The Last Man at the Inn

by R. William Bennett

  The man took Daniel in his arms and walked him into their home. Soon the man’s wife came, crying out her son’s name between sobs. They all three fell to the floor, Daniel leaning against his father, and his mother stroking his hair. They rocked back and forth over and over again. Simon saw Daniel’s body start to shake as he cried, his arms wrapped tight around both of his parents.

  Simon knew they had forgotten him, and that was fine with him. Smiling, he quietly pulled the door closed, then walked outside to his donkey, patted its head, and took up the reins.

  “You did well, my friend. Thank you for helping me.”

  Just as he was about to start walking, he felt a strong but gentle hand clasp his shoulder. He turned to face the elderly man. The father was still emotional, struggling to get words out. “I know you.”

  Simon smiled at him. “And I you.”

  “You found my son. What made you help him?”

  “Well, a very long time ago, a good man in this very house told me that it did not matter where we were, only that we might help someone on their journey.”

  The householder smiled at him and said, “You must come in and stay with us.”

  “My family has gone to Jerusalem for Passover,” Simon told him. “I need to go meet them.”

  The man looked worried. “Not this late at night. Stay here and go in the morning. We would like you to eat with us.”

  Simon looked at the sky. He had not realized how late it was. He felt a wave of exhaustion come over him, and sighed. “I think I will. Thank you.”

  The man walked Simon and the donkey around the back. “You go in. I will tend to your animal.”

  Simon thanked him and walked in the back door of their home. The man’s wife had already helped Daniel change his clothes, and though his appearance still needed a bit more work, he looked much cleaner than before. He looked at Simon and said nothing but offered a small, tired smile and bowed his head toward him. Simon smiled and walked to sit at the table, patting Daniel on the back as he passed him.

  Eventually, the table was set with enough food to feed several times more than the four who sat around it. Daniel did not speak, but he looked content. His mother sat next to him, helping him eat.

  After a quiet period of eating, the father looked at Simon. “My friend, I am still bold,” he said, “so I yearn to ask you: Did you find the reason you were here all those years ago?”

  Simon stopped eating. The span of the past thirty-three years hit him. Just feet from where they now sat, this good man had challenged him to find out why he had been led to Bethlehem on that sacred night. And here, sitting with these good people, he knew the answer without a doubt.

  “I did,” was all he could say through an emotional smile.

  For most of the meal, Simon shared the details of his spiritual journey over the last three decades.

  When the conversation slowed, the father looked at him. “There is no way we can ever thank you. All I can tell you is my family will bless your name forever.”

  Simon looked off toward the door and then turned back to the man. “I think I will walk for a while. It’s been a long day, and this was a wonderful meal. I would like to get started early tomorrow, but I’ll sleep better if I go out for a bit.”

  “Would you like company?” the man asked.

  “I think I need to be alone with my thoughts, and I think your family needs time together. I won’t be long.”

  Simon stood, but before he could leave, Daniel’s mother ran to him and hugged him. She tried to speak but gave up and hugged Simon again. Finally, she stood back and said, “Give that to your family to thank them for letting you save my son.”

  “I will,” Simon smiled and then went out the door.

  When Simon stepped out, he immediately turned toward the edge of town. Though Bethlehem had changed somewhat, he was sure he would recognize the spot he was looking for.

  When he reached the edge of the village, he turned and began to walk through the fields. He saw herds of sheep with shepherds, some old, some young, standing in their midst. Occasionally a sheep would look at him, sense no worry, and look down again, continuing to eat. Simon smiled, and the thought came to him that many of these shepherds had not even been born the last time he walked out here. He looked at the ridge to his right, watching each cave as he passed. Like that night long ago, there were travelers occupying many of the spots tonight due to the crowds in Jerusalem.

  Finally, Simon stopped. He looked closely at the outcroppings and decided this was the cave. He peered in carefully and noticed in the moonlight that only a few sheep lay inside. He walked toward the opening. At first he wanted to walk in, but then he felt more comfortable sitting on a rock at the entrance. He looked at the empty ground before him, remembering how the shepherds had stood and knelt that night as they watched the young family inside. He closed his eyes, remembering the feelings of peace—feelings he could not identify at the time but that he now understood well. He played each sound and smell and sight over and over in his mind.

  Suddenly he recalled another feeling, one that made him less comfortable. Guilt.

  On that night thirty-three years ago, the couple and their new babe were here, in a cave, because he had been unwilling to give up his room. How could he have been so selfish? Even if Mary had been nothing but a commoner, his act would have been considered shameful. But he had denied a room for the birth of the Son of God! Suddenly the horror of his place in history tore through his soul. Simon looked around at the cave, the cave he had sentenced the little family to, and then he looked at the ground and began to cry. In the solitude of the cave, he let go of the emotions he had carried all these years: his worries about his family, his concerns about his own beliefs, his guilt from that night. It all came tumbling out of him in racking sobs, full-throated wails, and exclamations of sorrow and regret. Then, in the peace of that little hollow of land, all that pain simply dissipated into the cool evening air, gone for good.

  After a period of time, Simon raised his head. He did not know how long he had been there, but he felt cleansed.

  Then it hit him. That baby, now the Messiah, was just up the road in Jerusalem! Simon would find him and find some way to speak with him. He wanted to tell him how sorry he was. He knew he could never make it up to him, but he vowed he would find a way to help him, to do whatever was needed, no matter how menial, to spread his word—his gospel—far and wide.

  Simon had never been filled with more purpose, more peace, more clarity than at that moment. He stood with renewed vigor and walked determinedly through the fields back to the home.

  Early the next morning, Simon opened his eyes and was struck

  by a ray of brilliant sunlight streaming in through the eastern window. As he sat up and stretched his arms, he realized that—in addition to the sun—quite a bit of noise seemed to be coming from outside. As he opened the door and stepped out into the yard to take a look, he immediately sensed something was wrong.

  People were talking anxiously everywhere. Many were crying; he could hear the sobbing of both women and men above the din of it all. He went in search of the householder and found him shortly.

  “What is it?” he asked with trepidation as he grabbed the man’s arm.

  The man turned to him, a look of shock on his face. “A runner has just come from Jerusalem. They put Jesus on trial this morning.”

  “Trial?” Simon questioned. “On what charge?”

  “Treason,” he responded.

  “Who? How could they do that?”

  “I’m unsure. It seems either Pilate, or Herod Antipas, or both. But the Sanhedrin were behind it, and”—he paused—“they’ve convicted him.”

  “What? What will happen to him?”

  The man shook his head, unable to speak the words. Finally, he just said, “Crucifixion.”

  “When?”
/>   “Today.”

  Simon immediately turned and started to run. The man called after him. “Your donkey . . .”

  But Simon ignored him. The donkey could never move as fast he needed to. He grabbed his shoulder bag from the house and began running to Jerusalem.

  Simon ran until his lungs hurt. And then he ran some more. He stubbed his feet on stones, tripping again and again. Soon his hands were bloodied from falling on the path so many times. He passed many travelers coming from the other direction, and their tear-stained faces searched his, hoping to find solace in a stranger. He hurried on. As he came to the steeper parts of the road, he walked quickly, then ran again as the path flattened out.

  He was covered in sweat, his feet bleeding, but he felt none of it. When he finally reached the city gate, he stopped. He looked around, unsure what to do next. But then he saw Rufus.

  “Father! I knew you would come up from Bethlehem as soon as you heard. I sent Mother and Batya and the children back to Eber’s home, where we stayed, and I have been here waiting for you since it was announced.”

  Simon’s face showed his horror. “Is it really true? They are crucifying him?”

  Rufus tried to speak through his tears. “It is. Even Pilate tried to convince the people to release him using Passover tradition, but the people called for a murderer to be set free instead. I couldn’t believe it! The crowd has lost its mind. People thought he would free them, take down the government, as we had heard, and then when he did not . . .”

  “Where is he?” Simon interrupted.

  “Hurry, follow me.”

  The men ran through the streets, pushing aside those in their way. Some hurled epithets at them, but they didn’t notice. Soon Simon could hear the crowd, its noise growing louder and louder.

  As they pushed their way between the hordes of people, Simon kept thinking that he must speak to Jesus. He must tell him he was sorry, that he would serve him and never again pass someone in need.

  As they drew closer, the noise seemed more organized. The crowd was chanting! Simon could not believe what he heard. With bloodthirsty enthusiasm, the voices rose. “Crucify him! Crucify him!”

  Tears filled Simon’s eyes; anger filled his heart. He looked from left to right at the faces of the yelling people. They were like animals, lost in their demonic chants. Many were throwing their fists in the air with each syllable. Simon looked with fierceness at several of them, but he could not catch anyone’s gaze. He felt as if he might explode and wished to swing his fists at everyone around him, screaming at those calling for the torture of the one who had come to save them. But then he heard his son’s voice. It was soft but somehow louder than anything around them.

  “Father,” Rufus said calmly. “It’s not his way. We must live as he taught, even here, right to the end. This is what he would want from us.”

  Simon looked hard at his son. He knew Rufus was right, and he wanted to hold fast to the strength he offered. Finally, he nodded.

  Through his tears, Rufus said to his father, “Come. Let’s keep moving forward.”

  As they moved through the crowd, Simon no longer shoved everyone in his path. Instead, he firmly but gently moved those in front of him aside. He offered apologies, but nobody seemed to hear him. Except one, who turned toward him. It was an elderly woman. She was crying so hard she could not breathe and was panicking as the crowd pressed against her. Simon put both arms around her and pulled her close.

  The woman clasped Simon’s arm hard, saying again and again, “Why?”

  He gently turned her in the direction he was going and said, “Come with me. We will see him together.”

  He kept his arm protectively around her and moved her through the crowd with him, going only as fast as she was able. Rufus helped support her from the other side.

  Finally, the three of them found themselves at the front of the crowd. Twenty paces before them was an archway leading into a large palace. Everyone stared intently at the opening, chanting and waiting. Then, those on the other side of the roadway who could see through the doorway began cheering. A change traveled through the crowd like a wave.

  A few Roman soldiers stepped out, snapping their whips.

  Simon stopped breathing.

  A man walked slowly behind the soldiers. His robes were tattered and blood-stained. The rips in his garments revealed gaping wounds. On his head, a circle of thorny vines pressed into his scalp, fresh blood dripping from the marks it left. He was unsteady on his feet, and he looked forward as though he saw no one.

  This was Jesus, the Messiah, the Son of God.

  Simon looked to the ground and noticed a heavy beam. It was as long as a man was tall and too thick to put both hands around. He grew nauseated, remembering the one crucifixion he had seen before. He knew what was coming.

  He held the old woman closer as she brought her hands to her mouth. Rufus grabbed Simon’s arm but stood tall. Somehow, though they could not stop what was happening, they both knew they needed to be here. If nothing else, they needed their reverent silence to bear witness of the Son of God, and they needed to stand in contrast to those who sought his demise.

  The guard grabbed the shoulder of Jesus’s robe and pointed down at the beam with his other hand. Jesus slowly bent over, reaching for the beam, but there was little chance he would be able to lift the heavy wood that would become part of the cross.

  The guard watched momentarily and then, shaking his head in frustration, looked into the crowd.

  Simon knew exactly what the guard was searching for, and he knew exactly what he must do.

  Everything stopped in that moment. Simon saw parts of his life in review: the table at the inn with its view of the door, the evening walk by the cave so many years ago, the stories he had heard through the intervening years, the fear he’d later felt when he thought he could lose his son over these stories. He recalled how he had changed since then. It somehow seemed a distant memory, something from another time, another life. How he was now was his reality. A small smile came to his lips. He knew what was about to happen, and he knew, beyond any doubt whatsoever, what he was willing to do. God was answering his prayer in the way and time that was right for Simon.

  He did not leap out or try to seek the guard’s attention. Simon knew with certainty that as the guard scanned the crowd, he would meet Simon’s eyes and stop him. He would demand Simon step out of the crowd, pick up the cross, and carry it. He would threaten Simon with the whip, but Simon would feel no fear. Not because he knew he wouldn’t be hurt but because it didn’t matter. This God before him was his Savior, and Simon knew with perfect clarity that if he was called to die for him, he would.

  He slowly removed the woman’s hands from his arm and stood tall. The guard looked his way, and their eyes locked.

  “You!” the guard yelled at him. “Get out here!”

  Rufus started to hold Simon back, but Simon gently pushed him off. He walked forward, never releasing his gaze from the guard, who looked increasingly confused.

  “What is your name?” the guard demanded.

  Simon looked squarely at him and proclaimed, “I am Simon, of Cyrene.”

  “Well, Simon of Cyrene, pick up that beam and carry it. Now!”

  Simon stepped over the crossbar so that he was facing up the hill. He attempted to lift the wood but struggled. Another guard stepped out at the first guard’s orders and held the beam up at an angle while Simon squatted down and lifted it across the back of his shoulders. Immediately, he felt sharp splinters dig into his skin. He bent his head down so that the beam would could rest across his back. The other guard stepped forward and leveled it some while Simon sat momentarily on his haunches, gathering the strength to stand.

  His arms were extended out to each side, his hands balancing the incredible weight. He focused on his legs and then, with more will than strength, pushed against his t
highs and calves. Slowly he started rising. He kept pushing and pushing. His legs burned. He did not think he was strong enough, but never for a second did he allow himself to consider anything but succeeding. Finally, his legs were straight, and he stepped a little to each side to widen his stance and steady himself.

  The guards kept their hands on the beam until it appeared Simon was balanced, and then they slowly let go. Simon looked to his left at the guard who had summoned him out. The guard motioned with his head for Simon to begin walking. Simon looked in the guard’s eyes and saw a man who was somehow different from the exasperated one who just moments ago demanded Simon take up this task. He saw a man who did not want to be doing this but was bound by duty. He saw a man who was working to keep his personal feelings at bay. And he saw a man who looked upon him, Simon, with a small dose of admiration. Simon looked to his right and saw Rufus, who now held the old woman. He smiled faintly at his son through his tears and began to walk.

  Simon was not sure how long it took. His mind seemed to fade in and out of awareness of his surroundings. Most of the crowd was focused on the Messiah, who walked ahead of him but whom Simon couldn’t see, for he was forced to keep his head down so that his shoulders could hold the cross. But as he looked at the ground, he could see drops of blood trailing in front of him, letting him know he was still following his Master. Something pulsed through him, giving him strength and purpose.

  Suddenly he felt the beam lighten, and it seemed to float off his shoulders. Through hazy vision, he saw the colors of Roman uniforms on either side of him lift the beam over his head and carry it away. Another guard shoved him off to the side; he tripped but was supported by a strong grasp. The arms that caught him lifted him up gently and then pulled him in close.

  “Father, it’s Alexander. I’ve got you.”