Behind the Cross

 

We trudge in silence through the muddy, dewy grass of the park. For this stretch of the walk, a wee boy enthusiastically joins his mum and another woman as they hoist the heavy wooden beam of the cross onto their shoulders and lead the way.

I notice that in his most exuberant moments, the boy’s ‘help’ sometimes drags the beam downwards, sometimes steers it slightly off-course. It doesn’t matter; the cross arrives at the next appointed pause point, the wise mum and her fellow-cross-bearer gently recalibrating whenever necessary without dampening the lad’s eagerness.

I can be that wee boy. Maybe I always am, but Jesus gently guides me back on track. Lovingly. Like the young mum moving steadily along the path, he may not look back at me in reproach. Unless I persist in my waywardness, he won’t even whisper a reprimand. Instead, he will steadily, mercifully continue to move forward, aware that my heart is still with him, even if my mind or actions have faltered.

We pause to hear a reading, and workmen refurbishing the church hall continue with their electric saws. A young man in white overalls stares at this small group of believers. The youngest rides in a pram; the eldest leans on a cane. Onward goes the pilgrim band.

We cross a street, beginning to hum with the traffic of a busy Friday morning. The coo of a pigeon; the trill of a song-bird; the jarring beat of hip-hop blaring from a passing car: the modern world moves into a holiday weekend unaware of the reason why it is a holiday. The natural world continues to adhere to the laws of physics set in place by the one whose death is remembered by the carrying of the cross. Life goes on.

Life goes on, as it would have on that first Friday, when these events were all too real for Jesus. What did he think of as he trudged beneath the weight of his cross, through the narrow streets of Jerusalem as they awoke to the trade and commerce of a normal working day? Did he even notice as humanity swirled around him, people glancing with irritation or indifference at his bloodied figure as he headed to Golgotha?

He always knew it would end like this. He never allowed his disciples to recalibrate him, to adjust his destination. ‘No!’ Peter had objected when he’d told them about his coming crucifixion. ‘Never!’ ‘Get behind me, Satan,’ Jesus had retorted. He knew where he was going, and why. It was his destiny.

A destiny born of love. A love that thought of his mother and friends in the midst of his agony. A love that pressed on through pain to ask forgiveness for the executioners, to promise everlasting life to his fellow victim of Roman justice. Of religious zeal.

A love that will not let me go.

So grateful.