And as they led him away, they seized one Simon of Cyrene, wo was coming in from the country, and laid on him the cross, to carry it behind Jesus. And there followed him a great multitude of the people and of women who were mourning and lamenting for him. Luke 23:26-27
He’s on the road again, still followed by “a multitude,” but this time with a cross on his back, staggering under the weight and bleeding from a thousand cuts. Like a crushed dog crawling along the path, like a mangle bird, like a worm—something you turn away from and try to erase from your mind. Even if there were no crowd, the women track him easily by the blood splashed along the way. So much blood! And when they reach him, he has collapsed under the weight of the heavy crosspiece.
There is shouting—jeering, weeping—the Roman soldiers in charge of the execution have called out an unsuspecting countryman to carry it behind the condemned man. It’s not kindness; they just want to be over and done with it. It’s some distance to go before Skull Hill, where executions take place, and there needs to be enough left of the prisoner to nail up when they get there. The clueless countryman, whose name is Simon, looks terrified. He was on his way to the temple before the crowd swept over him—why did these alien soldiers single him out? He barely understands their pidgin Aramaic—for all he knows, he may be headed for his own execution.
Everything the Master said about being turned over to his enemies and killed is echoing in the women’s minds. They women heard it all, along with the disciples, but they never pictures this. Words are so clean and sterile; this is battered and bloody and helpless. The women from Galilee try to shield him from his mother, but then he stops and turns around. In spite of the angry shouts of the soldiers, no one strikes him, and Mary (the one who poured oil on his feet) receives the distinct impression that he himself is orchestrating the entire scene. How strange! How terrible.
His eyes are the only part of him not bloodied. Time stops as his eyes linger on the women, his long-time traveling companions. Then he glances toward another cluster of women who have been following with loud laments. These are well-born ladies of the holy city who follow political prisoners to their deaths, bringing jars of vinegar and gall to dull the pain. With a look, he silences their wailing.
“Don’t weep for me, daughters of Jerusalem. Weep for yourselves and your children. The day is coming when you’ll beg the mountains to kill you quickly. If judgment falls like this on the innocent, how will it deal with the guilty?”
The old order—eye for eye, tooth for tooth, blood for guilt—simple justice of the sort that everyone understands, is wildly out of whack. This man has done nothing wrong: Pilate said it, Herod confirmed it, everyone knows it. But what they may not know:
This man has done everything right.
Who can say that about anyone? The wretched stooped-over figure stands condemned, turning blind justice on her head and rendering her carefully-weighted balance scales useless. If such punishment falls on him, what petty thief, careless gossip, casual liar can have a prayer . . . .
“Move on!” shouts the nearest guard, more confused than angry. The bloody face sets forward again, the bloody feet stumble on, leaving bright mottled prints on the stones that would have cried out in anguish* had he allowed it.
Luke 19:40
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