A Cloud of Witnesses
I dreamed I started down a narrow path. The symbolism was obvious enough from the start. The path was not hard to find, but it was clear from the beginning that it would not be easy. Still, I had heard on good recommendation that this was a worthwhile road.
The path was bumpy, and meandered around jagged rocks and over hills, seeming to go out of its way to be unsteady. Sometimes it seemed to fade entirely under rocks and fallen logs, but I was always able to find it again, though all the time I saw not a single sign or marker.
I saw no one walking with me along the road. Surely others had come, but it was a long way which most people were eager to be done with. The chances of seeing someone else along this long, winding path were slim.
But, then, I saw someone. A figure that had to be a human standing off in the distance, immobile. As I neared I saw that it was an older man, frail but standing straight. He wasn’t moving forward along the path or coming towards me, but he didn’t seem to be stuck or have fallen. He was just…standing there. He was smiling, I realized as I neared. He didn’t say a word, just stood there smiling at me. As I passed by him, I realized the way must not be so tough after all. Such a frail man had made it just fine, and didn’t even seem to be tired. His very presence was a sign that the way was passable. And then I realized, that’s what he was. A sign.
As I continued, they became even more frequent. This road didn’t need signs of metal or wood—it had signs of life. Every time I wanted to stop, to give up, to declare the path impossible, I would see another, waiting, spurring me on. If they had made it, so could I. They all smiled at me, some eagerly, others sadly. Some raised their hands and waved; others clapped for me like spectators at a game. Their silent presence gave me the resolve to go on.
When the nights grew dark, I knew I had to continue for fear of what may frequent the road. I despaired of losing my way, until I saw one of the people holding a torch for me. They didn’t extend their arm to lend it to me, so I did not take it. But that torch gave me the light for many paces. When its light faded behind me, I saw another ahead. Always just enough to go on.
The more I traveled, the more of these men and women I saw. Some were even children. As I continued, the road got rougher, and the faces of the people grew more gaunt and harried. They had made it…but it had not been easy for them or me. Once again I wondered what I had gotten myself into. But they had made it, and so would I.
Ahead I saw a wooden sign. Curious, I ran towards it, as I had seen none so far. It pointed two ways, forward on the path and backward. But as I neared, I saw that this was no sign. It was a cross. I wondered if I had made it at last—if my Savior was there on that cross. But as I neared I saw that it was another. A young man, possibly a teenager, hung dead on the cross. Yet he was smiling. His outspread arms almost seemed like they were open for an embrace. His right hand pointed one finger forward—even in death he told me to go on.
Oddly, this grim reminder did not deter me. Again I thought, He made it this far, at least. I can go forward as well. And so I continued. Along the way I still saw the encouraging people standing and waving. But I began to see more and more crosses. I saw gallows with bodies hanging from them, always facing further down the path. I saw a pile of stones with a bruised arm sticking out, fingers pointing down the road. But most abundant were the crosses, which began to line the road on the left and right, less like signs and more like distance markers.
At night I despaired of finding a torch, since I had seen no one living for miles. At last in the distance I saw a glow, and ran forward just to see a smiling face. But when I reached the glow, I saw that it was no torch. It was a burning man tied to a stake, wood piled at his feet. Smothered in smoke and flames, his head still looked further down the path. And in the light of the burning body I continued.
Days and weeks passed, and I continued down the road, solemn. My way was more clearly marked then ever before. And I knew that if these men and women had made it, so could I. Yet I also knew that I was likely to share their fate.
One day I had walked for miles without seeing a single sign, living or dead. I searched frantically, thinking I may have lost the path. Where were the others who had come this way? How could I know I was going the right direction?
Then, I saw a single marker. It was again a cross, but peculiar in that it was empty. This was the first empty cross I had seen. Perhaps I had stumbled onto another path, the wrong road. But as I looked on the cross, I saw a sign above it. In simple letters it gave my name. I had gone exactly the right way. But what of those who did not recognize the name? How would they know, after so long, that they were still on the path? How would they know the path was even possible?
I asked the questions in my head, but I already knew the answer. I had been shown the way. I had been shown what to do. Now I was to do it. Slowly I mounted the footstool leading up to the cross. Cautiously I stretched my arms out wide in either direction. But as the nails drove deep into my bones, I smiled and made sure to point a finger forward. As I had been led this way, I would help others know they were on the right track—that the way was indeed possible. And some day, we all would find the way to the finish. But for now, it was my job to cheer on those who ran the race after me.
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