The Question Of The Cross

Were you there when they crucified my Lord?

They were all people just like us, you know. It might just have well have been we who were there, not them. It would all have happened just the same.

Were you one of the ones that hadn’t really been paying attention?

Were you one of the curious bystanders who heard the shouting of the crowd and the distinctive heavy beat of Roman soldiers on that festival day, and turned to follow, to see what was going on? Craning your head over the people in front of you, perhaps you saw a dirty, bloodstained young man, back bent beneath a heavy wooden bar. “Another criminal,” you might have thought, “probably one of those bandits who plague our hills and make the journey up to Jericho or down to Hebron so dangerous.” That’s what you might have thought, until you saw the odd thing on his head. It looked sort of like a laurel wreath, but - no, it was made of those spiny palms, and shoved down hard over his forehead. You could see the blood stains down the side of his face. What did they do that for? So you push ahead and ask a man in front of you what’s happening.

“It’s that rabbi from Galilee,” comes the answer, “the one people thought might be the Messiah.” He goes on to explain, “But I knew all along he wasn’t for real. And then the council brought him to Pilate this morning, accusing him of blasphemy. They said he claimed to be the son of David, or maybe the son of God, and that he was going to destroy the temple. And he didn’t defend himself at all, he just stood there like a stupid sheep and let them rough him up. So of course that proves he wasn’t the Messiah, after all the Messiah would never have let that happen. The Messiah is going to be a real king, better even than David, who’ll get rid of the Romans and make us free again. So when Pilate asked if we wanted him or Barabbas freed, why of course I shouted for Barabbas. At least he’s a fighter. I’m tired of being stepped on. And it serves this Yeshua right, anyway, for getting everybody’s hopes up.”

Were you there, when they crucified the Lord? Were you the one who wouldn’t believe, because what you saw wasn’t what you wanted to see? Were you one of the ones who got angry with God when he didn’t obey you, and give you what you thought you ought to have?

Or were you in hiding with the other disciples, listening to the running feet and the distant shouts, trembling for fear lest the next sound should be footsteps on the stair and a loud, peremptory knock on the door? Were you wondering if following Jesus was going to cost more than you had ever expected, and asking yourself if it was really worth it, after all? Three years it had been, and you had left everything behind, family, work, everything set aside to follow someone who had just led you right into a possible death sentence. And he didn’t even lift a hand to stop them! You don’t know what to do any more. Everything you had hoped for was dust and ashes.

Were you hiding, when they crucified the Lord?

Or were you like poor Simon of Cyrene, [Mk 15:21] standing there at the edge of the road, caught up in something he had never expected when he came to Jerusalem for the Holy Days? He’d saved up for years to make the pilgrimage; it was a long way away, after all, and a dangerous voyage, too. He was here to worship at the temple, to make the sacrifices and hear the prayers and feel at long last truly a part of the Chosen People. And now this! Simon would give anything to be anywhere else, but he was stuck, he couldn’t move backward and he certainly didn’t want to move forward, right into the path of the soldiers. The face of the young man carrying the crossbar was so close he could hear the ragged breathing, see the blood and sweat and dirt running down his cheeks. He tripped over cobblestone and went down right in front of Simon, close enough to hear the crack of the knee smacking the pavement. The young man loses his balance, the heavy wooden bar pulls him over to one side and Simon could see the long, bleeding whip marks on his back. And a Roman hand grabbed him roughly, and shoved him into the road, saying, “Here, you! Carry the bar! Come on, step lively now!” and stunned with the speed with which all this happened there he was, just another Jerusalem pilgrim, walking up the cobbled road behind a condemned criminal with a 4x6 across his shoulders and stilll without a clue what was going on and wishing he was anywhere else. “How can I be so unlucky,” Simon thought. “Why didn’t I go the other way?”