Carrying the Cross

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.