Reliving The Passion #27

Mark 15:20c–21

And they led him out to crucify him.

And they compelled a passer-by, Simon of Cyrene, who was coming in from the country, the father of Alexander and Rufus, to carry his cross.

I saw you walk in the early dawn to the Governor’s palace. You were so tired then. Now you are torn. Your robe is stiffening with your own blood. Ah, my Lord!—they scourged you! Oh, my Lord. You will never lie down to sleep again.

Four soldiers and a Roman centurion lead you through the city. Such a tiny force. Scarcely noticeable. Who notices? It’s mid-morning. The streets are crowded, citizens and merchants and the festival pilgrims, busy, busy, crying their wares in that high voice, indifferent to another execution. Who notices? I see the high priests amid the faces, moving parallel to you, making sure the deed gets done. And I see pockets of your friends peering from the side streets, startled and helpless. Women, mostly. And I am here. I notice.

The soldiers are impatient. They dart their eyes here and there through the throng. What do they expect? Or fear? Your eyes are half closed, your legs slow and leaden, your body caved around a rough piece of timber. You are carrying your own crossbeam at the stomach. You’re dragging it beside your feet, moving with an awkward side-shuffling motion—pulling the thing! Another man would have heaved it onto his shoulders. Not you. I know why not, and I hate this world: your back and sides have been ripped by the hooks of the whip. You can’t even touch the flesh, let alone lay wood on it. You slouch over it, laboring. Once you walked upright, dignified. Now you shuffle, dust on your lips, shaking with exhaustion, hugging the wood as if it were a dying child. You’ll never sleep again. Yet these soldiers are impatient. You move too slowly. Why don’t they carry the crossbeam for you? Oh, I hate this world!

You stumble. A soldier yells at you. I am crying. I can’t watch. I can’t watch. People keep blocking my vision. Ah, God! The sun has risen halfway to heaven, dead-white, round, hot. There are some black clouds in the west. They’re coming here to Jerusalem. I don’t even feel the wind, but it’s blowing and they are coming.

Oh, how can I not watch? How can I not be with you, Lord?

I’ve pushed myself right into the soldiers’ path. I can be bold, because I love you. I make them notice me by standing in the way, and then I beg them, “Let me carry his cross. He can’t! Let me.”

One fool finds this amusing. “You’re a woman,” he tells me.

But another finds it practical and claps the closest pilgrim on the shoulder and commands him to take your cross and follow them out of the city. Oh, Jesus, but then I am left with nothing to do! Does that stranger understand the honor? You glance at him—I see this, my hand on my mouth—you glance at him when he lifts the beam from your arms. How dearly I long for such a glance! What can I do for you? Please look at me! Jesus, Jesus, what can I do for you now?

Follow.