[Grid::Blog::Via Crucis 2007] Simon the Cyrene Helps Jesus Carry the Cross

Even then they profiled us. But I wonder what it was like to be the nigger at the wrong place at the wrong time that day. There he was, Simon, an African man in Jerusalem. Should have been in Africa where he belonged, but he'd come for Passover. Oh we was going to get passover all right.

Simon must have watched with horror as what was left of Jesus tried to drag that massive cross a few more feet down the road. Can you imagine it? Jesus had suffered the humiliation of being stripped naked. Had bets placed for His few humble pieces of clothing. He'd been spit upon and beaten and scourged until His flesh hung off his bones. He scarcely resembled a man. And then He had to take that long walk carrying the cross he'd eventually die on.

Can you see Him stumble and fall, stumble and fall? Try to get back up and carry that damned cross again that was too heavy for any body to bear, including this innocent Man with the charge of being, "King of the Jews." He even has a crown. What a mockery. An outrage.

The awful procession is going by and Simon must watched with abject pity thinking that the alleged King of Jews is going to surely die before He even gets to the top of the hill. Everybody thinks He's going to die, even as they hurl insults and hisses and blasphemies at Him. He falls again and that big, massive cross falls, too. He can't see for the blood in His eyes swollen shut. The blood from the crown of thorns jammed on His royal head. And Simon sees Him reaching, reaching, reaching past His darkness for something. What is He reaching for?

Dear God He's trying find that damned cross. He's looking for the cross to pick it up again. It's going to kill Him before He even gets to the hill and He's groping for it like He's got to have it.

Maybe a soldier realizes the futility of this whole thing, but he knows if he dies right there in the street they'll be hell to pay. They'll be such an uproar... It'll be craziness. They've got to get somebody to help him. But it's a feast day. They can't get a Jew, so they look for the most non-Jew looking person and it's Simon, the black man. The nigger in the wrong place at the wrong time time.

He don't want nuthin' to do with it, Simon. Can you blame him? He's in Jerusalem for the feast of Passover, himself. He's a Jew! On Pilgrimage. He just wants to do it big. Do it right. And now here he is. If he does this thing... He's going to be defiled. Despised. But he's compelled.

Compelled.

Roman law. A sword. A man wearing a crown of thorns who seems driven to carry a cross to His own damned death.

Simon is angry. He's disgusted. He goes to the prisoner, what's left of Him, and their eyes meet.

Oh. My God.

Who is this Man? This Man who's eyes can see inside of you, even when they are bloody slits. His eyes tell him He has to carry this cross to the end. He must make it to the hill to this wretched death and Simon doesn't understand, but he has to help Him. He has to. By God, he's compelled.

He gathers the cross on his shoulder. My God! It's heavy. He falls to the ground himself. And he's a big man. He gathers himself. He's taken strength from the broken King of Jews, and hoists the cross up once again upon his shoulder.

He walks slower bearing the burden. The injustice. The shame. He knows nothing of the Man whose cross he shoulders. The one who women come to wailing, weeping. Crying and testifying of healings. Deliverances. That mother whose daughter He raised from her sick bed. That unclean woman He made whole. The whore He taught to love. How they weep for Him.

And Simon wonders if his cross of color, in an unfair, biased world isn't but a tiny one compared to His.

He's said so little. He never uttered a word of condemnation or self-pity. He asked his friend to take care of his mama. He prayed for the people who had done this to Him. And that awful thing He said, "My God, My God, why have You forsaken me." Simon watched it all. Could not take his eyes off of Him.

After all, Simon held that cross. Felt the weight of it. Jesus' blood, which must have drenched that cross, covered Simon first.

And here I am, this black woman, standing at this station, thinking of your story, Simon, of His story. You were a Jew. I am a Christian, but we are both facing the same crosses. We still get profiled, Simon. We are still sadly too often to some the niggers in the wrong place at the wrong time. We still have crosses that we help Jesus bear, but they are not like His cross are they? His cross is still the Holy terror that makes all crosses bearable.

All of them.

All of them.