Crossroads

It was a glorious spring day in Jerusalem. As the early morning sun rose behind the temple, glinting off its gold and making its white marble walls dazzling, the father and the 2 boys were overwhelmed by its beauty. What a perfect start to the climax of their visit to the holy city.

It was the first time for them all. Growing up in the Jewish community of Cyrene, Simon had heard over and over of the promised land. Every year at Passover, they would conclude the seder by saying, “Next year in Jerusalem.” But in the 300 years since his family had been transplanted there by Ptolemy Sotor, none of them had ever managed to make the trip back to their homeland. Simon had smarted over that. The Jewish community in Cyrene, the Roman capital of the province just west of Egypt, was large and influential. He himself had sent contributions to the Cyrenean synagogue in Jerusalem. Tomorrow his family would be worshiping there. And tonight they would celebrate the Passover in the city of David.

Simon looked down at his boys. They would remember this all their lives. Alexander, his elder son, was taking his role of leading the lamb seriously, fiercely protecting it from the jostling crowd. The lamb must be unblemished when it was sacrificed. Rufus however was dubious about the whole affair. He was petting its flanks morosely. Seeing his father's gaze, the younger boy said, “Why do we have to kill Wooly?”

Oh, no, thought Simon, he's given it a name, This will be harder than ever. “Because God commanded Moses that each family must kill a lamb and wipe its blood on the doorframes of the house. That way when the angel of death visited the Egyptians, he would spare our firstborn.”

Rufus looked at his older brother for a moment and said, “I'd rather have Wooly.” Alexander shot his sibling a venomous look and pulled the lamb's tether harder.

“No, you wouldn't,” said Simon. “Besides, in a way, the lamb's blood was the price of our freedom. God freed us from our slavery to the Egyptians that night.”

“Why didn't he free us from the Romans?” said the boy sullenly.

Simon stiffened. Looking about in what he hoped was a casual way, he bent down and talked in a low but distinct voice to the boy.

“Don't mention the Romans again. You hear me? They know what Passover is about and they will kill anyone who says anything bad about the troops or the emperor. Understand?”

The boy, eyes large with fright over his father's sudden change in demeanor, nodded slightly. The father stood and strode off.

Simon regretted scaring his son but he might as well learn that a Jew cannot be too careful. Still, Rufus' question was valid. Why did God let his people come under the thumb of this blasphemous empire? It was hard to be a Jew in a Gentile city, trying to protect his children from the idolatry and immorality of that place. But here in Jerusalem, their own capital, Jews had to mute their celebration of freedom. Why?

As if reading his mind, Alexander said, “Father, why aren't we free from...you know?”

Simon sighed. He knew what his rabbi would say: sin. If all of us Jews just observed God's law, God would vindicate his people. But who was so perfect as to observe every one of the Torah's 613 laws? Anyway, now was not the time to get into all of that. So Simon did something that found irritating about his own father, something he swore he would never do to his own sons: he would give them a non-answer just to shut them up. In fact he would give them the same answer that his rabbi would use whenever asked a really tough question. Simon said, “We will find out when the Messiah comes.”

“When will that be?” shot back Rufus.

“When God feels the time is right. Look, boys, this isn't the time or the place to discuss this. Remember what I just said?”

And they fell silent, prompting a quick prayer of thanks from their father.

The crowd got larger and their pace through the narrow streets got slower. Simon expected this. They were approaching the temple and people from all over the city would be converging on it. Still, when the crowd before him began to reverse itself and push backward, Simon started to get irritated as he tried to keep the boys near him. Simon shouted over the hubbub, “What's happening?”

“A procession,” said a man crushing up against him. A thought hit Simon. He hoped it wasn't that Galilean who had made such a fuss entering the city a week ago. He and the boys were touring Jerusalem when they ran into a parade of people waving palms and throwing their outer garments on the ground, so that this man on a donkey could ride by. Everyone was singing and dancing. His kids wanted to join in. But he had been warned by a pilgrim about how brutally the Romans put down riots here and he wanted no part of that. He did hear the man later, teaching in the temple. He'd like what he heard but the man was a troublemaker by all accounts. Simon hated trouble. If this fellow was staging another demonstration today, the Day of Preparation, that might bring the Romans down on them all right now. Simon felt uneasy.

So it was with an odd kind of relief that he saw the long spears and gleaming helmets of the Roman soldiers bobbing through the crowd. That's right, he thought. The Antonia fortress is on this side of the temple. The Roman governor was probably sending out a military parade as a show of force just before the holy days to dissuade any would-be revolutionaries. He just hoped it wouldn't take too long. They had to get to the temple and back home with the sacrificed lamb before the Sabbath started this evening.

As the procession got closer, the crowd parted and pressed against the buildings on both sides. Alexander swept the lamb up into his arms to keep it from getting trampled. Rufus helpfully lifted its hindquarters. That's when Simon noticed that there were only a handful of soldiers and the one in front was carrying a plaque on his spear. It was written in Aramaic, Latin and Greek but between the swaying of the sign and the jostling of the crowd, Simon couldn't read it. But an instant later, he discovered what was coming.

The soldiers marched in a square formation around three men stumbling under the weight of beams of wood, laid across their shoulders and tied to their arms. Oh, my God. The poor wretches were going to be crucified.

Simon instinctively clutched his children close to him and tried to cover their eyes with his hands. But they struggled to see. And when they had, they tried to squeeze back behind his legs. He could not take his eyes off of one of the condemned, a wreck of a man who teetered towards them. Simon had seen victims of official justice and unofficial vengeance before. He had never seen anyone so abused in his life.

His face was swollen from blows and appeared unnaturally large. Around his head was some sort of wreath, such as an athlete might wear. But this was no laurel branch but something with thorns. Blood ran down his face from his grotesque head gear as well as down his sleeves and his legs from hidden wounds. As he lurched towards Simon, the Cyrenean flinched involuntarily.

To Simon's horror, the condemned man began to topple just in front of him and his children. With his arms tied to the crossbeam, the prisoner could not stop his fall and landed face-first on the pavement. He did not move and Simon thought for a moment that he had died.

The soldiers prodded their charge with their spears and the man shuddered. They ordered him to get up and the man tried using just his legs and failed. Looking exasperated, the ranking officer began to scan the crowd, his spear acting as a pointer. People shrank from his gaze more than from his weapon. The circling spear stopped at Simon, who was, after all, closest to the prone man. The officer slapped the flat of the blade on Simon's shoulder and said, “You! Take up his cross!”

Simon realized he must respond immediately. “Sir, I have my children with me...” The next thing he knew, Simon was sprawled in the street, his ear ringing, his cheek burning.

As he got to his feet, Simon's head swirled with emotions—anger at the Roman soldier, shame at being humiliated in front of his sons, fear for those same sons. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a voice reminded him that they were strangers in a large foreign city and he swallowed his anger and bitterness and managed to say, “Yes, sir.” Then as he bent to help the condemned man, he said in a low voice, “Alexander, watch your brother. Wait for me here.” A ghost of assent crossed the stricken boy's face and Simon turned his attention to his burden.

It took some work to lift and then squirm under one of the prone man's arms, tied to the heavy crossbeam, and heave him to his feet. He heard him grunt something that might be a word of thanks but Simon didn't want to be thanked. He was just as mad at the man as at the soldiers. What had this fool done to make the Romans beat him half to death before killing him? But it did no good to speculate. Simon concentrated on getting the criminal to his appointment with death so he could return to his family.

As his father and the bloody man began to lurch off down the street, Alexander tried to think. Should he stay right at this spot or someplace near that is not so busy and crowded? Was there a place where he and his brother could get a better view of the street? How long would his father be gone? He was trying to answer these questions to keep at bay the one question that loomed over the rest: Was his father coming back? Would they go ahead and crucify him too? He had never seen a crucifixion before. All he knew of it was what the older boys told him. He used to think they exaggerated the tortures just to scare him. Now he wasn't so sure. Alexander began to panic.

So it was almost a relief when two things happened in rapid succession.

Rufus screamed “Daddy!” and ran after his father. As Alexander was startled by this and yelled at his brother, the lamb wriggled free and ran off into the crowd. After a brief thought of how mad his parents would be about the lamb, he realized they would be more upset if he lost his brother. Alexander turned and pelted after Rufus.

Simon quickly realized how hard it was to coordinate his steps with that of his yokemate. He looked at him and saw that rivulets of blood had run down the man's forehead and into his good eye. He reached over and wiped the eye with the sleeve of his tunic, the tunic bought for the occasion of his pilgrimage to Jerusalem. This time Simon clearly heard a raspy “Thank you.”

“Don't mention it, “ said the Cyrenean grimly.

It became evident to Simon that he could not set the pace, despite the urging of the soldiers. He would have to adjust to what the condemned man could tolerate. Still, though weary, wounded and weighted down, the prisoner wasn't dragging his feet. He pressed on with as much strength as he could muster, as if hurrying home after a long day. “Why are you so eager?” thought Simon.

They stumbled over the uneven sections of the ancient city's streets. They swayed like drunkards whenever taking a set of stairs. They fought to keep their balance when making turns. After several minutes, Simon began to suspect that the prisoner was trying to bear most of the weight of the cross. Not knowing whether to feel insulted, embarrassed or grateful, Simon said, “Let me take the brunt of it.”

“It's my cross,” the man croaked.

“I'm supposed to help,” Simon protested.

“You are. And everyone will remember you for it.”

Not knowing how to reply, Simon looked back down, which was the only option they had with the crossbeam on their necks. He noticed that the man left faint bloody footprints on the pavement.

Simon and the condemned man struggled together in the hot Mediterranean sun, limbs aching, sweat mingling and possibly their blood as well. Simon could feel his neck and shoulders being rubbed raw. His hands had been pierced with splinters which he could not stop and remove. His back began to scream. But since his companion was in worse shape and did not complain, he would not either.

Physically, climbing the Hill of the Skull was the worst of it for Simon. But it was after he laid the man at the foot of the stripped and branchless tree that the soldiers indicated, that Simon felt the worst. He didn't know what to do. It had nothing to do with whether he was officially dismissed in the eyes of the soldiers. He did not feel that he could simply leave this man to face his final hours alone. And yet he had to go find his children. “I will leave when he passes out,” Simon thought. The soldiers quickly and efficiently nailed the man to the crossbeam, hoisted him onto the tree that served as an upright, and then nailed his heels to it. As they did the same to the two other men, one soldier climbed a ladder with the placard and hung it in place above the man's head. Only then did Simon discover with whom he had labored so intimately that morning.

“It's the guy on the donkey!” said Rufus, suddenly appearing and clutching his father's leg.

Just then Alexander ran up, berating his brother. “It's all his...fault...” His voice trailed off at the sight of the grotesque scarecrow hanging before them.

Just then the man struggled to pull himself up painfully and fill his lungs. “Father, forgive them for they don't don't know what they're doing.”

After that they couldn't leave. When it was over, Simon and his sons retraced their steps into the city. They passed people carrying their slaughtered lambs. They did not attempt to buy another one. They had decided that enough innocent blood had been shed that day.

They returned to the place where they were staying for the Passover. Simon's wife was in a state somewhere between fury and hysteria when they showed up just before sunset, having been gone so long and yet having brought back nothing. But the somber mood of her family and her husband's ruined and bloody clothes rendered her tirade stillborn. They stood and hugged each other for a long time before they spoke.

Their neighbor invited them to share his Passover lamb and feast that evening. But neither Simon nor the boys had much of an appetite. When it came to the part of the seder where Alexander, the oldest boy, asked, “Why is tonight different from every other night?” the question struck Simon with a force it never had before. It took him a few moments before he could regain his composure and answer.

“It is the Passover sacrifice to the Lord...” he began and halted. “It is the Passover sacrifice to the Lord...” he repeated and fell silent. “Oh, my God...”

Simon probably decided to stay in Jerusalem when he first heard the rumors about the empty tomb. He may have contacted the rich man he had seen claim the body for burial. He probably met with Peter and the disciples. He and his family may have been among the 500 who saw the risen Jesus. (1 Corinthians 15:6) His family may have been among the other Cyreneans at Pentecost. (Acts 2:8-10) They may have joined up with other Cyrenean believers and gone to Antioch where they founded a church. (Acts 11:20) That church took in a man called Saul and supported him when he left to preach to the Gentiles. (Acts 13:1-3) Paul mentions a Rufus and his mother whom he said was like a mother to him. (Romans 16:13) And sure enough, when the gospels were written, what Simon of Cyrene had done was remembered (Matthew 27:32; Luke 23:26) and he and his sons, Alexander and Rufus, became part of the story of his passion. (Mark 15:21)

Originally preached on April 4, 2004. It has been revised and updated.