Author’s Note: This is the manuscript from the sermon I delivered at our church’s Good Friday service on March 29, 2024.

It would be difficult to describe the atmosphere in and around Jerusalem the first day of the Passover celebration. Normally, the city was home to between 20 and 50K residents, but three times per year, that number ballooned as an estimated 100K – 250K pilgrims descended on the city en masse. Of these three annual celebrations, Passover was by far the largest. The streets were crammed with people. Shopkeepers and street vendors hustled and hollered to make a year’s worth of sales in just a few days. Religious and political leaders paraded about, and the military maintained an imposing watch over it all. It was all absolutely electric.

Jews who lived close enough to Jerusalem were expected to attend this feast every year, but for those who lived farther away, it was a once-in-a-lifetime aspiration to attend this feast. By the time we encounter them in Mark 15:21, Simon and his sons Alexander and Rufus had traveled from Cyrene, known today as Tripoli, Libya, all the way to Jerusalem. As the crow flies, that is a journey of nearly 1,300 miles. Since they did not have cars or airplanes in the first century, it meant traveling either for weeks by boat or months on foot. We might equate it to an Iowan visiting Disney World or New York City. Between the distance and the expense, there could be little doubt that this was a once-in-a-lifetime visit.

One can imagine, then, the excitement and wonderment as this father and his sons approached the city that Friday morning. When I was a kid, whenever we went to Grandma’s house, we would strain to be the first to see the water tower, the town, and then Grandma’s house. For Simon and his boys, this was even more exciting. Their eyes were wide, their heads spinning to take it all in.

There was the magnificent temple, not even complete and already one of the wonders of the ancient world, towering over it all. There was the sea of people, all different colors and speaking dozens of different languages. And there was the…

Following Jesus means turning around.

Soldier shouting. The crowd parted suddenly, and Simon found himself face-to-face with a uniformed member of the Roman garrison. And he was shouting, spit spraying from his mouth. And pointing. At Simon? Yes, at Simon. And now, he was grabbing Simon by the arm and dragging him to the center of the gap in the crowd. Simon’s eyes darted from face to face, trying to discern what was happening. There were the helmeted faces of Roman soldiers, the twisted faces of two bruised and battered men bound and carrying large timbers. And then, he almost tripped over the third prisoner, who quivered as he struggled to regain his feet.

The soldier was shouting again, and pointing, and at once, Simon knew what was going on. This third prisoner was far more brutalized than the others. Naked except for a few shreds of cloth, chunks of his flesh were missing, and others were dangling upon ribbons of skin. He was covered in blood that still trickled from his wounds, and as he lifted his head, the man was so weak his eyes rolled about in his head. Simon had seen crucifixions before, but this was extraordinary. In such situations, when a crucifixion victim was too weak to carry the 40-pound horizontal bar for their cross, soldiers were allowed to draft someone from the crowd to carry it for them. Simon was that man.

For a heartbeat, he considered protesting. After all, he and his boys were on their way into town to visit the temple. He had planned to admire some of the architecture, catch some of the teachings, and watch some of the offerings. He needed to get to the temple. He wanted to get to the temple. Yet, this crucifixion detail was heading in completely the opposite direction. Who knew how long it would take? And he really wasn’t keen on the idea of his sons witnessing the gruesome specter of a crucifixion.

Of course, before he could even open his mouth, the pointing soldier lost his patience. He  seized Simon’s arm and threw him down. The two nearest soldiers were able to leap clear of Simon’s flailing legs, but that third prisoner never had a chance. He crumpled and fell like a load of firewood upon Simon.

Simon scrambled to extricate himself from the condemned man. He had no desire to be near this criminal, much less touching him. Even as he struggled, though, his ear somehow came near the convict’s mouth, and in that instant, the man breathed something. Perhaps it was Simon’s imagination. Perhaps it was just a grunt or other involuntary vocalization. Yet, he could have sworn he heard this man say, “Thank you, Simon.”

Suddenly, he realized who this was. He was no mere convict. He was the teacher Simon had seen in the temple courts, the one everyone was talking about. But that man was from Galilee. How could he know Simon’s name?

Finally, Simon managed to free himself from the tangle of arms and legs and right himself. His mind was racing. If this really was Jesus, and he really did know Simon’s name, then everything he had heard must be true. He had to be the Messiah!

Suddenly, the temple didn’t seem nearly so important. Simon’s plans and desires no longer mattered. The only thing that mattered was following Jesus, wherever that took him.

Following Jesus means carrying a cross.

Even as this realization dawned on him, though, the guard was yelling again and waving his arms for Simon and Jesus to get up so the procession could continue. Thus, Simon rose and helped Jesus gently back to his feet. As he did, their eyes met and locked for an instant. There, Simon saw pain and sorrow, to be certain, but also resolve and hope. It was as if Jesus was reassuring him that it really was okay.

And so, slowly, Simon’s gaze shifted to the patibulum. Ordinarily, prisoners condemned to crucifixion carried this, the horizontal beam of the cross, to their own execution in a sick demonstration of the Romans’ absolute control: they could make you carry the instrument of your own death. The timber was about six feet long and weighed, Simon guessed, about 40 pounds. As far as loads were concerned, it was far from the heaviest Simon had ever carried. Yet, there was no doubt in his mind that it was the greatest burden he would ever bear.

You see, the cross was covered in blood. The beam’s grain was so saturated with the blood of its past victims that it was nearly black in color, and Jesus’ fresh blood, still wet, glistened in the morning sun which streamed between the buildings. It struck him as strange that this man’s blood should be upon a cross. From everything he had heard and seen, he had done nothing wrong, and yet, there it was.

Sadly, Simon stooped and slid his fingers under the thing. It was rough, as firewood split by an axe, and as he adjusted his hands to properly balance it before lifting, he felt a splinter pierce his hand. Simon winced but then realized how insignificant this was compared to what Jesus was about to endure.

Someone told him the other day that Jesus once said something about people needing to pick up their own cross daily in order to follow him. Simon had thought at the time it was a ridiculous thing to say. No one in their right mind would pick up a cross. It would mean surrendering one’s life. That loathsome timber embodied all that was wrong with the world. Oppression. Violence. Sin.

Yet, it struck him different now. Jesus’ message had brought so much hope to those who heard him. Lives had been irrevocably changed for the better by his power. Thus, picking up and carrying that cross meant picking up where Jesus left off, doing the things Jesus began, carrying on Jesus’ mission to bring good news to the poor and broken sinners of the world.

Following Jesus means creating a legacy.

And so he did. Simon hefted the cross and carried it silently, just behind Jesus, through the streets of Jerusalem, past the city gate, to the Place of the Skull, Golgotha, where the soldier finally allowed him to drop his burden and shoved him out of the way. As the crowd enveloped him, though, Simon could only stand there in shock. His hands and tunic were stained with blood. Jesus’ blood. And Simon knew he would never be the same.

The temple no longer mattered. Those teachings and sacrifices were irrelevant. Even home was not nearly as important as it had been a lifetime before. Yes, a lifetime. He was a new creation, given new life, and he had to keep carrying that cross for Jesus, to keep living and sharing Jesus’ message of hope and holiness.

And as his boys abruptly appeared out of the crowd and cried, “Dad!” he knew where he needed to start. He knelt down to their height and hugged them both tightly, thanking God that they were unharmed. For a long while, he simply held them, burying their heads in his shoulder as the nails were driven into Christ’s hands and feet. Then, as he heard the guards grunting with the exertion of lifting Jesus onto the cross, Simon rose and turned with his boys.

“Alexander, Rufus,” he said, “look. The Lamb of God!”

From that moment, everything was different. Simon gave himself wholly to sharing that message with everyone he could, and when they were old enough, his boys picked up that cross and carried it, too. It’s tough to say what a difference they made because Simon all but disappeared into the mists of history. Yet, years later, in Romans 16:13, the apostle Paul made a point to greet Rufus and Rufus’ mom, whom Paul also claimed as his own spiritual mother. We have no idea where Simon was by that time, but Simon’s legacy of faith and ministry lived on in his children, the eminent apostle, the churches that were planted as a result, and ultimately in us. And it all went back to that moment when Simon picked up Jesus’ cross and carried it for awhile.

In Mark 8:34, Jesus told the crowd, “If anyone wants to follow after me, let him deny himself, take up his cross, and follow me.” My friends, make no mistake. Carrying our crosses will mean giving up our plans and desires to follow Jesus. It will mean taking up a burden greater than we can ever imagine and carrying on with the mission of bringing good news to the poor and broken sinners of this world. And it will mean leaving a legacy of changed lives that will echo across history. So, what do you say? The cross is right there. Will you carry it awhile?