07/08/2015
I knew I was getting close. The path once barren, unidentifiable at times and relentless in its daily offering of loneliness now widened a bit and brought a passerby, also weary, every so often. Varying pockets of periodic wind ushered forth dust clouds that rose and fell, darted in and around me as if arranged by one greater and in control of their destiny. The blister on my right hand that earlier had seeped with bodily fluid and caused much discomfort now held my staff sure in its rough callused state with a greater resolve and grip as I neared my destination.
The long journey from Cyrene had withered my physical being greatly as I felt my outer robe, undergarments as well, hang loosely on and almost off of my body. My lips, burnt by both sun and wind, were chapped, horribly cracked and yearned significantly for moisture. My skin felt pulled, almost taught if you will with the same lack of hydration and was tender to the touch. Unwelcomed rashes, everywhere on my body, burned with each step.
Though I was tired, I mentally escaped once again into deep contemplation, considering the Passover feast that would begin shortly, the rumors of a common man named Jesus, not only performing miracles but challenging the leaders of Jewish tradition, and my anticipation of finally walking the very streets of Jerusalem that my grandfather had spoken of with such passion. Stories, one after another, would pour forth until tears would envelope his eyes, cascading down and through the crevices of his now aged face, as he recounted his younger years in the land of his forefathers; that of Abraham, Moses and David.
Nearing the pinnacle of the small mountain I had every intention of resting for a while but in the distance, it appeared, out of nowhere, unfolding itself before my very eyes…the city of Jerusalem. I stood motionless, as a cool breeze wisped over my body, taking in the entirety of its mass, and I too shed a tear, feeling it distinctly as it worked its way down my cheek before being swallowed up by the dryness of my skin. I pushed forward with a new resolve as it beckoned me with its magnificence.
The activity outside the gate, throngs of people coming and going, astounded me as I came close to the entrance. Just inside I heard what I thought was some form of fight between several people as the atmosphere changed in an instant. To my surprise, a man was carrying a cross, horribly disfigured, unlike any other I had before witnessed in my life as each laborious step looked to be his last. He had obviously been beaten, tremendously, and the gaping flesh wounds, with his skin torn and hanging, exposed bone and bodily tissue openly. The orifices bled profusely and the deep dark crimson blood encompassed his body and left a trail that was astounding in its quantity.
I literally felt sick. If that were not enough, people hurled insults, threw dirt and rotting fruit, and spat upon the man with little regard to his state of physical exhaustion. Something, what I am not sure, drove me closer still to him as I pushed myself through the crowd. To my surprise as I came ever so near to him, I encountered a few women who wept and pleaded for it all to stop, walking ever so slowly with him who neared failure physically. I tried to comfort them, with words at first and then, the one who was beyond overly distraught, simply collapsed in my arms, unable to stand in her strength any longer. Then I heard her whisper… “Jesus.”
As if in orchestration, he too fell, not even a couple seconds later, and though the guards whipped him, his body lay motionless, unresponsive to further beatings and in a state of disregard as to all that was happening to him. The lady, proclaimed loudly, as if with her final breath, “Jesus…my son”! I fell to my knees, incapable myself of standing any longer and I wept, uncontrollably, realizing that this must be his mother.
Unexpectedly, Jesus moved once again and with a final attempt, tried to lift the large cross that now lay over his being but he simply collapsed under its weight. I looked, deeply into His eyes, and to my disbelief there was a love that peered compassionately back at me as our eyes met unexpectedly. How could this be?
Without warning, a guard screamed at me and at first I was unsure as to why? He then yelled again, this time more emphatically, walked over and grabbed my robe and tried to lift me to my feet. I resisted as he now pointed at Jesus, yelling and insistent that I pick up the cross of Jesus and carry it the rest of the way. With a whip in one hand, he unsheathed His sword with the other, and frantically waived it in my face shouting all the more. I looked away from the guard momentarily, down and directly at his mother, and she, as well, possessed the same love in her eyes though her face was awash with anguish. I could no longer resist and rose slowly to my feet.
Fatigue, both physically and emotionally held me in an undesirable, depleted state, and as I reached down for the massive cross, its weight nearly crippled me, where I stood, as I lifted it off of Jesus. Bending down, with the cross now secure, I extended my free hand down, grasped under his arm and lifted Him as well until He stood, wearily, beneath with me. We stepped slowly but unfortunately the bottom portion of the cross held fast in a hole along the path and we stumbled, with its entire burden, as it swayed left and then right. Somehow, I had not noticed the crown of thorns that dug deep into His head and as I tried to steady us all, they too would find their way into the side of my face.
At first I had not felt the whips but now they stung as the guards continually beat Jesus with the strands of leather overlapping onto my back and around my legs as well. Gasping for air and in desperate need of water, I found myself, without warning, moistening my lips with His blood that had worked its way down from the cross and onto my face. If that were not enough, my hands felt the small fragments of His soft flesh as they hung to the splintered cross and I began to weep, walking slower still, in the midst of the circumstance that had enveloped me.
Screams welcomed our approach to the place of crucifixion as one of the other unfortunate men withered in pain as they drove the nails into his hands and feet. The guards yelled at me once more, to drop the cross, and with one final swing of the whip that stung us both with its ferocity I laid it down gently as Jesus too fell to the ground. In a matter of seconds, they dragged Him away with great cruelty and readied to fasten Him to our cross. I backed away ever so gradually and to my surprise, I felt the soft warm hand of His mother sliding into my hand from behind.
I turned and looked at her once more before I fell in exhaustion…
Luke 23:26 “And as they led him away, they laid hold upon one Simon, of Cyrenian, coming out of the country, and on him they laid the cross, that he might bear it after Jesus.”
“For many are called, but few are chosen.”
Father, your son, Jesus, was “disallowed of men, despised and rejected of men, a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief, beaten and crucified.” Paul “of the Jews five times received I forty stripes save one, three times was I beaten with rods, once was I stoned, three times suffered ship wreck, in weariness and painfulness, in hunger and thirst, in fasting often and in cold and nakedness.” Many others were stoned, sawn asunder, burned, beheaded, clubbed, boiled, given to wild animals…tortured for their faith and yet…chosen!
Father, forgive me for I have truly fallen short in my complacency, my comfort, and my cowardice. I kneel before you this day, humbled, and longing for that same Spirit of those “chosen” and that counts my life but as dung.
Daniel