Simon retells the story of the day he carried Jesus� cross to his sons, Rufus and Alexander��
� There I was, minding my own business - not getting involved - it had nothing to do with me and yet�..there I was, summoned out of the crowd, forced to get involved. Finding it was my business ��when they lifted a rough-hewn cross on my shoulder.
I don�t mind telling you, it was heavy. I wished I was home in Cyrene. In fact, I wished I was anywhere but where I was, and yet�.there I was. Something deep within me said, this man whom they were to crucify was special. He was different yes, but no criminal, surely. And when he struggled to his feet only to be whipped again, his gaze spoke simply of gratitude.
I can�t describe the look on his face. In the midst of his pain, it was as though he looked right through me - and liked what he saw. In an instant, he had both searched me and known me.
Something within me wanted to cry out, �He�s innocent. Can�t you see? Stop this madness and let him go free!� Just then, the soldier�s whip came crashing down across my straining shoulders. Did they know what I was thinking? Or were their thoughts echoed in mine?
At times, I carried his cross. At times, I dragged it. At times, I thought it might crush me- and yet�It was then I would catch sight of his face, and encouraged, set off again.
How long did I carry the cross of wood? I really cannot say. For on the way, the going seemed to take forever. Yet, in my memory it seems that, for a while, time stood still. His cross was mine to bear, but my pain, my suffering, he seemed to share in a way I can�t explain. And when we reached Golgotha�s Hill and my burden I laid down, I saw in his eyes both pain and love. And I wondered how they dared destroy this man who�d done no wrong.
There I stood, no longer on the outside, indifferent, looking on - but on the inside, involved and unable to right this terrible wrong. And later, as he looked down at me, all at once I knew I had done all I could do - and that was sufficient for him. �