Close Enough: The Untold Story of Simon of Cyrene

There are some people in Scripture who speak loudly. People like Paul, John, and David.

And then there are others who barely speak at all. But somehow, their silence seems to resonate just as deeply. This Easter, I can’t stop thinking about one of them.

A man pulled from the crowd.

A name mentioned only in passing.

A moment that lasted minutes but has changed everything for me.

Simon of Cyrene.

Full disclosure: the Gospel writers don’t give us much. Just a few lines.

They forced a man coming in from the country to carry the cross. He was Simon of Cyrene, the father of Alexander and Rufus.

Mark 15:21

That’s it.

No backstory. No recorded words. No explanation of what he felt. No follow-up afterwards. Just a man interrupted.

I can’t explain it, but I have been obsessing over those two sentences for weeks. I read it over and over until I started seeing hints that Simon’s story didn’t end there.

Mark, writing with the influence of Peter, makes a point to name Simon’s sons, Alexander and Rufus. Seems like an unusual addition for such a brief recorded moment. Kind of like, “I just received the package I’ve been waiting on. It was delivered by a mailman named Bob, the brother of Adam and Mike.” The only reason I can think of that Mark would’ve included that was because his original audience would have recognized those names. As if to say, “you know this family.”

And later, Paul writes:

Greet Rufus, chosen in the Lord, and his mother, who has been a mother to me, too.

Romans 16:13, emphasis mine

Rufus. The same name. (I understand there was probably more than one Rufus in the world, but go with me here.)

That little thread made me wonder…what happened on that road to Calvary?

Here’s what we know for sure about Simon: he was from Cyrene, a city in Northern Africa. A man from far away. A foreigner in Jerusalem. Possibly darker-skinned than the others in the crowd. And when the Roman soldiers needed someone—anyone—to carry the cross, they chose him.

Not because he volunteered. Because he was available. Different. There.

Can you image the moment?

The chaos. The shouting. The heat pressing in. A man beaten beyond recognition, stumbling under the weight of a crossbeam. Bloodied. Barley able to stand. And suddenly, you’re grabbed. Faced forward. No time to process. No explanation. No choice. Just, “Carry it.”

Simon steps in behind Jesus. And for a stretch of that road to Golgotha, he walks where Jesus was supposed to walk, carrying what Jesus was supposed to carry.

Close enough to see everything.

Close enough to feel the chaos pressing in from every side—the crowd surging, bodies colliding, voices layered over one another, some shouting, some mocking, some weeping but powerless to stop it.

Close enough to feel the heat of the day sitting heavy on his skin, sweat mixing with the dust rising from the ground, clinging to everything—his face, his arms, the blood on Jesus’s back.

Close enough to hear it—the sharp, relentless commands of Roman soldiers, the crack of movement through the crowd, the uneven, labored breathing just in front of him. Breath that sounded like it might give out at any moment.

Close enough to see the details no one would ever forget—the torn flesh, the bruising already darkening, the way Jesus’s body gave under the weight before Simon ever touched the wood.

And then suddenly, the weight is on him.

Rough. Splintered. Unforgiving.

Pressing into his shoulders. Digging into his skin. Forcing his body forward whether he’s ready or not. Step by step. Breath by breath.

Behind a man who’s bleeding.

Behind a man who’s stumbling.

Behind a man who is somehow still moving forward.

Close enough to wonder why.

Close enough to feel that this isn’t just another execution. That something about this moment is different. Heavier. Holier, even in its brutality.

And when they finally reach Golgotha, I don’t think Simon just walked away. Scripture doesn’t tell us. But I can’t imagine carrying that cross—feeling that weight, seeing that suffering—and then turning back before the end.

I think he stayed.

I think he stood there somewhere in the crowd, chest still heaving, shoulders still aching, watching as the wood he carried was thrown to the ground. Watching as they stretched Jesus out onto it. Hearing the hammer strike.

One.

Twice.

Again.

Each blow louder than the last. Each one landing somewhere deeper than just the wood.

I think he saw the nails driven through hands that had done nothing but heal. Through feet that had only ever walked in obedience.

I think he watched them lift the cross—the same cross he had carried—and drop it into the ground. And I wonder if, in that moment, it hit him:

That was supposed to be me.

We know that the severe beatings Jesus received left Him near death before He ever made it up that hill. The soldiers had one job: get Him to the cross alive. If He collapsed before reaching Golgotha, their orders would fail. So maybe they made Simon carry the cross not as mercy, but as strategy. Just to keep Jesus alive long enough to be killed.

Many people use this moment to further illustrate Jesus’s explanation of what it means to be a disciple:

“Whoever wants to be My disciple must deny themselves and take up their cross and follow Me.”

Matthew 16:24

Maybe. I’m definitely not saying they’re wrong! But God has been pressing some what ifs into my heart. The kind of what ifs that don’t change the truth of the Gospel, but deepen the way you feel it. I just can’t shake this thought:

What if Simon didn’t just carry the wood? What if he was actually carrying the shame?

The cross was never just a piece of lumber. It was a symbol of humiliation, punishment, and guilt. It was the cruelest form of execution the Roman government could think of. It was meant to display a man’s crimes for the world to see.

But Jesus had no crime. No guilt. No shame. No sin. What if Jesus didn’t have a cross to carry, because He didn’t have shame to bear?

What if Simon, for that stretch of road, carried the physical weight, the visible burden, the symbol of sin and disgrace, and then Jesus took the place Simon couldn’t?

The nails.

The punishment.

The death.

The Great Exchange.

Not just at the cross, but on the road to it.

Simon carried what represented our sin, and Jesus absorbed what our sin deserves.

I have to wonder…what does that do to a man? To be forced into that moment. To walk that closely with suffering. To carry the very thing that would soon carry a Savior.

Because I refuse to believe Simon of Cyrene just went back to normal life after that. I refuse to believe he carried the cross of Christ and then simply rode off into the sunset.

No. You don’t walk that road and stay the same.

Scripture gives us another small clue. In Acts, we’re told that people from Cyrene were present at Pentecost (Acts 2:10). Later, in Acts 11, we read about an unnamed believer from Cyrene who went to Antioch—preaching not just to Jews, but boldly to Gentiles. This wasn’t the standard missionary journey of the early church. It was different—risky, unconventional, Spirit-led. And their message spread, growing the church and changing lives for the glory of Jesus. We’re not told what this disciple’s name was, but I (once again) can’t help but wonder…

What if that was Simon?

What if the man who once carried the cross chose a life where his name no longer mattered? What if everything after that day became about the One who died for him?

Maybe I’m wrong. But I know this: When you’ve seen that much, you don’t walk away unchanged.

I remember sitting in a small group once, talking about obedience and living differently for Jesus. One of my friends turned to me and asked, “Do you feel like you have to be different, or like you want to?”

I had never felt more sure about anything. I said, “I have to. I’ve seen too much. I know too much. I literally cannot live that way anymore.”

That’s what I imagine Simon felt. Not obligation or pressure. But a holy inability to go back to who he was before. Because once you’ve walked that close to Jesus, once you’ve seen the cost, once you’ve felt the weight, something shifts.

We often talk about “carrying our cross” as a metaphor. A calling. A cost of discipleship. Simon carried Christ’s and got a front-row seat to the greatest act of love the world has ever known.

This Easter, I have a question for you.

Not the usual, “Do you believe in the cross?”

No, no. I want to ask you, “Are you close enough to feel it?”

Close enough to wear it around your neck, but not just as pretty, symbolic jewelry—as something that once tore through flesh?

Close enough to hold it in your hands, but also to remember what it held?

Close enough to say you believe, but also to let it change the way you live?

Because it’s possible to be near the cross—to see it, to sing about it, to decorate with it—and still keep a safe distance from its weight.

Simon didn’t have that option. He felt it. He carried it. He walked it.

Jesus does that for us. He takes what we can’t bear and carries it all the way to death. Sin. Shame. Guilt. The weight we were never meant to hold. And in exchange, He gives us something we could never earn:

Grace. Freedom. Life.

Maybe for you, following Jesus has felt optional. Convenient. Something that fits into your life when it’s easy. But there comes a moment when you truly see Him and it stops being optional. Not because you’re forced, but because you’ve seen too much to live the same. Maybe your “yes” doesn’t look dramatic. Maybe it looks like quiet obedience, choosing holiness when no one is watching, or stepping into something uncomfortable because you know it’s what He’s asking. Maybe it looks like laying down the version of your life you had planned, because you’ve encountered something greater.

Simon didn’t choose the cross, but what he did with that moment…that’s where his story deepens.

And that could be true for you, too. You didn’t choose everything that’s been placed on your shoulders.

But you can choose what happens next.

Jesus, we stand in awe of what You carried and what You chose to take from us. Thank You for the cross. Not just the symbol, but the reality of it. The weight. The suffering. The love that held You there. Forgive us for the ways we’ve kept our distance. For the times we’ve treated Your sacrifice as something familiar instead of something life-changing. Draw us closer. Close enough to seek, to feel, and to be changed. Give us hearts that don’t just understand the cross, but are transformed by it. Hearts that say yes to You, not out of obligation, but because we’ve encountered Your love and cannot go back. Teach us to live differently, to walk faithfully, and to carry what You’ve called us to carry as a response to Your grace. And in every part of our lives, let it point back to You. Amen.