I come from Cyrene. My family has lived in that great city
of North Africa for many generations. They were among the first of the
Diaspora, the dispersion of Jewish people around the Mediterranean. Though my
ancestors were forced to settle there, they soon enough embraced their new home
and even invited others of the Jewish nation to come and make the city their
home. We have always been allowed to practice our religion and were faithful to
make pilgrimages to Jerusalem for the feast days.
That is why I was in Jerusalem and was just making it in
time for the Passover. I knew something was up as I neared the entrance of the
city. Jerusalem is always crowded and noisy during the Passover, but the
commotion was greater, and this time I could see a group of soldiers. I entered
through the gate. Up ahead there appeared to be some kind of parade. The guards
were pushing people back to make way for something. I worked my way to the edge
of the crowd. I could see now. The soldiers were leading prisoners – prisoners
who were carrying beams of wood. Then I understood. Poor creatures – they were
being led to their crucifixion.
They must have been Zealots, insurrectionists. Why else
crucifixion? The Passover is the time they can be expected to do something
stupid. Still, one cannot help but pity them. They had already been beaten.
They were filthy, dressed in rags. One in particular was the most miserable. I
shuddered then at the thought of being in his place. He barely had life in him,
he had been beaten so terribly. Even with a tunic on, I could tell that the
skin on his back had been shredded. It was a wonder he could walk at all, much
less bear a heavy beam. Even so, he stumbled right in front of me.
I had seen enough. I was about to slip back through the
crowd, when a soldier grabbed my arm. “You, pick up that beam!” Was he joking?
I tried to pull my arm away, but he held it tightly and then thrust me forward,
forward into the nightmare.
This couldn’t be happening. The soldiers and the other
prisoners had stopped. The crowd, or mob, I should say, were shouting. I
thought I heard curses and also wailings. Some were shaking their fists and
others were crying. Noise all about me. The soldier pushed me again, threatening
me with his whip. I looked at the wretched victim who was kneeling on all
fours. I did not want to feel that whip.
I picked up one end of the beam lying on the dusty road. Two
soldiers roughly lifted the victim onto his feet. One cracked his whip as a
driver of beasts would do. The victim passed by me, looking in my eyes with his
own sad eyes. And then I followed, balancing the beam on one shoulder. No
wonder he had stumbled. The weight was heavy enough for a sound man.
I could handle the burden of the weight. The greater burden,
the onerous part of it all was the humiliation. I am a free citizen, and I was
treated as a slave. And publicly – before a massive crowd lining the road out
of Jerusalem. I came to the Passover to celebrate the freedom of my people, not
its slavery! And then, to be pressed into such ignoble service. I knew the
practice of Roman soldiers forcing the citizens of conquered nations to carry
their packs up to a mile. But this was the cross of a thief, of an
insurrectionist, maybe a murderer. I was carrying the cross beam in his place!
How shameful. How humiliating.
The crowd would not let up. They lined the road the entire
way to Golgotha, cursing and crying and taunting. It was hot enough; the close
crowd made the air suffocating. The pace was agonizingly slow. The two victims
with their crosses struggled, and though he no longer had his burden, it was
obvious that the most wretched of the three was struggling to stay on his feet.
It seemed that the focus was mostly on him.
I looked on him. There was nothing remarkable about him. He
seemed like any other man, any other wretched man. Blood dripped below his
tunic and from his marred face. What had he done that led him to such an end?
Suddenly he stopped. A group of women were mourning and
lamenting. I assumed they were weeping for all three of the victims, but he
acted as though it was all for him. His response confirmed for me that he was
an insurrectionist, as I had first surmised. “Daughters of Jerusalem, do not
weep for me, but weep for yourselves and for your children.” Then he predicted
the destruction to come. Yes, just like a martyr prophesying doom.
The soldiers pushed him on. Now I was angry. I was carrying
the beam of a cross for a fool. My ears picked up some of the taunts being
directed at this fool. “Save yourself, King of the Jews!” “Hail the King of
Israel!” So that is what he had purported to be. No wonder they were cursing
and mocking him. I wondered if he had had many followers, and all the more my
own humiliation bore down on me – here I was his only follower bearing his
cross.
He turned his head, looked at me, and then ahead again. His
eyes were filled with grief, and yet, what was it? What was it in that brief
glance? There was grief but not the despair and the anger that were in the
faces of the other two victims. On that face was pure, untainted sorrow. Ever
since his crazy words to the women, he had remained silent as he was led to his
execution. I wanted to be angry but all I could feel was pity. I was following the
man of sorrows.
Another taunt. “You saved others; you
cannot save yourself.” He saved others? Saved them from what? What could this
man, cursed of God, save anyone from? I followed and I listened. Not all the
voices were of mockers. There were loving voices calling this peasant, “Rabbi”
and even “my Lord.” Were they his followers? They did not sound like Zealots.
What did he save them from?
I heard a name. Someone called him Jesus.
Yes, someone else said it – Jesus of Nazareth. I had heard of him, even as far
as Cyrene. He was the miracle-worker. This bloody, staggering wretch was the
miracle-working prophet that some had even believed might be the Messiah. I was
following Jesus the Christ. I laughed bitterly within. Some Messiah and some
follower he was left with.
His end was near, the end of his journey to
the cross, that is. He still had a long tortured death to bear, and for what?
For whom? I began to feel despair. This Jesus had no doubt been a good man,
misguided as he might be. But whatever good he might have done, whatever saving
he might have done and hoped to do, it only led to an ignoble death. I was
following a lamb led to slaughter.
The crossbeam seemed to grow heavier on my shoulder. I was
glad when we reached the journey’s end and could lay it down and to have
nothing more to do with this travesty and this poor wretch. As I rested, the
soldiers quickly, efficiently nailed him to the cross and hoisted it up. I
stare despondently at him, then turned to go when I heard Jesus speak: “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.”
I could not leave. I stayed and watched it
all, heard it all. I watched the agony, the mockery, the callousness, the
weeping and grief. The sun darkened; the victim cried out in thirst, in pain,
in abandonment, and then (how could it be?) even in trust as an offering to his
heavenly Father, and finally, as though he was bringing his own life to its
finish.
I returned to the city with much to think
about. Who was it that I had followed? Who’s cross did I bear? I had to know. A
hand touched my shoulder, and a voice whispered, “Follow me.” It turned out to
be the voice of a follower of Jesus – a disciple he was called. He led me to
where others had gathered in hiding. He had seen me bear the cross of his
master, and they all seemed grateful for the service I had rendered. I stayed
with them for three days listening to their stories, when on the third
day…well, you know what happened that third day. I determined then that for the
rest of my life I would deny myself, take up my cross, and follow Jesus.
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