Boulder On My Back

✢ Anni Ponder Evans ✢

There is an enormous, invisible weight on my back.

It’s a burden I’ve carried for as long as I can remember. Guilt, shame, doubt, unworthiness. Fear, dread, and loathing. It is heavier than I can tell, yet I cannot bring myself to speak of it to anyone. Alone, I bear its weight. Alone, I suffer.

Once, I felt relieved of my burden, but only for a brief while. Yeshua, the mighty Teacher and Healer, called forth a dead man from the grave. I saw Lazarus walk out of the tomb, wrapped in burial cloth. For a blessed moment, when death was reversed, my burden disappeared. The Teacher could do anything!

But it returned that night as I walked home, even as my heart rejoiced over Lazarus’ resurrection. Doomed to suffer, said the weight. Doomed for all eternity.

Last week, as we danced for Yeshua as he rode into the city, I forgot my burden for another precious moment. Caught up in the joy of His Kingdom proclaimed, I twirled and sang, my heart as light as a bird in the heavens. It seemed all would be made right. But that was not to be. He did not proclaim Himself King, and the crowd dispersed. As the world returned to normal, the burden returned.

Today, my Lord has been condemned to die. Unable to believe the terrible news, I rush to the heart of the city. No, it cannot be. It cannot be!

Yeshua, I see You stumbling through the streets of Jerusalem, on the Via Dolorosa, with a cross on Your back. More than just a cross weighs You down, however. I catch a glimpse of Your face, and see the weight of the whole world pressing down on You. What anguish! What grief! What loneliness and despair and suffering. I want to run to You, to ease Your pain, to offer You some comfort. Yet I cannot move through this thick crowd, and so I wait, helpless, watching the horrifying scene creep along. A soldier barks orders at the people, whipping anyone who gets too close. He yells at You, bringing His whip down upon Your bleeding back. Barely taking notice, You stop and gaze into the eyes of the people on the street. You seem to be talking to them, yet no words are exchanged.

Teacher, what are You doing?

Slowly, You make Your way toward me. Each step You take is misery. As You come to where I am standing, I try desperately to help. What can I do? How can I give You any solace, any relief? Instead, You gaze into my eyes and I understand what You have been doing. I know You are aware of my burden. Wordlessly, You entreat me to place it upon You.

“No, my Lord,” I protest. “I do not wish to add to Your suffering.”

But You insist. It is the only way, Your gaze tells me.

And so, hands trembling and eyes weeping, as I watch a soldier slash You with a whip--“Keep it moving, scum,” he yells--I waste no more time.

“Here, my Lord. Take it.”

Silently, You bear up under the weight, steady Yourself, and continue on Your death-march. But again You stop, and again, relieving person after person of their burdens. We follow You, sheep after their Shepherd. What can we do?

I am only vaguely aware that now, free of that horrible weight, my steps are lighter and my breath comes more easily. If it were any other time, any other day, I would rejoice in my new freedom. But today, there is only sorrow.  

The scene continues, but as Your load gets heavier, You cannot stand. Depleted, You fall to the ground, the cross crushing You to the ground. Though the brutes scourge You again and again, You do not move.

Has Yeshua died? No, my Lord! Let it not be!

“You, there!” shouts a soldier, pointing to a tall Black man in the crowd. “What is your name?”

“Simon, sir.”

“Take up this cross and carry it to the Skull!”

Simon gently lifts the crossbeam from Your frame, weeping as he does. A soldier pulls You to Your feet, and onward goes the gruesome procession.

Spellbound, we continue on until finally, we reach the dreaded place where so many have died in agony. Simon casts the cross to the ground. You collapse on top of it. A tear trails down Your bloodied face, and the sight pulls at me in a place deeper than I knew existed. I want to run to You, to wipe Your face, to make them stop hurting You. Instead, all I do is watch as they stretch You out, one limb at a time, and force hideous nails into Your hands and feet, pinning You into place.

The sight is unbearable. There on the ground, fastened to a tree, is my Lord, my gentle, strong Friend. My leader, my hope, my light. Now torn, shredded, bruised, mocked, and defiled. Helpless, yet still so mighty. I wonder at which moment You will rip the nails from Your flesh, rise up from the ground, and unleash Heaven’s fury on Your tormentors. How I will dance and sing for You, my Lord. Only make it soon. I cannot bear to watch them torture You any longer.

While I wait, I let my mind wander back to the first moment we met. You were so bold, so gentle, so completely mesmerizing. I’d been straining to hear You all day. Your words had such a calming, centering effect on me. I could not explain it, but I desperately wanted more. And then, our eyes met--Yours locked onto mine. My breath caught in my throat, and I forgot where I was.

“He is happier about that one sheep than about the 99 that did not wander off,” You were saying. You had caught my attention when You opened that parable with an admonition to respect the children and not look down on them. A lover of children, I have always despised the way they are treated by the religious leaders--with contempt, as if childhood were a disease to be remedied. But You, Lord, took them on Your lap and blessed them. Ah, right then, I knew I would always love You.

And at that moment, as You spoke those words and gazed into my soul, I knew I would follow You to the ends of the earth. I was, of course, the lost sheep in Your story. And You had made it clear that I mattered to You--indeed, I was worthy of rejoicing over when You found me.

A commotion brings me back to the present. They are raising Your cross, now with You nailed to it, ever so slowly. I can see the anguish on Your face. Why, Yeshua, why do You allow this? Surely You can stop it. I’ve seen You conquer death--what are a handful of Roman soldiers to You? Why do You let them do this?

A horrifying sound fills my ears. They have slammed Your cross into place with a crash. The agony this caused You is apparent. Yet You do not cry out. Silent, You bear it all.

Teacher, why?

And now I remember something else You said. “And I, if I be lifted up, will draw all men unto Myself.” So this must be Your plan. You are drawing us all to You. For what purpose, I can dare only to hope. Perhaps once everyone in Jerusalem (even that wretch, Herod) is present, You will fly down from that tree and crown Yourself King of All?

But then I remember my burden, and those of all the people You passed. What are You doing with those? Why did You take them to the cross with You?

There is nothing to do but wait, and watch, and listen. Hours pass, and I can scarcely stand to watch. Why do You not come down, my Lord? Why do You allow this?

And then, darkness. Thick, black, opaque fog surrounds us all. No one can see. Horses scream in fright, men shout, children cry and cling to their mothers. You are silent. I wonder again: will this be the moment? Have You called in a cloak of darkness while You transform Yourself and throw off Your constraints?

I wait, barely daring to breathe.

But hours pass again, and nothing happens.

I remember my burden. How it must be pressing on You.

Finally, You cry out. “Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani?”

God has forsaken You? Why?! What have You done to deserve this? You are the picture of perfect righteousness. Why would the Almighty scorn You?

And then, I understand. My burden. Our burdens. Our sin. Our collective rebellion. You have taken it all upon Yourself, and You are our Passover Lamb.

Of course. It all makes sense now. You are suffering, not because of Yourself, but because of me. That is my burden, my sin, my punishment. My cross.

I rush forward, groping my way through, until I am Your feet.

“My Lord,” I cry out, wrapping my arms around the base of the cross. “My Lord, forgive me. Forgive me, and thank You. With all my heart, thank You.”

I am vaguely aware of the rough hands prying me away, but I can only cling more tightly. “Yeshua, blessed are You!” I cry, as they wrench me free and throw me to the ground.

The fog has dissipated now, and I see Your beautiful face once again. Your eyes are turned toward Heaven, and You heave Yourself upward. With a loud voice, you cry out,

“It is finished!”

And then, You slump down. You have given up Your spirit. You are gone.

I look around, to see if anyone else has noticed what this means. Our Teacher has taken our sin to the grave on our behalf, and we are cleansed for all time.

But oh! What a cost! What a terrible, terrible price You paid for us today.

Teacher, Master, Lover of my Soul, I am Yours. No matter what happens, my life is completely Yours. Only show me what to do.

✢ Anni Ponder Evans ✢