Quite as if by a strange twist of fate, the Roman soldiers pointed to me, Simon of Cyrene, innocent passerby, disaffected by all these. They pointed to me to help the condemned man carry his cross when it seemed to them as if he might die from the weight of carrying it. And thus, rob them of the final act of nailing him to it in the hills of Golgotha. And then putting over his head the sign to tell the world how he was the King of the Jews.
But even I could not help seeing how it would have been impossible for him to die before his appointed hour. Look at him, covered just like so with blood. His wounds gaping from all over him. And yet, how he holds up his head. How peaceful he seems with his predicament. As if he knows with a certainty that everything will turn out as foretold. As every Jew here knows. What they will tell you in a whisper if you should ever ask.
They are waiting for it. Waiting to see if he will turn away from what had been prophesied. But even now, they might have guessed from looking at him how he was going to take this event down to its final end. And then, we might get over our fear of Romans and Pharisees, might come to believe, in the inevitable course of all these.
I am not, myself, concerned with these things. I leave to god the things that are god’s. The things that are Caesar’s I leave to Caesar; as once I heard he had suggested. I am only watching all these from a distance. And when the mob screamed for him to be crucified, I only wondered if they were right. And all for the crime of thinking he was god. And was he, really?
Of that we none of us could be sure. We only heard talk of how he healed lepers and those possessed of the devil, how he turned water into wine and made the blind to see. And now if he could also heal the blindness of this mob who screamed for his death. It should logically follow. Except that it had been foretold how he would have to die. And so a paradox.
If he was god, then neither Romans or Pharisees could kill him. Would not the angels themselves come down from the heavens to save him? But since it had been foretold how the Son of God would die. Then his death will seem to prove it.
I am, myself, confused by all these. It is not for me to determine these things. I came only to watch. Only to watch, expecting nothing, expecting especially not to be surprised by anything that transpires here. And then the soldiers pointed to me. And since no Jew such as I could ever say no to the Romans without risking the possibility of death, I complied.
They should not fear this man will die before his appointed time, as I said earlier. He has blood all over him, flesh and bones showing from his gaping wounds. If he was an ordinary man he would have been dead by now. That much I know.
He looks straight into my eyes, his eyes telling me to just do as the Romans ask. His eyes telling me how everything will turn out well in the end.
No guarantee, he will not die. Instead, the certain guarantee that is exactly what would transpire in due time.
So now, I carry his cross. Soon, the Romans will see how strong he remains despite the beatings and all they do to him. Soon, they will see how wrong they were for thinking he will die along the way to the hill. They will return the cross to him.
I, myself, wonder if the Romans should take a course in carrying crosses. It does not seem too heavy for me. Indeed, it feels like it floats on its own. Almost as if, the condemned man is still carrying it for me from where he walks, a bit behind me, his hands bound, his seemingly endless blood laying behind him black footprints that others, if they would, to follow.