Carrying the Cross
Imagine the scene:
a throng of people, zigzagging like ants
across the landscape of dusty Judea,
all ears perked to the man in the middle—
that Jesus fellow with his knack for parables
and a reputation for turning water into wine.
But on this particular sunbaked afternoon,
he wasn\'t spinning tales of mustard seeds
or lost coins. No, he was onto something heavier,
the weight of his words like a timber hitched
to every listener\'s back,
a carpenter\'s cryptic nod to future events.
What did they think? Those followers
whose sandals were coated with the fine powder
of their journey. Did they envision splinters,
the rough grain against their skin,
as they tried to puzzle out
the metaphor of lumber and life?
He wanted them to know
there is a tariff on the road to enlightenment—
a cost that goes beyond dropping coins
into the outstretched hands of beggars
or whispering prayers in the dim candlelight.
You see, it isn\'t enough to applaud from the wayside,
waving banners of admiration for his charity work
while sipping on a cool drink.
We must lace up our sandals, hoist our beams,
and walk—no, not just walk, but stride,
as one does with purpose,
laying down the timbers of truth and kindness
wherever we might find a stretch of barren land.
So there they were, considering his proposition,
as Jesus, who I imagine never one to complain
about the daily grind, never caught muttering to himself
in some olive grove about the unfairness of it all,
simply showed the way.
Maybe some shuffled awkwardly,
eyeing the expanse before them
and the beckoning comfort of the roadside inns.
Yet others, perhaps, squared their shoulders,
embracing the splintered gift of his words,
and stepped forward into the uncertain terrain
where actions carve a deeper groove than sermons,
where the true shape of faith
is the shadow of a cross, sharp and elongated
in the dying light of a setting sun.