Simon of Cyrene makes only a brief appearance in the Passion narrative – he is the one who is forced to carry the cross of Jesus to the site of execution when Jesus is unable to do so, weakened as he is from the beating he has endured at the hands of the soldiers. We know the names of his sons from Mark’s Gospel. It is traditionally thought that Alexander and Rufus became missionaries – that they’re mentioned by Mark because they were known to the Early Christian community at Rome. It’s also been suggested that the Rufus mentioned by Paul in Romans 16:13 is the son of Simon of Cyrene. Some also connect Simon himself with the “men of Cyrene” who preached the Gospel to the Greeks in Acts 11:20. The reason for mentioning this is that I have assumed that Simon came from a religious background and that he went on to become a follower of Jesus – that this encounter was the catalyst for it. He may have even stayed in the city for Pentecost and experienced the Holy Spirit there. With this in mind, let’s hear Simon’s story as he looks back on that momentous day.
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I was in Jerusalem for the great Passover festival. I went there every year with my family and a number of others who were part of the Jewish community in Cyrene, by the coast of North Africa. That year was the first time my sons Alexander and Rufus were old enough to join us – it was a journey which took nearly two weeks, so it wasn’t for everyone – first we’d travel by a Roman ship from Apollonia, across the Great Sea, travelling for a few days through the choppy waters, before we finally made land in Palestine. We arrived, exhausted, at the Port of Caesarea Maritima, and rest a day before making the trip across land up to Jerusalem – another 4 days along the dusty road. We weren’t alone though – when we arrived at the port, there were quite a few other pilgrims who were making the journey, so we became quite a large group on that road. My sons loved that – they made friends with other boys and we hardly saw them over those days as we walked up to Jerusalem. Being part of a crowd was exhilarating. We’d talk, swap travel stories, and sing hymns, especially those songs of ascent in the Psalms – songs that have been sung by our forebears for hundreds of years, when the pilgrims were approaching Solomon’s temple. Songs of hope, songs of yearning, songs of deliverance, proclaiming “Our help is in the name of the Lord, the Maker of heaven and earth.”
It’s incredible how relevant those ancient words are for now. Oppressed Israel, under the heavy hand of the Romans, is waiting for deliverance, for redemption. We need his help. Well, as we were approaching the city, talk was spreading that this redemption might be at hand. Just a few days before, crowds had gathered to welcome a teacher from the north. They’d laid their cloaks on the road before him and waved palms, singing “Hosanna! Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord!” This was the coming king. Well, you could imagine the ripple of excitement that went through us pilgrims. Though we were so weary from our travels, there was a spring in our step – we’d chosen the right time to be coming to Jerusalem – we might even witness the deliverance of Israel taking place, and see the Romans put in their place.
We found some lodgings a few miles from Jerusalem on the Thursday night. We then had enough time to walk into the city of Jerusalem early on Friday morning and see the temple before finding the bits and pieces we’d need for the Passover meal we’d share in that evening as the Sabbath began. We got up before dawn. No one could wait to get to Jerusalem, we were so excited! As we got closer to the city, my sons were getting visibly more excited. Herod’s temple was the stuff of legend, after all – a wonder of gleaming white and gold that you had to see to believe. I remember my first time of seeing that. It’s not one you forget – and I was so excited about seeing my boys’ first reactions – to see their wonder.
While I was thinking about this, I became aware of a clamour in the distance. A sort of procession – or at least that’s what I thought at first. When I came nearer, however I could see the glint of Roman armour reflected in the sunlight – and I could hear the sound of agitation – of weeping even. I felt the tug of someone pulling on my sleeve and looked down. “What’s happening, dad?” Rufus asked? I shook my head. “I don’t know for sure, son, but I think there’s an execution or something going on.”
Seeing the fear etched on Rufus’ face, I put my arm around him, wishing I could find the words to comfort him and that I could protect him and Alexander from getting caught up in whatever was going on ahead of us.
As we were walking closer to the city it became clearer that our paths would cross with the execution party, if that’s what it was. Crucifixion is the chosen method of execution in this empire – for slaves and enemies at any rate. They put their victims on these crosses by roads and junctions to put people off rebelling against Rome. I looked ahead and saw one such victim being led to the execution site – he appeared to be staggering under the weight of a crossbeam. He’d make a couple of steps then collapse. When we got closer, I gasped – he had been savagely beaten. And, horrifically, some sort of crown of thorns had been forced upon his head. A crown – of thorns – like he was some sort of king being mocked – I thought about the king who’d been welcomed into the city just a few days before. It couldn’t be, could it?
I wanted to try and get away and stop my boys from seeing such a terrible sight. As I was turning towards them, trying to get them to look away, I heard a thud and the soldiers shouting at him, presumably telling him to get up. Then they shouted again. To my horror, I realised they were shouting at me.
“Hey, you!”
“Me?”
“Yes, you. Come here.”
I had no choice. I stepped forward to where this man was sprawled on the ground, underneath that crossbeam. Only then did I appreciate the horror of the torture that had been inflicted upon him. He looked barely human. He looked barely alive. How could they do this? What evil lurks in the hearts of men!
One of the soldiers addressed me again.
“This man cannot go any further. You will carry the cross for him.”
“But – ” I started to protest, but realised that there was no point in arguing.
The ropes that had been bound to this man’s arms were untied from the crossbeam and he collapsed on the ground. I leant down to pick it up. As I did, I looked into the eyes of the man. He held my gaze and amidst the tumult that surrounded us there was a sense of stillness and even peace.
“Thank you,” he whispered, “I could use the help. Sorry you’re being dragged into this.” and managed a half smile.
“Get moving, now.” The soldier barked. “This way,” and he motioned to a bare rocky outcrop that looked remarkably like a skull. It wasn’t far away but the man was so weak, presumably from the beating he’d taken. I picked up the cross, hefting its weight onto my shoulder – it was heavy, and I could understand why this man, who had been so severely beaten, wasn’t able to carry it far. I found myself walking beside this man who was being shoved along by the soldiers who were impatient to get their job done. I looked around at the crowd surrounding us – though the soldiers were making sure no one could get too close, i could see a mixture of religious leaders in their flowing robes who looked pleased with themselves, some people who were clearly curious to see what was going on for their entertainment, then there were others who were clearly upset, women who were weeping, wanting to be as close to this man as possible. This wasn’t your typical criminal – there was something different about him – and the most remarkable thing of all that though so much was raging around him, he remained still, calm, silent. I was amazed – after all he was going through.
“This is the place. Stop here.” The soldier commanded. “You can go now.”
I was relieved to put the cross down. I wanted to say something to the man, some words of comfort – or anything really, but didn’t have the chance – as soon as I had put down the cross, soldiers swarmed around him and I was pushed away. Then I realised with a start that I didn’t know where any of my family were – were they ok? I turned to look around, desperately hoping they were ok. Then, “Simon! Simon!” I heard my wife’s voice – and saw her, and my two boys standing withthem-werushedtowardseachotherandembraced. The boys looked ashen faced and their eyes were red; they’d been crying. “Are you ok, boys? I’m so sorry you had to see that.”
“We were so worried about you. Are you ok?” my wife asked, “What a terrible thing to be asked to do!”
“I’m fine,” I replied. Not like the poor man whose cross I had carried. I heard a cry of pain and the noise of banging and as I turned back, saw the cross being raised with this man nailed to it. It was then that I saw the sign above his head. “Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews”. It was the same man who’d been welcomed into the city a few days before. Well, those in power were making sure he was paying for this claim. There’s only one king, they say, in Rome. I then looked at the man on that cross and was astonished when he met my gaze. He was clearly in agony – but despite this, he wasn’t cursing. He didn’t even look angry! His look was one of compassion – and, extraordinary as it is to say, one of gratitude to me, because I bore the cross for him.
That moment changed everything for me. I knew that there was something different about him. That though he’d been beaten to within an inch of his life and his body was physically broken, he was unbowed, undefeated. Those around him were hurling insults, saying vile things, but he stayed silent. Dignified. In control. He didn’t look like it, but the notice above his head told the truth. He was the King.He carried a real sense of authority. As I stood there, I remembered those ancient songs of deliverance and hope we’d been singing on the way to Jerusalem. Somehow, though I couldn’t understand it, though circumstances seemed to be defying them, I knew somehow the songs of hope were being fulfilled.
“Israel, put your hope in the Lord, for with the Lord is unfailing love and with him is full redemption. He himself will redeem Israel from all their sins.” (Psalm 130:7-8)
I bore the cross for Jesus that day. I had no choice in the matter. But I know now he bore it for me. And so, I will willingly carry my cross every day of my life.
Halwill Publishing 