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Imagine, heading out one morning from your home in the country to do some business or visit a friend in Jerusalem. You hear the sound of an agitated crowd up ahead -- wailing, shouting, mocking, weeping, arguing. You see a man carrying what looks at first like a large pole. As you get nearer, you see that his face is badly beaten and bloodied. His beard has been pulled out. His garments are clinging to him from the dampness of the blood on his body. You can now see that what he's carrying is a wooden cross, a Roman instrument of torture.
Your first thought is, "I wonder what he did, poor guy. Maybe robbed someone." But there's something about him that makes you stop and stare. You've never seen a face like his before. His eyes reveal profound sadness, but they also have a light and depth that sends a shiver through you. These eyes appear to have seen all of time.
The sad eyes suddenly turn, and look directly at you. The man is weary, shattered with pain. Someone in the crowd (perhaps a Roman soldier) notices that the condemned man's eyes are on you. You are a strong man -- possibly a farmer, but certainly someone who appears accustomed to heavy labor. The person in the crowd motions to some men nearby. The next thing you know, you've been pulled off the road and asked to carry the man's cross for him. You're told he's on his way to Golgotha, a hill outside Jerusalem. You recognize this dreadful name. You once passed by the place not realizing what it was, and the screams filled your nightmares for many weeks.
You begin to protest. "I don't know this man," you say. "Why me?" As the words "Why me?" leave your lips, the man's gaze meets yours again, and you are struck numb with guilt at the apparent irony of your words. He has fallen to his knees. A Roman soldier kicks him. A man in holy garb spits on him and calls him an unrepeatable name. A group of stray dogs running nearby begins to look at the scene with unsettling interest. A little boy throws some stones at the condemned man. The boy's parents laugh.
Suddenly something calls to you from inside. You're sure no one has actually spoken your name, "Simon," but you hear it nevertheless. It sounds like a whisper, an echo, a blast of clean air. It pierces you to the core.
You lean down and remove the cross from the man's shoulders and place it on your own. A flood of peace fills you. From this moment on, this man becomes your focus. You don't understand why, but you want to wash the filth and blood from him, to let his head rest on your lap while you speak calming words over him. You want to push everyone else away and rush him to safety. Something deep and ancient has begun to well up inside you, a primordial love.
When you reach Golgotha, the soldiers take the cross from you and begin to place the man upon it. They are not gentle. You shout angrily at them; they sneer.
"What is this man's name?" you ask a woman standing nearby. She looks right at you. "His name is Jesus," she says. "Is she in love with him?" you wonder, by the tone of her voice. Yet she's not the only one whose adoration of him is transparent. Other people are on their knees, sobbing in anguish.
You are about to call out something to him -- "I'm sorry!" is what begins to spring to your throat, although you still don't understand why -- when you see him looking at you once more. He nods slightly. "Thank you, Simon," his eyes say.
You join a group of people on their knees, and begin to weep.
Several days later, you return home to tell your family of the Man whose cross you carried and whose death you witnessed. He is alive again! Jesus, the Messiah. The Man who became your focus that day on the road. He heard your unuttered "I'm sorry!" and washed the filth and blood from you. The only purpose of your life now is to thank Him. In whatever way He asks -- every day -- to thank Him.