I first saw this rendering of Jesus bearing the cross from a
distance. I was on a side road outside Princeton, New Jersey. It was about
sunset and looking across a field of tall grass I told my friend, “I think I
see a cross over there.” Squinting I could only see the shadow of a crossbeam
and a figure who seemed to be carrying a cross. Several times I drove down that
road and always looked for the cross. Later, back of the Trinity Episcopal
Church on Mercer Street in Princeton I stopped and stared. It was the
sculptured piece I had seen in that field. Someone had moved the large
rendering to the back of that church. A metal Jesus carried a wooden cross and
the outstretched arm called all who saw to come and follow. I spent many
summers on the Seminary campus there—and I always looked forward to my visit
behind that church.
When we come to this Second Station of the Cross—the rigged
trial is over. Soldiers dragged him
away and beat him and left his naked back in shreds. Crowds followed and spat
and yelled out their hatreds. This was the setting for the prisoner Jesus to
take the heavy wooden cross- beam and carry it to his place of execution.
What does this second stopping-off place mean? I think it
means that here Jesus is one with us and one with all those through the years
who have borne pain, suffering and injustice. He was one with the daughters of
Jerusalem and all those other daughters who have carried their crosses of
abuse, derision, divorce and destitution. He is one with whoever it is that has
ever walked their own way of sorrows. Saying goodbye to children or other loved
ones with cancer, suicide, drug overdoses, depression or the terrible
Alzheimer’s. He is one with us all—this man of sorrows acquainted with grief.
Does he beckon us forward, too? To do something besides sing
our hymns and read our creeds and go through the motions. To bear our own
crosses—but more—perhaps he calls us to do something about all that pain up and
down our streets and over in that run-down neighborhood and in that heartbreak
just two doors away. To find some way to study war no more. To give those
little children in Iraq or Afghanistan or Africa who have known nothing but
fear and loss and hunger all their lives a hope they have never known.
This second station is our station. It goes to the heart of
a very troubled world. And he who came and lived and died—stands with us still.
How—I do not know. But it is always an unfinished business. And that
outstretched arm still bids us to come.
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