The soldiers do not seem to relax once they pass the gates. Simon stumbles through. Jesus stumbles through, his old robes now reveal his wounds underneath. All of the Romans walk tall and tense, their eyes scanning for the ambush they seem to expect. There is none. Supporters of Jesus cry and yell at the Romans, and some even curse the Jewish leaders. No one, however, shows any physical response. We are all utterly cowed.
You stand silent, waiting for the crowd to start moving again. The soldiers push people out of the way, some of whom fall into Simon, and are knocked with the rough piece of wood he is carrying.
Jesus
pauses as well, only moving when nudged by the soldiers. A space
opens, you see a crowd collecting on the hill, the typical people who loved
this sort of thing, and a surprising amount of wealthy men and
women. They apparently want to see this work finished .
It occurs to you that none of the other Twelve are around. Jesus gave them extra attention, meaning, and responsibility. They taught when he didn't, they arranged the crowds, doing anything needing to be done. The story is that one of them, you don't know which, was responsible for this, telling the Temple guards where to find Jesus alone. John was back with Mary and the other women. There are others you who had been like you, following Jesus recently or from a distance. None of those who were close to him seem to be around. You ask the big man next to you.
"They're in trouble too, you know," he said, a provincial accent. Galilean? "The priests have orders out to capture anyone close to Jesus. So, I hear they're all in hiding. Won't hold up, you know. Just today, with all of this, lots of mistakes can be made which can't be fixed. Well... mistakes are being made, terrible mistakes. What are we doing to ourselves? What are we doing to ourselves?"
He looks down, not before you see the tear running down his dirt streaked cheek into his beard. The man turns, and says in a shaky voice, "Excuse me," before retreating back into the crowd. You have your suspicions he knows more.
A cool mountain breeze blows strong, a welcome relief from the hot and oppressive air of the city. The smell stays within the walls. Out here it is Spring, in there... hellish. Birds sing in trees, branches sway in the wind. Why are you noticing these things? It feels wrong. There is no beauty, not right now, not with all this going on.
The crowd surges, and you with it, all moving towards Golgotha. Those wanting to come into the city are blocked by two Romans on horses. No one is going to argue with those animals.
Simon turns off the main road, beginning the path down, then up to the hill. A soldier walks next to him.
Jesus stumbles again and falls against a Roman. His blood stained clothes get caught on the Roman's sword, The man pushes Jesus back, yelling curses in his offensive tongue, showing the other soldiers the blood stains on his once fine, and likely expensive, uniform. He kicks at Jesus, missing him, stumbling back into other soldiers.
Where was the officer?
The other soldiers laugh at the clumsy kick, pushing the man back out. He is furious, at the laughter and at Jesus, and at all the Jews. You know those words he is using, the dirty Roman. He lunges forward towards the slouched Jesus, pulls back his arm and crashes his fist into Jesus' jaw, making him fly off the ground, and into a heap, unmoving. The officer appears throught the crowd and hears what happened, seeing Jesus lying unmoving on the ground. The soldier realizes what he did. An argument takes place, all those around taking this chance to get the Roman in trouble. The officer shoves him aside, glaring, pointing, threatening in words you did not know but could understand.
Jesus lays on the ground unconscious, You try to run to his side. A soldier shoves you and some others back. The officer looks around, to the hill, where it seemed another officer stood waiting. He motions to some soldiers to begin letting the crowd through the gate while this was sorted out.
On the side of the path, in trash and mud, the prophet we had hoped for had fallen, and no one comes to his side. The officer waits, checks to see if Jesus is alive. You see his shoulders rise, breathing. Jesus opens his eyes. One of them at least, the other was now swollen and shut. You don't think he can get up.
Some city officials walk by, looking at the soldiers, then at the dying man in the gutter. A group of priests follow them, replacements for those in the temple. One of them spits on Jesus.
"Blasphemer," another says.
Two scribes come close behind, their writing utensils carried in a bag over their shoulder. Neither one look around, nervous it seems. Their voices hush as they go by. Embarrassed, you could see the red growing in their faces.
More people, all sorts, from all the nations, are going in or coming out. The whole Diaspora was returning this week, all are witnesses to this sacrifice, all of them, all of you. All are watching, all are walking by, eager for their duties at the Temple, to do right according to the Law, even while all this happens. Righteousness, hope, justice... that's what Jerusalem stands for. No more.
"We're all murderers," you yell to no one in particular. The people keep parading through the Temple with their worthless sacrifices.
"Worthless!" you yell.
Anger and
frustration together boils up from you,
you push the soldier in front of you, and try again to get to Jesus.
Strong hands grab your arms and shoulders tossing you back into the crowd,
knocking you and some others to the ground. You, fortunately, are lost
among the people. The soldiers would not have let that go.
They don't see you now. Jesus does. You see him while you lay on the ground, looking through the legs of others. He turns his head, recovering himself again, and looks right at you, staring into your eyes, holding you still with his overwhelming power. He looks in you, unblinking. You feel captured, ashamed, and don't know why. All the weight of your life comes back, all the mistakes you made, everything wrong and everything stupid fills your heart. You want to look away, feeling shame, but you cannot. He won't let you.
The two of you lay on the ground twenty feet apart, staring at each other. Then, with a glint in his eye, something passes over the ground, invisible but potent nevertheless. All the weight, all the memories, are washed away. You feel peace, hope, love, even for the Romans. What is this? You don't know, but somehow you understand. He is in control, full control. And only you and he know it. He let you in on his secret. He's in control. All is well.
You stand to your feet. The Romans have turned their attention to the prisoner, another (a doctor?) leans over him. He tips a jar of some liquid, wine from the looks of it, though likely with some kind of medicine, into Jesus' mouth. Jesus' eyes go wide, he spits out the wine, shaking his head, indicating he wants no more. He says something to the doctor, tells him he is ready to continue. The doctor stands, talks with the officer. Still no one helps Jesus, people keep walking by.
The officer sighs, weary of his duty. He's weary?!
Two beggars, their clothes nothing more than rags, walk out of the crowd and toward Jesus. Together they grab his shoulders, not minding the blood at all, and help him to his feet. They are crying as they do this. Once on his feet, shaky but steady, Jesus grabs the arms of both of the men, whispers something to them, and smiles. The beggars looks incredulous, Jesus nods at their questions. He then walks back onto the path, away from the two men.
You follow, committed to see this until the end. Which is not far away.
And it is foolish to the Greeks because
they believe only what agrees with their own wisdom. So when we preach
that Christ was crucified, the Jews are offended and the Gentiles say it's all
nonsense. But to those called by God to salvation, both Jews and Gentiles,
Christ is the mighty power of God and the wonderful wisdom of God. This
"foolish" plan of God is far wiser than the wisest of human plans, and
God's weakness is far stronger than the greatest of human strength.My Jesus, by all the bitter woes you endured when for the third time you fell to the earth, I beseech you, never let me fall again into sin. Ah, my Jesus, rather let me die than ever offend you again. I weep over my sins, knowing that what you did has saved me from them.
