The people around you are obscene. Where did they come from? What is this hate? Jesus never hurt anyone. The man showed love, taught wisdom. He didn’t ask for anything, didn’t demand that we give him money, or something else. Except... your lives.
Jesus made sense, you have no better way of saying it than
that. Even the hard things, they
made sense. He revealed all that
you loved about God, teaching truths you knew were there, but somehow had lost.
It was like he washed 
away
all the dirt, cleaned off the accumulated grime, and pointed you all back to the
essence. Being around him made you
feel like you were with Moses in the wilderness, when it all started, when all
the people could see God, hear his voice. Back when things were new and vibrant.
The people had trouble listening then, too.
Now, you follow behind a new prophet, maybe something more, who is being
killed, destroyed, because of what he has said, because of who he is.
His steps begin to falter. Simon, looking down as he walks, bumps into his back,
knocking Jesus to the side. The
soldiers push Simon forward, past Jesus. You
see the blood stains on his shirt, left from the brief contact.
He strains under the weight.
Jesus leans against the wall, unable to move, barely able
to breathe. A soldier shoves him
forward, blood from the gashes on his scalp drip into his eyes. He can’t see and
walks into the wall, stumbling forward. He
lifts his arm, tries to wipe off the blood and grime.
He is too weak. His arms shake as
he tries, they collapse, he stumbles again, the guards push once more. Simon
still is walking, wanting to finish his part, now fifteen feet ahead.
A man next to you throws a rock, hitting Jesus in the
stomach, doubling him over. You
turn, shove the man, the guards see the rock and see you hitting the man. They grab him and throw him to the ground. You they just
push aside. One of them kicks the
man on the ground, another goes and gets the rock, bringing it back, dropping it.
They curse at him. You step away, towards Jesus.
The smell of his blood is thick in the air
Two guards notice Simon continuing, they run up and yell, ordering him to stop. The others are busy arresting the stone thrower, arranging for his later punishment. They do not notice the woman who runs up the street, her hair covered, her clothes showing she is a woman of wealth.
“Jesus,” she yells, running to him. “Jesus!”
She falls at his feet, holding his legs. He cannot see, but he places his shaky hand on her head, holding it there a moment. Time seems to stop for you. All the noise disappears in this instance of beauty. She looks up and realizes he is blinded.
In a burst of movement she pulls off her beautifully embroidered shawl, folds it in her hands and gently wipes his face, almost caressing the wounds. She folds it again, and wipes his eyes. Someone behind you hands over a small chalice of water, offering it to the woman.
She dips the cloth in, rinsing it, then washes out Jesus’ eyes once more, cleaning the wounds on his head and wiping the grime off his cheek. He winces sharply when she touches his nose. Then smiles, again, that pure smile, his eyes regaining a glow. All his strength is gone, the man is dying before your own eyes, and yet that power of his remains. You see the strength, even in his death, pointing to something beyond.
This is not wasted. All of this is expected by him. He is struggling, that is certain, but there is no doubt, no confusion, no regret.
Simon has stopped. The guards are still yelling at him and the crowd.
Other guards return, one apparently has been sent off with the new prisoner, a warning to the rest of you to keep out of the way.
The woman steps back, no longer weeping, feeling the comfort of being able to do something, anything. Jesus stands up, looks around, looks at you. Your eyes lock, something stirs in your soul, something wonderful, something terrible.
You feel lost and found in the same instant, completely captured by this bloodied man in front of you. He gives a wan smile, releasing you once more. It feels like your soul has fallen from the heights, and now quivers inside. He turns and walks again, keeping his left hand on the wall. The soldiers let him stumble along, offering no more than the occasional insult. You walk with them, with no other choice, the crowd pushing you forward, your own soul keeping you going.
The procession continues. All this, he said, done for you. What does that mean? What does any of this mean?
ConsiderationMy tender Jesus, who accepted the gift Veronica brought, doing what she could in service to you, accept also my worship, weak and poor as it is. It is all I have to offer, and it is all that you ask. If I had more, I would give more, for you have given your all for me.
