"Personalities of the Passion -- Simon, the Cyrene, 'I Carried His Cross!'"

Simon of Cyrene is an individual who only gets a short line in Scripture, Mark 15: 21, and only Mark mentions him.

From what we can gather, Simon was a faithful Jew from the area of Cyrene in northern Africa. He was the father of two sons, Rufus (Red) and Alexander. By the way that Mark refers to Simon, he seems to have been a familiar figure in the Jewish community.

Some speculate that he may have been black, but with a son, whose name is “Red” (Rufus), we might tend to think otherwise.

His residence in Cyrene leads one to believe that he was one of the Jews of the “Diaspora”, those scattered from Jerusalem during the exile that began some 500 years before Jesus. He had come to Jerusalem with thousands of others to celebrate the Passover, the main feast of Judaism, recalling the freeing of the Israelites from Egyptian rule. Such a pilgrimage was required by the law for all Jewish males.

As we listen to his testimony tonight, let us remember that Simon and his sons were Jews, not Christians. We also remember that we know the whole story of Jesus but they had never heard it.

To hear Simon tell his story I created this “e-mail”.

To: Rufus of Cyrene (thered@yahoo.com)
CC: Alexander of Cyrene (alex7381@hotmail.com)
From: Simon of Cyrene (papasimon@aol.com)
Time: Friday, the Passover, 33 a.d.; 1:42 p.m. (local time)

Subject: I carried Jesus’ cross

Boys,

Things haven’t gone so smoothly on this trip. As you know, I got started late yesterday. So, by the time I got here I was plenty behind. With the crowds of people I was having a hard time finding lodging.

Then, of all things, I got into a traffic jam. I was not far from the place outside Jerusalem called "Golgotha" because it looks like a skull. I could see a large mob of people and what looked like a parade. I pushed my way through the crowds, elbowing and pushing until I was right at the curb. All I could see was a man trying to carry a cross. He had been badly beaten. I’ve seen badly beaten in my life – you remember the stories that young Samuel kid there in Cyrene. Well this made that beating look like a little spanking.

It was all he could do to carry the cross. He was bleeding. The thin toga he wore kept slipping around and tearing open the scabs on his wounds. He must have been terribly dehydrated. He eyes were lifeless and blank. It looked like he had fallen before now. There was no way he could make it up to Golgotha.

I noticed an acquaintance from a previous trip, Ananias, a Pharisee. I asked him what was happening.

He said, “This man thinks he is the Son of God.”

That made me so mad, that I shouted and shook my hand, "YOU BLASPHEMER!"

Ananias also said, "He calls himself the King of the Jews." I couldn't control myself. In my anger I shouted, “YOU TRAITOR! YOU HYPOCRITE! YOU'RE GETTING EXACTLY WHAT YOU DESERVE ...."

I was just about out of my head when Jesus fell, right there in front of me. One of the Roman soldiers reached out and grabbed my arm. He said, “You carry this Cross.”

I wasn’t about to carry no cross, especially the cross of a blasphemer. First off, I was late. I didn’t have a place to stay. I was stuck in this miserable traffic jam. I didn’t have time. Moreover, as far as I’m concerned a convicted criminal should carry his own cross.

But, under the circumstances, I had no choice. So, with anger, impatience and many other emotions all worked up, I bent over to pick up the cross.

Boys, this was the magic moment. As I stooped, I touched him. And some of his blood blotted over onto my skin. I don't know if I’m crazy or what, but I immediately remembered how our ancestors put the blood of the lamb on their doorways and the children of the Israelites were spared.
Not only that. As I bent, our faces came within inches. I saw his eyes. I will never forget what I saw there. I saw that he was not a violent man. I saw that he had heard my insults just a few moments earlier. Oh, how sorry I am for that now. Yet his eyes seemed to say, “God has forgiven you because you don’t know what you did.”

His eyes forced love to flow from them. It was like light from a flame. It penetrated me and made me feel like I counted. It made me forget myself. No longer did I remember that I had a hurried schedule. No longer did I have something else to take care of. Nothing else mattered. Somehow I felt like I was surrounded by love. It’s funny. It was like being in the presence of God himself! I wish I were an artist so I could paint a picture of that love in his eyes. It was so priceless.

Sons, something else happened while I carried that cross. I got a taste of his suffering and pain. And I got a taste of his loneliness and humiliation. That cross was heavy. It cut my flesh. I struggled to breathe under its weight. But I didn’t have to be crucified on it.

As I walked I heard the insults, I felt the hostility of the crowd. I got pelted with rocks, and even spat upon. And the loneliness, he was all alone. If he had any friends, they had deserted him to watch from the fringes of the crowd. I couldn’t see anyone offering encouragement.

But here is what is important. It was like I was a “scapegoat”; you know the lamb we sacrifice in Judaism for the sins all.

I was a stand in to carry his cross. And he was going to become a stand in for me with his innocent suffering and death. Those people, yelling the insults, were killing him for their own sins. While I carried that cross I knew this was no game. This was for real. No doubt, God was at work here. I was in the presence of God. Jesus blood was that of the Passover lamb.

Right now they are nailing him to the cross. The crowds are still in an uproar. He is being mocked and beaten some more. And still in his eyes, I see love. Jesus must be more than a carpenter.

Something is changing in me. I’m feeling like a different person having looked into his eyes. Like I said, I’ll tell you more when I get home. And, from the looks of things, by the time I get done here and get back to Cyrene there will be a lot more to tell ….

TTYL (That's "talk to you later")

Dad