you will see the same fate as this one.” Then he raised his whip, and it sliced through the air in a long arc, viscously striking the Man across his back. The leather bit deeply, sending a mist of blood and flesh flying onto the cobbled path. A second soldier stepped in front of them and spat in the Man’s face while bystanders along the street screamed in delight.

They both fell to the ground, and Simon cringed as he heard the ‘whish’ of the strap sail through the air again, striking the Man’s shoulders.

“Get up!” the soldier shouted. “Or I will kill you where you lay!”

Summoning their strength, they lifted the cross once again and trudged up the steep path. As they neared the top, several women along the trail dropped to their knees, pleading with the soldiers for mercy. But there would be no mercy on this day. Their voices were met only with laughter and jeers.

The Man opened his mouth to speak to them. His lips were split and bloodied, and his voice was scarcely more than a whisper. “Daughters of Jerusalem.” He groaned. “Do not weep for me.”

Then Simon and the one called Jesus took one agonizing step, followed by another until they reached the top.

Once they crested the hill, the guards shoved Simon to the ground and went about their task to crucify Jesus. They stripped him of his clothing and laid him naked on his back on top of the cross.  He squinted against the brilliant glare of the sunlight while several of the soldiers restrained his arms and legs. The raucous mob who had followed them laughed and shouted insults, aroused by the debacle transpiring before them.

Suddenly the frenzied voices of the crowd fell silent. A tall, broad-shouldered centurion stepped forward from the ranks of the soldiers. His eyes were dark and lifeless, and thin blue veins spiraled up his thick muscular arms. There was a tarnished sword hanging from his side, and his breastplate of armor glistened in the sunlight. In his right hand, he held a hammer.

The man looked down at Jesus, studying his face curiously, then knelt beside him. He removed a nail from a leather pouch and pressed the point of it into Jesus’ open palm until blood began to seep. He seemed to glean pleasure from the task, smiling and laughing with the soldiers. Then with one vicious swing, he drove the spike through flesh and bone. Jesus screamed in agony. Some of the bystanders gasped in horror, while others screamed with excitement.

The centurion and the soldiers continued their labor until his hands and feet had been nailed into the cross. With each strike of the hammer, horrifying screams echoed across the hillside like the cry of a wounded animal. Their task finally complete, the soldiers stood over him, inspecting their work. Some of them casually drew lots to see who would possess his clothing. Then they lifted the cross and planted the end of it into the rocky soil, hoisting it into the air amid piercing cries of agony.

Simon lay paralyzed, transfixed by the horrifying images before him. He closed his eyes and prayed that God would descend from the heavens and save this man from his agony. But even as the words escaped his lips, he knew they were to no avail.

Minutes turned into hours, and Simon watched Him gasp for air as his strength dwindled. The two criminals who had been crucified with him had already passed, but Jesus lingered, impaled on the cross, dying a slow excruciating death. His precious blood trickled to the ground forming a crimson pool beneath him. The jeers and outcries from the angry mob had gone silent. Even the murmurs and caws from the birds overhead ceased. An eerie silence settled over the hill and the air turned cold and bitter as 3 pm approached.

Slate-colored clouds churned and swirled, moving quickly across the horizon cloaking the sun like a dark murky veil. The hill was instantly cast in darkness. From deep beneath the earth there was a deep rumbling like the stampede of a thousand horses, and a frigid wind threw sand and stone across the crest of the hillside.  The onlookers fell to their knees crying out in fear as veins of lightning spilled down from the heavens and a clap of thunder shook the hillside.

Jesus took one last gasp and looked down at Simon, their eyes locking. In that instant their minds became one and Simon could suddenly see and understand Jesus’ last dying thought.

They were thoughts of His infinite love for him, and all those He had suffered and died for.

Then Simon curled in a tight ball and wept.

21 words.

That’s all that was written in the book of Matthew describing how a passerby named Simon was pressed into service as our Lord made his agonizing march up the hill to his death. Yet, despite the brevity of Matthew’s description, this scene carried enough significance to be written in three of the four Gospels.

We know from Scripture, that Simon came from Cyrene, a city in the northern part of modern-day Libya. In Luke’s gospel, it is written that Simon was coming in from the country. Most theologians believe he had traveled to Jerusalem for Passover like hundreds of thousands of others during Jesus’ time. The distance from Cyrene to Jerusalem is over 800 miles. In the first century, this would have been a long and potentially perilous journey across the desert lasting four to five weeks.

Matthew, Mark, and Luke each wrote of this scene with few differences in their versions. Only in Mark’s gospel do we learn that he had two sons, Alexander and Rufus. Simon was more than a symbolic icon for Jesus’ message to us. He was a man. A real person, flesh and blood like any one of us. There has been much speculation on how Simon came to be selected for this noble task. But regardless, his role and the powerful message it conveys to us now is significant.

In Mathew 10-38, Jesus told his disciples,

‘Whoever does not take up their cross and follow me is not worthy of me.‘ His intent was more directly stated in the latter chapters of Matthew and Luke ‘Whoever wants to be my disciple must deny themselves and take up their crosses daily.’ (Matthew 16-20, (Luke 9-23)

Few of us will ever be faced with the physical suffering Jesus endured during his crucifixion. But suffering and the bearing of our individual crosses are inevitable. At some point in our lives, we will all be called upon to be the Simons of Cyrene.

Perhaps the words written by Tomas Kempas in Imitation of Christ over 800 years ago best describe the monumental significance of the crosses we are asked to bear in our lives.

‘In the cross is salvation, life, protection from enemies, infusion of heavenly sweetness, perfect holiness. There is no salvation of soul or hope of everlasting life but in the cross.’

21 words. That’s all that is written about the man who helped bear the weight of the cross in Jesus’ last moments. But embedded within those words, is a powerful message. One that was intended for all to hear and follow.

Do not pray for easy lives. Pray to be stronger men. Do not pray for tasks equal to your powers. Pray for powers equal to your tasks.’ (Philips Brooks)