You grew up coming to Jerusalem every year, and spent many days running around with your friends while your parents were taking care of the sacrifices and obligations. These streets were familiar. Jerusalem was little changed, even though you hadn't been down these paths for years.
Most of the people were near the temple. The back ways were empty. You rush down one alley, then turn to another. For a second you think are lost. No, there is the turn you were expecting, right by the old oil salesman who always yelled at you and your friends. His stall is closed. He is gone now.
You make one more turn and see you are not the only one who
thought of getting ahead of the gruesome procession.
Three women stand in front of you by the road, and one young man. He is watchful, nervous. The women are crying, holding each other in their arms. They are waiting.
You stand behind them, feeling like you are interrupting, yet wanting also to share your pain with them. The young man sees you, recognizes you, and nods hello. He was one of Jesus' followers. You never saw them away from each other. You look at him and look at the women again.
"His mother," he said, gesturing to the shorter of the three women, older than the others, though not by much. They don't notice you, and keep their eyes on the small road.
You can hear the crowd before you see anything. It is tight between the houses, so all the people are cramming onto this road. Children come running by first, excited by the scene, not knowing the reasons behind it. Then a Roman centurion, on a horse, looking straight, expressionless. This is just a job for him. You stare as he goes by. He does not look your way.
More people walk by, some wealthy men and women, some poor. The crowd becomes thicker, the air filled with loud voices. Birds which had been singing and chirping stop, likely wondering at the procession.
There he is. The guards turn the corner coming your direction twenty feet away now. You see him surrounded by the Romans, who seem intent on keeping the crowd under control, and continuing to abuse their prisoner.
Jesus labors under the weight of the cross. His face is covered again in blood. His old robes are soaked and stained. He stumbles along, each step a miracle of its own. The women next to you scream at the sight. Jesus hears them and recognizes the sound of their cries. He raises his head, finding some reserve of strength to hold the beam a little higher on his shoulders.
You look at him, seeing him closely for the first time in
days. His nose is crooked, broken at some point in the last hour. You can not see all
his wounds, covered as they are by his robes. What you can see is
heartbreaking. How could he stand, let alone walk? The crowd continues on,
a soldier pushes you back out of the way. You fall against the wall.
Mary reaches out to her son. The Romans don't see her at first. Jesus pauses, turns to her, a faint smile grows on his face. His eyes sparkle, even with all the pain. John steps in front of a guard, causing a distraction, giving a moment between mother and son. The guards become rough with John, though that is the point.
She stands next to Jesus, her hand caressing his cheek, looking into his eyes. No words are passed between the two, though much is said. You wonder what it was like to know Jesus as a child. Did he do miracles for his friends? Was he wise even when young? Did he ever disobey or cause problems? What it must have been like to know him. You wonder if you would have been impressed with a five year old Jesus. When did he know?
The Romans have lost their patience, an officer yells
something. John is struck by a guard, then another. He falls to the ground next
to you. Jesus is pushed, then Mary. She falls to the ground. He
stumbles. The guards hit him, forcing him on. He refuses to take
another step. Somehow he balances the beam on his shoulder, and lets one
arm down. Mary takes it. He lifts her up, squeezes her hand, whispers a
word in her ear. She smiles, then begins to cry. Jesus
turns to the soldiers, looks them in the eye, and without
another word begins walking. Whatever passed in that look held
power, the soldiers do not touch Mary any more. They walk by, silent, with
awe.
You hope he will look at you. He doesn't. His steps gain a new fervor, his reservoir of strength renewed with his mother's touch. He is intent, just as much as the soldiers.
The crowd continues on. You help John to his feet, shake the dust off, and wipe the blood from the cut over his eye. Mary watches the crowd and continues to weep. The other two women hold her. You turn, hoping to catch the procession again ahead, hoping for some kind of word from Jesus. This couldn't be it. Not like this. Something was going to happen.
You run back down the alleys. Your tears are replaced by expectation, because you are positive you saw resolve in Jesus. Everything else in your life is forgotten, only he remains. If all this is being done for you, then you will be ready to do whatever Jesus asks in return.
Jesus most suffering, if, by my sins, I caused you pain and anguish in the past, by God's assisting grace it shall be so no more; rather you be my love from now until death.
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