Trials in those days were swift, if not just. Before I knew it, I was condemned to die on the cross. Of course, I knew it was my destiny and that all this torture was leading up to my final moments of pain, passion, and glory. But I don’t think I was prepared for the weight of the cross, and somehow that weight made each thorn throb even more, causing more blood and more pain, but the pain in my heart was what hurt the most.

The cross itself brought a rush of memories about how important trees had been in my life. Although I was an infant, I remember the sycamore tree in El Matareya that my earthly parents stopped under when they fled to Egypt shortly after my birth, because they feared for my life. They were tired after their long journey and my mother wanted so much to rest and to wash the sand and dust off my body as well as hers. As she sagged down and leaned on that tree, she prayed, and a spring rose up to bathe us and quench our thirst. I recall my eyes gazing up at that sycamore tree as my mother leaned on it for strength. The tree and the spring of water that bubbled up in its shadow sustained us for the journey. 

I remembered too how the Egyptians had welcomed us and helped my mother. Even though my ancestors had been slaves in this land, we were welcomed in the tradition of my ancestors who were taught to welcome the stranger in their land. Perhaps we were not so different after all.

My next recollection of the importance of trees was working by Joseph’s side in his carpentry shop. As he built the tables, chairs, and chests for the people of Nazareth, I recall how lovingly he touched the wood of the trees. Many carpenters thought of trees as merely the means to an end, a tool to help them make a living, but Joseph was different. He taught me to revere the trees and to thank them for giving up their lives so that humans could live comfortably. I always wondered, as a child, what he had meant when we said, “The wood of the tree will save humankind.” How soon would I come to learn what he meant by those words. 

I remembered other trees as well, the tree under which Nicodemus came to me in the dark of the night, wanting to stay in the shadow of that tree so his fellow Pharisees would not see him. He was afraid, but I understood his fear. We talked many hours under that tree, and it made me happy to know that not all the Pharisees had turned against me. And I realized that there was hope. And then I remembered that other sycamore tree, which Zacchaeus climbed just to get a brief glimpse of me. Before I even saw Zacchaeus out on that limb, I thought of my mother and father and me under that Sycamore tree in Egypt. And when I saw Zacchaeus, I thought of the Egyptians who wanted to see this baby whose parents traveled all that way to protect him. And my heart went out to Zacchaeus and we became friends—unexpectedly and even causing scandal among my followers. But as he came down from the tree that day, I knew I would change his life, and perhaps he would change mine too.

I recalled the olive trees in the Garden of Gethsemane where I had spent many hours with my chosen twelve. We shared and laughed, wined and dined, prayed together, and it was there, sadly, that they finally deserted me. But I mostly now thought about the good times, how much we shared and how much I taught them under those olive trees. 

And now, here was the final tree. The one with whom I would become one. Its rough bark scratched my skin. This was not wood finely sanded and crafted by Joseph into something beautiful, but rugged and raw, a simple tree thrown together into two cross beams, hastily crafted to do a simple task—bear the weight of its victim until he expired. As I carried the cross, the thorns in my head started to pulsate, again one at a time. 

The thorn of humankind’s destruction of a beautiful piece of God’s creation—a tree—for evil purposes. That thorn was the first to start the throbbing in my head and it didn’t stop until Simon helped me bear the weight of the cross. The thorns of despair and loneliness that most of my friends had deserted me began to bleed even stronger with the weight of the tree on my shoulders. The thorn of hatred for the “different” was exceedingly sharp. I was reminded of those Egyptians again and how they cared for us even though we were different and had many generations of hatred between our people. I knew it was the leaders of nations who were the ones who feared the “different,” because what they actually feared was losing their own power. I knew, because I had been there at the beginning, that humans were created to be good, and that most of them were open and loving. It was just that their leaders convinced them that “the other” was dangerous to their way of life and so they were to be feared and hated.  

And yet, there was the thorn of hope, the one whose pain actually made me feel good. That hope in knowing there were those who would not desert me, the hope that I felt from that thorn which the gentle one had woven into the crown. Hope that this tree I was carrying might someday be revered as all Creation would be and that humans would realize God’s Creation was meant to be enjoyed, and even to be used to make their life better; but not to destroyed for their convenience and greed. Hope that someday humankind would come to value the “other” as part of God’s creation and welcome all people into their countries, their neighborhoods, their lives, their hearts.

For more about the passion of Jesus, pick up my book, Crown of Thorns