The Gospel According to Simon: One Man’s Silent Sermon

 There was a man. Just a regular man. Not a preacher. Not a prophet. Just a man who had a dream one night.

In the dream, he found himself standing in a wide, open room. The air was still—the light, soft. And in the center of the room stretched a table so long he couldn’t see the end of it. On that table were thousands of crosses—some made of rough wood, some polished like furniture, some gleaming gold, silver, or even pearl—every size, shape, and texture you could imagine.

And standing beside the table was Jesus.

He didn’t speak. He just looked at the man, then slowly gestured toward the crosses—like He was permitting him to choose one.

So the man stepped forward and reached for a cross that shimmered like gold. It was smooth, flawless, and expensive. But the moment he picked it up, a strange heaviness settled in his chest—not on his shoulders, but inside him. A profound sorrow.

He turned to Jesus.
“Whose cross is this?”
Jesus replied, “That one belongs to the wealthy businessman in your town—the one who smiles big but sleeps alone. His son hasn’t spoken to him in a decade.”

The man gently put it back.

Next, he picked up a steel cross—solid and sharp-edged. It looked strong. Dependable.
“Whose is this one?”
Jesus said, “It belongs to a veteran. A soldier who came home with wounds no one can see. He still jumps at loud noises. And he still dreams of deserts.”

Then the man paused. He looked across the table, scanning for something easier. Surely not all of them were heavy. That’s when he spotted a smaller one—delicate, smooth, made of pearl. That one looked light.

He reached for it and asked,
“Whose is this?”
Jesus answered softly, “That one belongs to a young mother. She clutches it every night while her baby fights for breath and she wonders how to stretch what’s left in the pantry.”

One by one, the man picked them up. And each time, he asked the same question. And each time, the answer sank deeper than the last.

Finally, overwhelmed, he looked at Jesus and asked,
“Isn’t there… any other cross I could carry?”

Jesus nodded.
“There is one more. But it’s heavier than all of these. It’s the one only My disciples carry.”

What Kind of Cross Would You Choose?

Have you ever thought about that?

What kind of cross would you pick if you had the chance?

We say it all the time—“It’s just my cross to bear.” But let’s be honest, somewhere along the way, that phrase lost its edge. These days, it’s more of a sigh than a surrender. A polite way of saying, “life’s hard, what can you do?”

But carrying the cross wasn’t meant to be a metaphor. It was never intended to be a poetic way of describing hardship.

The cross was a death sentence. Blood-soaked. Shame-drenched. A tool designed to break you completely - to kill you.

If the cross doesn’t cost you something—everything—then it isn’t a cross at all.

We’ve turned crosses into decorations—metal charms on necklaces, icons on walls, bumper stickers on back windows.

Let’s face it: crosses are easy to turn into art or jewelry. Just two straight lines that intersect. The simplicity of the design belies the meaning it was meant to carry.

Somewhere along the line, carrying the cross moved from a costly call to a fashion accessory.

But there was one man—only one in all of history—who explained the real meaning of carrying a cross better than anyone else besides Jesus Himself.

And he never said a word.

Just a Man from the Country

He was just a man. A bystander. A pilgrim from the countryside, probably in town for Passover.

His name was Simon. Simon of Cyrene.

And on the day that Jesus could barely take another step, Roman soldiers grabbed Simon from the crowd and forced him to carry the cross. Not a replica. Not a stylized symbol. The cross.

And here’s the detail Luke gives us—Simon carried it behind Jesus (Luke 23:26).

That image says more than most sermons ever will.

Because Jesus had already described that scene long before that moment ever happened:

“If anyone wants to follow Me, let him deny himself, take up his cross daily, and follow Me.” (Luke 9:23)

Simon did that—literally.

And without saying a single word, he gave us the clearest picture of discipleship in the Gospels.

What Does it Mean to Carry the Cross of Jesus Today?

Well, it probably doesn’t mean what we’ve made it into.

Most of us don’t want to sacrifice. If we’re honest, we don’t even want discomfort. We want our bills paid early and our coffee hot and now. We want our prayers answered quickly, cleanly, and with a yes. But carrying the cross? That’s something else.

Carrying the cross doesn’t look like comfort.
It looks like death.
Period.

Not necessarily the kind of death that ends your heartbeat within the next three hours.

After all, if every Christian who picked up a cross literally dropped dead like Jesus did within the next three hours, there wouldn’t be a single one of us left to live Christ-like.

But make no mistake about it—carrying the cross ends your life.
It doesn’t necessarily end it all at once.
It does immediately stop you from living it for yourself.

To follow Jesus means to walk in His footsteps—and His footsteps led toward death. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t try to negotiate a softer version of obedience. He didn’t look for a shortcut. To follow Him requires the same thing from us.

Now here’s where we’ve got to be careful.

I don’t want to present the idea that carrying the cross is some kind of negotiating strategy—where you suffer down here for a while so you can cash in on the rewards of heaven later. That’s not the gospel.

We’re not playing Let’s Make a Deal with God.

No, the beauty of carrying the cross isn’t in what you’ll get for it—it’s in who you’ll come to know through it.

The cross isn’t a transaction.
It’s a transformation.

And Simon knew something about that.

He only carried the cross for a short time. We don’t know precisely how long, but it probably wasn’t more than an hour. Just long enough to walk from wherever the soldiers grabbed him to the hill where Jesus would die.

And yet, that short walk changed everything.

We’re told in Mark’s Gospel that Simon was “the father of Alexander and Rufus” (Mark 15:21)—a minor detail that only makes sense if Mark’s audience knew those names. If they were still around. If they were part of the community. If the cross their father carried changed the whole trajectory of their family.

Think about that.

Simon carried the cross for maybe an hour.
However, his sons continued to carry the cross for generations.

Simon preached the Gospel better than any of us. And here we are, two thousand years later, still listening to that sermon.