A Journey with Jesus to the Cross and Beyond
by Tricia McCary Rhodes
DAY TWENTY -- Via Dolorosa
When we look at his cross, we understand his love.
His head is bent down to kiss us. His hands are extended to embrace us.
His heart is wide open to receive us.
Mother Teresa
Reflect
Come in deep reverence to spend time in God's presence today. Gently open your heart -- see yourself taking off your shoes to enter the holy of holies where God will speak to your own heart.
Read the following verses as a prayer back to Christ
He is the image of the invisible God, the firstborn of all creation. For by Him all things were created, both in the heavens and on earth, visible and invisible, whether thrones or dominions or rulers or authorities-- all things have been created through Him and for Him. He is before all things, and in Him all things hold together.
Colossians 1:15-17
Ponder these realities about the exalted Lord, as you encounter this same Jesus on the Via Dolorosa -- the way of suffering -- today.
Read
They took Jesus therefore; and He went out, bearing His own cross . . .
John 19:17
Conducting crucifixions during Passover is no easy task in this city whose population swells every year at this time with tens of thousands of worshipping pilgrims. The road is narrow, making the soldier's job of clearing the streets for the procession nigh impossible. The jostling about causes Jesus to grimace, strength waning with each step.
The other two prisoners, much stronger for not having been beaten or scourged, are pressed ahead of him. Still, Jesus must stop often. Feet bloodied from the rocks strewn along the path, he can scarcely catch his breath through the agony of searing pain. Fever infuses his flesh. He lurches forward. Dazed and almost delirious, his broken body finally collapses face down in the dirt.
Arms askew, the crossbeam lands heavily on his shoulders, pinning him to the ground. To those whose curiosity compels them to watch the pitiful scene, it appears he may have died. Word passes up the line and the centurion halts the procession. Hurrying back to the place where Jesus lays, he surveys the crowd.
"You there -- yes you. Come here."
Simon, a large man from Cyrene in North Africa, steps back, hoping they don't mean him. Having just come in from the country to take his sons to the temple, he tries to turn and be on his way.
"You -- I said you -- come take this stake and carry it to Golgotha."
With these words an ordinary father, a preoccupied pilgrim is pressed into service for the Savior of the world. Does wrath at Rome's invasion of privacy burn within him? Does he feel for his fellow Jew who's been treated with such cruelty? Does he have any idea how this single event will impact history? Will Passover ever be the same for Simon, the Cyrene?
Soldiers untie the beam from Jesus' wrists and pass it to Simon. Fearful that the prisoner will die before the official execution, the captain of the guard leans down to pull Jesus gently to his feet. Staggering, he opens his eyes.
A distant sound breaks through the stillness that has surrounded the scene at Jerusalem's gates. As the group moves out, it grows louder. The earsplitting noise is chilling -- women with no self-control, weeping and wailing for the one who cannot carry his own cross.
Who are they? Professional mourners, given the task of lamenting the death of any and all who face crucifixion? Women whose husbands once left them behind to join the radical rabbi's movement? Friends of the victim's mother, Mary? Or women who perhaps not long ago found compassion in the eyes of this one now condemned to death?
When the procession draws near the mournful dirge, Jesus stops and looks into the crowd. A tear runs from one blue-black eye down his face. From deep within he summons a strange stamina and speaks with the authority of a prophet.
"Daughters of Jerusalem, don't weep for me. Weep for yourselves and for your children."
The crowd is hushed, tear-stained faces bewildered at Jesus' sudden burst of energy. He continues.
"A time is coming when you will believe that it is a blessed thing to be barren, to never have had children in this evil world."
The women murmur among themselves. What is he saying? Empty wombs are the curse of Jewish women. How could that ever be a blessing?
Scanning their faces, Jesus goes on. "You will beg the mountains to fall and crush you and the hills to cover you completely. For if these things happen to a green tree, what will happen to those that are dry?"
Soldiers weave through the crowd, trying to break it up as they press the prisoner forward. What a strange man. A few seconds ago, battered and broken, he collapsed under his own crossbeam. Now he stands strong, admonishing the crowd with words none of them seem to understand.
Even in the throes of agony, Jesus seems compelled to warn men and women of the wrath to come. What kind of yearning fills his heart? Does he see those who will reject his offer of salvation, even after he has paid such a price? Does he feel for some who mourn now, but will never truly repent? In this moment, does he intercede to the Father for ones such as these?
And the march moves on. Jesus, who for one brief moment forgot his pain, winces again with every step. As they pass through a nondescript neighborhood, people watch the spectacle from their rooftops, calling out their own opinions of his innocence or guilt. Pharisees with their phylacteries containing the sacred words of Scripture flank the procession on either side. And the living Word of God moves outside city gates, with only a hill left to climb.
Respond
Place yourself in the street of Jerusalem that day. When Jesus falls, would you gladly carry his cross? Would your heart break with the women? What would you do as He passes by? Wipe his face with a cool cloth? Offer him a drink of pure water? Look into his pain-wracked eyes and tell him you are sorry he suffers so?
Spend some time contemplating this, then offer your response to Him. Try to tell Him how you feel this moment, and what you would do to change things if you could.
A Prayer
Oh God, I am a woman mourning today. I want to wail at what they have done to you, to weep gut-wrenching sobs over your mutilated back and pummeled face. I want to stop the whole thing and make it go away. I want to have never been the reason for your journey down Via Dolorosa. How foolish the thought. For I have sinned and it is the weight of this -- not a wooden beam -- that hurls you to the ground. I mourn, for what else can I do?
<< Back to the Daily Devotionals, Home or Unsubscribe