The Way of Suffering

Luke 23:26–32 NKJV

26 Now as they led Him away, they laid hold of a certain man, Simon a Cyrenian, who was coming from the country, and on him they laid the cross that he might bear it after Jesus. 27 And a great multitude of the people followed Him, and women who also mourned and lamented Him. 28 But Jesus, turning to them, said, “Daughters of Jerusalem, do not weep for Me, but weep for yourselves and for your children. 29 For indeed the days are coming in which they will say, ‘Blessed are the barren, wombs that never bore, and breasts which never nursed!’ 30 Then they will begin ‘to say to the mountains, “Fall on us!” and to the hills, “Cover us!” ’ 31 For if they do these things in the green wood, what will be done in the dry?” 32 There were also two others, criminals, led with Him to be put to death.

The Way of Suffering

Imagine this with me: narrow streets, worn smooth by centuries of footsteps. The air is thick—dust rising from the cobblestones, mingling with the sweat of a crowd pressed too close. Some faces are angry, some curious, and a few are brokenhearted, eyes swollen with tears. In the middle of it all, a man is stumbling forward. He’s bleeding. Exhausted. Shoulders heaving under the rough, splintered weight of a Roman cross.

This is the Via Dolorosa—the Way of Suffering. And Jesus is walking it.

It’s easy to read that story and keep it at a distance, like it’s just a chapter in a history book. But this wasn’t just a holy moment carved out in Scripture—it was a very human one. Jesus wasn’t floating toward the cross with a serene halo. He was a man—aching, stumbling, feeling every ounce of pain, every ounce of betrayal, every ounce of the world’s weight on His shoulders.

Can you picture it?

His knees buckle under the wood. His back is torn open from the flogging. His breath is short. And in the crowd, someone is pulled from the sidelines—Simon of Cyrene. A bystander. A man just trying to get through the day. And suddenly, he’s carrying Jesus’ cross. Right there in the middle of the mess, he’s part of it now. Part of the suffering. Part of the story.

I think that’s where this moment meets us today.

Because the truth is, all of us are walking our own roads. Maybe not lined with angry mobs or Roman guards—but roads marked with grief. Fear. Loneliness. The kind of burdens we don’t always talk about, but we sure do feel. The job you’re not sure you’ll keep. The child you’re praying will come home. The diagnosis you didn’t expect. The anxiety that never seems to go away. The ache of loss that wakes you up in the middle of the night.

Life has a way of putting crosses on our backs, doesn’t it?

And here’s where this story changes everything. Jesus doesn’t just walk His own road of suffering—He enters ours. He knows what it feels like to be weak. To be misunderstood. To feel like no one sees how heavy it really is. He doesn’t just observe our pain from a distance—He carries it. He walks with us in it.

Today, as we look at the Via Dolorosa, we’re not just retracing steps in Jerusalem. We’re being invited to something much deeper. We’re invited to walk with Jesus in His suffering—and to let Him walk with us in ours.

So I want to ask you this: what are you carrying today?

What burden have you been shouldering alone? What pain have you felt like no one else really understands?

Because the cross wasn’t the end of Jesus’ story. And it’s not the end of yours either.

Let’s walk the road with Him this morning. Let’s stand in the dust and the noise and the heartbreak, and remember that love chose this path. Not out of obligation, but out of deep, relentless love for you.

Welcome to the Way of Suffering. Let’s walk it together—with eyes wide open and hearts ready to see what Jesus has to show us.

He Carried More Than a Cross (Luke 23:26)

It’s one short verse. Easy to breeze past if you’re reading quickly. “As they led him away, they seized Simon of Cyrene, who was coming in from the country, and laid on him the cross, to carry it behind Jesus.”

That’s it. No backstory. No dialogue. Just a man, caught in a moment.

But what a moment.

Simon wasn’t looking for this. He wasn’t a disciple. He didn’t wake up that morning planning to be part of history. He was likely coming to Jerusalem for Passover—maybe with his family, maybe with expectations of celebration and worship. Instead, he gets pulled from the crowd by Roman soldiers and handed a cross soaked in another man’s blood.

Can you imagine the shock? The confusion? The fear?

But here’s what’s so human, so profound, about that scene: Jesus couldn’t carry it alone. Let that sink in for a moment.

The Son of God—fully divine, yet fully human—was so beaten, so worn down, so physically drained, that He needed help. And rather than calling down angels or tapping into some hidden strength, He allowed another person to step in.

That detail matters.

Because it reminds us that suffering isn’t a solo journey. And even Jesus—the one we look to for strength—wasn’t above needing someone beside Him.

Let’s be honest. Most of us don’t like asking for help. We don’t want to appear weak, needy, or vulnerable. We’ve been taught to keep moving, keep pushing, keep carrying whatever life hands us. But what if that’s not the way of Jesus?

What if part of following Him means learning to receive help, too?

Simon didn’t volunteer—but he was chosen. And in carrying that cross, he didn’t just lighten Jesus’ load—he entered into His story. He stepped into sacred ground, shouldering not just wood and nails, but the weight of redemption in motion.

And I wonder—how many of us are carrying crosses we were never meant to carry alone?

You might be walking through a tough season right now. You’re trying to keep it all together on the outside, but inside? You’re exhausted. Worn down. You’ve got your own Via Dolorosa—your own path of suffering—and it feels like you’re walking it in silence.

But hear me: you don’t have to carry it alone. Jesus knows what it is to be that tired. He knows what it feels like to stumble under the weight of it all. And He doesn’t just offer you sympathy—He offers you Himself. His presence. His strength. And sometimes? His people.

What if the help you’ve been resisting is actually the hand of God reaching out?

What if there’s a Simon in your story—someone sent to walk with you, to shoulder the weight for a while?

And what if you’re called to be Simon for someone else?

The cross is heavy. But Jesus shows us that it’s okay to receive help. And in doing so, we learn that suffering doesn’t isolate us—it connects us. It brings us into communion with Christ and with one another.

So here’s the question: what are you carrying today that you need help with?

Don’t wait for the breaking point. Jesus didn’t. He shows us there’s no shame in needing someone to walk beside you.

He carried more than a cross—and so do we.

And as Simon steps in to carry the cross, the road continues. The crowd presses on. But something else begins to rise—not just the physical strain of the moment, but the emotional weight of it all.

Because as Jesus walks, He sees them. The faces in the crowd. Not the ones jeering, but the ones weeping. Women—mothers, daughters, sisters—mourning openly as they watch Him suffer. And even in His pain, Jesus notices them. He speaks to them. He carries their sorrow, too.

It’s a powerful reminder: the cross wasn’t just about bruised flesh and broken bones. It was also about broken hearts.

Jesus doesn’t just endure the physical agony of the cross—He walks through the emotional landscape of grief, empathy, and lament. And maybe that's exactly what some of us need to hear today.

Because some of the heaviest burdens we carry aren’t visible. They're the ones behind our eyes. The sorrow no one else sees. But Jesus sees it. And on the road to Calvary, He doesn't just walk past it—He stops to speak into it.

Let’s step into that moment now.

Sorrow Along the Way (Luke 23:27–31)

As Jesus continues along the Via Dolorosa, the weight of the cross is no longer on His back—but the weight of the moment still is. And in the crowd that lines the road, there’s a shift.

Luke tells us that “a great number of people followed Him, including women who were mourning and wailing for Him.” These weren’t hecklers or mockers. These were women who saw the injustice, the cruelty, the suffering—and it broke their hearts.

And then, in a moment that almost seems out of place, Jesus turns to them.

Let that sink in for a second. Bloodied. Weak. On His way to die. And He stops to acknowledge their sorrow.

He says, “Daughters of Jerusalem, do not weep for me; weep for yourselves and for your children.”

At first, it may sound jarring. Why wouldn’t they weep for Him? Isn’t that the natural response? But Jesus isn’t rejecting their compassion—He’s redirecting it. He’s helping them see that what’s happening on that road isn’t just about Him—it’s about all of us. The pain of this world. The heartbreaks yet to come. The deep ache of a world fractured by sin.

And maybe that’s where this moment meets us most clearly.

Because some of the heaviest burdens we carry aren’t the ones others can see. They’re not splinters in our shoulders—they’re cracks in our hearts. The grief we carry for a child who’s wandered, or a marriage that’s grown distant, or the parent we just buried. The anxiety that rides with us like a shadow. The sorrow of dreams that didn’t turn out the way we hoped.

And here’s what’s so beautiful, so human, about Jesus: He sees that kind of pain, too.

He doesn’t just endure the physical agony of the cross—He walks through the emotional landscape of grief, empathy, and lament. He doesn’t rush past the weeping. He pauses. He speaks. He draws near.

Because Jesus isn’t just the Savior of your sins—He’s the Shepherd of your soul.

That’s not just a poetic title. It’s a promise.

A shepherd doesn’t just watch from a distance. He stays close. He knows when the sheep are limping. He recognizes the signs of weariness. He doesn’t just care about where they’re going—He cares about how they’re doing on the way.

And that’s how Jesus sees you.

He sees when your spirit is weary. When your smile covers up a storm. When you’re doing everything right on the outside, but inside you’re barely holding it together.

He’s not impatient with you. He’s not disappointed in your sadness. He draws near. He speaks gently. He tends to your soul like a shepherd caring for a beloved sheep.

So if you feel like those women—overwhelmed by sorrow, caught in something you can’t fully fix or understand—know this: Jesus doesn’t walk past your pain. He meets you in it. He carries it with you.

And He leads you through it—not with a harsh command, but with a tender voice. Because you’re not just another face in the crowd. You’re known. You’re seen. You’re held.

That’s what it means to follow the Shepherd of your soul.

We’ve seen the weight Jesus carried—not just on His shoulders, but in His heart. The physical pain, the emotional sorrow, the grief of a broken world pressing in on every side. And yet… He keeps walking.

Step by step, breath by breath, He moves forward—not because He has to, but because love compels Him. Because this road, as brutal as it is, has a purpose. Every wound He endures… every tear He sees… every drop of blood shed—it’s not wasted.

This isn’t just a man suffering injustice. This is a prophecy being fulfilled. A mission unfolding. A love story being written in blood and sweat and tears.

What Jesus was doing on that road wasn’t random—it was foretold. It was intentional. It was for us.

To truly understand the depth of what’s happening on the Via Dolorosa, we need to step back—way back—to the prophet Isaiah. Long before Jesus ever walked the earth, Isaiah described Him with startling clarity: “a man of sorrows, acquainted with grief…”

Let’s go there now—to Isaiah 53. Because this is where the pain of the cross meets the purpose of heaven.

Isaiah 53:3–5 NKJV

3 He is despised and rejected by men, A Man of sorrows and acquainted with grief. And we hid, as it were, our faces from Him; He was despised, and we did not esteem Him. 4 Surely He has borne our griefs And carried our sorrows; Yet we esteemed Him stricken, Smitten by God, and afflicted. 5 But He was wounded for our transgressions, He was bruised for our iniquities; The chastisement for our peace was upon Him, And by His stripes we are healed.

The Suffering Servant Fulfilled (Isaiah 53:3–5)

Long before Jesus walked the dusty roads of Jerusalem, long before the cross was raised, the prophet Isaiah saw Him. Not by name, not by face—but by pain.

Isaiah writes: “He was despised and rejected by men; a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief… surely he took up our pain and bore our suffering…”

Let those words settle in: “He took up our pain. He bore our suffering.”

This isn’t just poetry. It’s not just prophecy. It’s a picture of Jesus willingly stepping into the darkest parts of our world—and our hearts.

When Isaiah describes the Suffering Servant, he doesn’t paint a portrait of a conquering king or a dazzling hero. He describes someone who is familiar with grief, rejected by people, and wounded—not because He deserved it, but because we did.

“He was pierced for our transgressions, He was crushed for our iniquities; the punishment that brought us peace was on Him, and by His wounds, we are healed.” (v. 5)

This is the great mystery of the cross—that the road of suffering Jesus walked was for us. Every lash of the whip, every insult hurled, every nail driven into His flesh was not just endured—it was embraced. Not out of obligation, but out of love.

And not just any love—a love that knows you.

A love that sees the real you. The broken places. The guilt you still carry. The shame you haven’t spoken aloud. The questions you wrestle with when the room gets quiet.

Jesus didn’t suffer to prove a point. He suffered to purchase peace. Your peace.

He was crushed so you wouldn’t have to be. He was wounded so your wounds could start to heal.

This is what makes the Gospel good news—not that God overlooked our sin, but that He absorbed it. He didn’t avoid our pain. He entered it, took it upon Himself, and in doing so, made a way out.

So when you find yourself asking, “Where is God when I suffer?”—you don’t have to wonder. He’s not watching from afar. He’s right there in it, because He’s been there before.

And when you ask, “Can anything good come out of this pain?”—look to the cross. Because what looked like the ultimate defeat became the doorway to eternal victory.

By His wounds—we are healed.

Not just spiritually, but holistically. He came to heal our relationship with God, yes—but also to begin the healing of our hearts, our minds, our relationships, and our hope.

This is the promise of Isaiah. The fulfillment of Jesus. And the hope we hold onto, even as we walk through suffering.

Come Walk the Road

We’ve walked a hard road this morning.

We’ve seen Jesus stumble under the weight of the cross—and be willing to accept help. We’ve watched Him pause to speak into the sorrow of others, even as He carried His own. And we’ve looked back through Isaiah’s words and seen with fresh eyes: this suffering wasn’t senseless—it was sacred. It was love in action.

But now the question shifts: Will we just observe the Via Dolorosa—or will we walk it ourselves?

Because the way of suffering didn’t end at Golgotha. It’s a road we all travel at some point. And the invitation of Lent—the invitation of Jesus—isn’t to avoid that road, but to walk it with Him. To bring our burdens. To name our sorrows. To let His wounds begin to heal ours.

So here’s the invitation:

If you're carrying something heavy today—a burden, a sorrow, a wound that still aches—don’t leave it in the pew. Bring it to the cross. Come walk the road.

If you’ve been trying to carry it all on your own, today is your chance to stop pretending and start receiving. Come walk the road.

If your soul is weary and you’ve been wondering if anyone really sees or cares—Jesus does. He’s the Shepherd of your soul. And He’s calling you closer. Come walk the road.

This altar is open—not just as a place to kneel, but as holy ground where the suffering Savior meets suffering hearts. Where tears are welcome. Where silence speaks. Where healing begins.

So come. Take a step. Take that walk down the Via Dolorosa—not to stay in the pain, but to find the One who walked it first… and walks it with you still.