The heat was murder.  Simon was from Cyrene, at the northern tip of Africa, so he was well acquainted with incredibly hot days and nights, but today was something else. The sun’s rays were scorching - he felt as though he were being cooked. The dirt roads were baked and cracked. His robes were unbearable to be in and he was constantly fighting the urge to undress. Maybe it would help if there weren’t so many people around. Large crowds were milling about. Bodies were pressed up against each other, huddled in hushed conversation. The people seemed frantic and agitated. A sea of unhappy and sweaty faces. It was unlike anything Simon had ever seen. Heatstroke; he concluded to himself, the people were all turning mad from heatstroke. They needed rest, shade, some space and a cool drink, Simon mused as he passed a particularly large group of women who stood in a circle talking passionately in a language he only partially knew.

These were not Simon’s people; it was not his language they spoke, the streets he walked down were not the streets he was familiar with. Simon had travelled a long way from his home in Cyrene and had finally entered the ancient city of Jerusalem. As he jostled and bumped his way past the mass of humanity that was around him, he drew the occasional stare of a stranger. His skin betrayed his identity, that he was not a Jew, not one of them. His dark skin versus their olive – he was different and he felt alone. He had traveled many miles, and still had many miles to go, but in this heat, with their stares, each step felt impossible to take. Each step took him further away from his home. Each step took him further away from those who he loved; his wife, his two boys. He missed them so much that it ached. Suddenly, he stopped.

He felt pressed from all sides by the crowd as they moved past him, but he didn’t care. He needed to just stop, at least for a second. He sighed as he tilted his head back and looked at the impossibly bright sky. He squinted and shielded his eyes from the sun – protecting his face from both it’s piercing light and searing heat. On a hot day like this back home, his boys would be playing outside in the street. They would only come inside if one of them hurt the other, or if they were in big trouble and needed their father’s protection, or if their mother demanded it. He smiled as he saw them all in his mind’s eye.

Simon’s memories were interrupted as he was suddenly shoved forwards – a man with a large beard and dressed in religious robes had pushed him as he hurriedly walked down the road, seemingly in the opposite direction of the rest of the crowd. Simon looked at him disapprovingly as he continued to push others out of his way. Just as Simon was wondering what in the world was wrong with that man, the crowd began to grow louder and the sea of people began to part. Simon couldn’t really understand what the crowds were shouting, but there was a name that stood out in its clarity, and it seemed to be on everyone’s lips: ‘Jesus’.

Simon found himself in the middle of a clearing as people continued to rush towards either side of the road. It was as if the people were preparing for a royal procession, creating a path down the middle of the road, but their faces didn’t show anticipation or excitement at the prospect of meeting a royal, or someone famous. No, their faces showed anger and disgust. As Simon walked toward the left side of the road to join the rest of the crowd in clearing a path, he saw in the distance why the people seemed to be so unhappy. A column of Roman soldiers were leading the parade and behind them there were men in tattered clothing. Men who were carrying large logs of wood. Simon knew what this was, he had seen it before: this was a crucifixion march.

The Romans had taken over his home as well. They had stormed in and oppressed his people. Roman rule and law had become his people’s fate by force. Those who broke Roman law were threatened with the worst death imaginable: crucifixion. On Simon’s journey, he had already witnessed tens of people crucified and hung up on the side of the major roads. They were examples of Rome’s power, examples of what happened to those who did not obey. The law demanded blood. It was sickening. Simon knew, of course, that some of these men deserved death, that they had committed horrible crimes. But to die like this – literally suffocating from pain and exhaustion, naked, on show for the world to see – it was barbaric. It was one of many reasons Simon hated the Romans, and one of many reasons he knew these Jews hated the Romans also. No wonder the crowds were so agitated. No wonder anger and disgust were on their faces. The Romans were crucifying today. And yet, there was something Simon couldn’t explain. The crowd continued to chant and chatter this name, the name of this ‘Jesus’.

Simon saw that the soldiers and the condemned men were getting closer, only a few meters away now. He would have to wait for them to pass before he could resume his journey. Simon felt some anxiety as he saw the soldiers. He knew he hadn’t done anything wrong, but the Romans made him feel uneasy. He turned his eyes towards the criminals, they looked pitiful and wretched, men doomed to die. Their eyes were dim and blank, they shouldered their crosses with little defiance, it was almost as if they knew they deserved this. Before Simon knew it, the soldiers and the criminals had passed. He breathed a sigh of relief and attempted to move out of the way, to resume his journey. But the crowds were resolutely staying still. The shouting of the crowd was intensifying and growing louder. They were jeering and hissing. He did not understand, the Romans had passed, why are they still so agitated, why aren’t they moving?

Simon suddenly understood as a stooped, elderly woman next to him shrieked at the top of her voice, “Jesus”, and pointed with a frail finger further up the road, at another man and an accompanying Roman soldier who were dawdling behind the main procession. Simon couldn’t help but gasp as he made out the sight of the man. He was hunched at the weight of the large log on his back. Each step he took was seemingly agonizing and difficult. He was unsteady, as if he were drunk. His clothes stuck to him, not from sweat, but from blood. His clothes were entirely drenched with blood from head to toe, and even from a distance, Simon could see the large gashes over his body where the blood was seeping from and where this man’s clothes stuck in. As this man came closer, Simon began to make out his face; it was mangled beyond belief. His eyes could barely open against all the swelling and bruising. On top of his head was a wreath of the largest thorns Simon had ever seen. Some thorns stuck out, other thorns were buried deep in this man’s scalp. Blood trailed down his face from where the thorns had sunk in. His breathing was ragged and shallow, his mouth wide open to suck in the air: Simon could see that many teeth were missing. His beard and hair were clumped with sweat and caked with dried blood. The Roman soldier behind him was shouting at him and kicked him and the cross on his back to make him move faster. This man was only feet away now and the crowd’s shouting was deafening.

Simon felt sick as he saw many members of the crowd, men, women and children, spitting at this pitiful human being. The people angrily shouted and jeered. They appeared to delight in this man’s torture. Simon suddenly realized that it was this man who was the reason for such a crowd to assemble. It was this man who was the source of all the people’s agitation. This man was Jesus.

Simon looked with horror as this ‘Jesus’ came closer. Words of hate and disgust that Simon could not understand washed over him and towards Jesus. More people spat at him, some laughed as they did. Simon looked at this man and he wondered what on earth could this Jesus have done to warrant such hatred and punishment? In that moment, Jesus stopped, a mere step or two away from Simon and looked up at him, before he collapsed onto the dry and dusty road. The wooden cross fell on top of his broken body as he lay gasping for air. Simon watched this pitiful sight silently as some around him began to laugh and jeer. The Roman soldier appeared furious, he shouted at Jesus and kicked him, clearly urging him to stand. Jesus simply lay there, the cross still atop him. The soldier kicked at the cross, and still Jesus lay. This embarrassing scene was clearly more than this Roman soldier could bear; he looked at the crowd around him until his eyes rested on Simon.

Simon felt his stomach turn violently as the soldier strode towards him and grabbed him by his cloak and flung him towards the condemned man. Simon stumbled and nearly fell on top of Jesus as the Roman soldier shouted at him in yet another foreign tongue. The soldier pointed at the log of wood and pointed at Simon – his meaning was clear; he wanted Simon to carry it.

For one absurd moment, Simon was about to refuse or at least attempt to protest. This wasn’t fair. It wasn’t his cross to bear. He didn’t deserve to die. He wasn’t the one who broke the law. He wasn’t a criminal. He definitely didn’t want to be confused as one. And what if they arrived at the crucifixion site and they mistook him as another criminal and hung him up too? He was terrified and outraged. He was confused and helpless. He looked at the enraged Roman soldier, saw that he had his hand on the hilt of his sword, and saw that he was commanding Simon to carry the cross. All arguments left Simon’s lips and he found himself stooping to pick up the rugged log on the ground.

He wrapped his arms around it and lifted the cross off of Jesus, feeling the rough surface bury splinters into his skin as he struggled with the immense weight. He propped the cross up and laid it over his shoulder, he was prepared to drag it through the streets of Jerusalem and see-out this nightmare that he found himself in. The soldier turned his attention back to Jesus, shouting at him to stand up. Simon looked at this despised human being on the ground and his pity gave way to annoyance. Anyone would understand his frustration, Simon thought to himself. This criminal has roped him into participating in this humiliating and horrid act. He was an innocent man that was forced to carry this disgusting and heavy object through the streets on behalf of this criminal. Simon impatiently watched Jesus struggle to his feet and be pushed ahead of him by the Roman soldier. Jesus stumbled, but instead of continuing to walk on ahead, he turned slowly and walked back toward Simon. He walked back to the cross. Jesus stooped and wrapped his arm around the cross and Simon’s arm as he bore the weight of the cross with Simon. Jesus looked into Simon’s eyes again. It was impossible to understand what was behind Jesus’ gaze, what his eye contact meant, but Simon felt…something… Who is this man who willingly takes back up the cross on which he’ll die, Simon wondered?

The soldier ordered them to march, so they began to walk forward again. The pace was slow, the weight was immense and the heat was unbearable, but Simon hardly noticed as he kept finding himself stealing glances at this Jesus. His wounds were monstrous up close and his agony was palpable. What did this man do, Simon found himself asking again and again. The crowds passed them by, their vile words hurt and humiliated Simon, even though he knew they were directed at Jesus. The soldier would not let up on Jesus; he continued to push him and kick him forwards. Simon looked back at him as he gave the cross a particularly violent kick that sent both him and Jesus staggering. If Simon wasn’t wrong, he saw a hint of fear in the soldier’s eyes. The soldier was looking at the large crowds and was trying to rush Jesus through them. The soldier was afraid of the crowds, afraid of the people, he had clearly never seen the Jews in such a state. Simon looked at Jesus again. Who was this man who was outcast by even His own people and threatened riots by His mere presence?

The soldier kicked at Jesus again, and Jesus fell hard onto the ground. Some people yet again took this opportunity to surround Jesus and spit at him, taunting him while he was on the ground. But a group of women rushed in. They were wailing and screaming. They picked at Jesus and attempted to tend to his wounds. Jesus’ mockers were pushed back into the crowd as the women tended to Jesus. Jesus again slowly stood to his feet as the Roman soldier stepped in and began to push the women and the crowd as a whole backwards. Jesus looked at the women and spoke. Simon could not understand what he said, but Jesus’ words were spoken with great authority and conviction, and also with great tenderness (Luke 23:28-31). Simon saw the faces of the women change from grief to stunned silence and the crowd around the women who heard Jesus speak also fell silent. Simon and Jesus were again ushered forward by their Roman escort and as they walked on, Simon heard wailing resume from behind him. Simon looked at Jesus again; who is this man that speaks with such power, even in his time of suffering?

Ahead, Simon saw the other criminals and soldiers pass through the gates of Jerusalem, out of the city, and realized that this is also where they were headed. He looked at Jesus who was resolutely staring at the destination.  An eternity or mere minutes passed before Simon found himself walking through Jerusalem’s gates, which he had recently done, but heading in the opposite direction. The crowds were thinner now; they seemed to cluster on top of a nearby hill, which ominously looked like the top of a skull.

They reached the foot of the hill together. Simon was drenched in sweat and found himself gasping for air. His back ached as he saw the other criminals led up the hill with their crosses and forced down by the soldiers at the summit. He looked at the bloodied man next to him who was destined for the same. This man they called Jesus was at the point of collapse again but instead of stopping, he sidled closer to Simon and wordlessly, Jesus took the full weight of the cross on his shoulders. Simon suddenly felt free from the weight of the heavy log and of the agonizing pain in his back. Simon straightened up and stepped out from under the cross as he watched this man slowly but deliberately walk up the hill. Simon turned and saw the Roman soldier approaching from behind. For one brief second, Simon thought he would be grabbed again. He thought he would be forced to take the cross to the hilltop and pictured himself being thrown to the ground and placed on the rugged frame. But instead, the soldier ignored Simon, striding past him towards Jesus and pushing him from behind. Simon was free, he had no obligation to stay, no reason to be subject to anymore pain, ridicule or hatred. Despite this, Simon found himself transfixed, watching this Jesus carry his cross up this hill, alone. Who was this man?