02/24/2026
My name is Simon. Not Peter. Not the loud fisherman with opinions. Just Simon. From Cyrene. North Africa. A long way from Jerusalem and an even longer way from volunteering for anything involving Roman soldiers and ex*****on equipment.
I came for Passover. That is what faithful men do. You pack up, you make the journey, you remember how God split the sea and broke the chains and brought your people out with a mighty hand. You think about lambs and blood on doorposts and freedom. You do not think about becoming part of someone else’s sacrifice.
The account is short and almost rude in its simplicity in Gospel of Mark 15:21. They “compelled” me. That word makes it sound polite. It was not polite. A Roman spear handle in your ribs is not a suggestion. I was pulled from the crowd like a man chosen for the worst chore imaginable. Congratulations, sir, you have been selected to assist with today’s crucifixion.
I had two sons with me, Alexander and Rufus. Yes, those Alexander and Rufus mentioned in Mark. Which means people knew us later. Which means this day did not stay private. I still remember the look on their faces. Their father dragged into the middle of a Roman ex*****on parade. Not exactly the kind of memory you frame for the family wall.
The wood was rough and heavy and already stained. I could feel the grain digging into my shoulders. It smelled like sweat and iron and something final. The man ahead of me had already taken more punishment than I had ever seen one person survive. His back was torn open. His steps were unsteady. And yet when I came close enough to see His face, I did not see rage. I did not see panic. I saw something that unsettled me far more.
Purpose.
He looked at me once. Just once. And I have tried my entire life to describe that look. It was not pity. It was not apology. It was not even gratitude in the way we think of it. It was as if He knew exactly what this moment meant and I was the only one who had not read the script.
Understand the irony here. I came to Jerusalem to celebrate the story of a lamb whose blood saved our ancestors. And now I am walking behind a beaten man some were calling the Lamb of God, carrying wood on which He would bleed. If you had told me that morning that I would end the day helping fulfill the very story I had traveled to commemorate, I would have laughed and told you to drink more water.
He fell. That is why they grabbed me. He physically could not go farther. So for a stretch of road that probably lasted minutes but feels like it still echoes in eternity, I carried what was meant for Him.
And here is the part that still humbles me. I thought I was helping a condemned man survive the walk. I did not realize He was helping me survive my life.
Later I heard the rumors. The whispers. The testimonies. That the tomb was empty. That forgiveness was being preached in His name. That this was not a failed rebellion but a rescue mission. My sons heard it too. And when I heard that He carried sin the way I carried that beam, something in me shifted.
For a brief moment I bore His cross.
For all of history He bore my guilt.
Lent has a way of pulling us out of the crowd like that. We think we are spectators. We think we are just attending the religious holiday and minding our own business. And then suddenly we are confronted with the weight of what our sin costs and the weight of what He chose to carry.
I did not volunteer that day. I did not wake up hoping to participate in redemption history. I was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time, at least that is what I thought.
But maybe it was the right place at exactly the right time.
Maybe grace sometimes feels like being drafted.
And maybe the man I thought I was helping was the One who had been carrying me all along.
