The Via Dolorosa
The Way of the Cross. I have participated in – and presided at – the Stations of the Cross throughout my entire life. Jesus treacherous and violent journey through the city of Jerusalem, culminating in his death by way of a torturous Roman execution. I know the story. I know the details. I have been moved by it in worship. I have led others to find its importance in their lives. It has brought me to tears at times. It is a story that is at the very core of my being and ministry and life. But when I awoke this morning, I felt unsure of what was really going to be different when we traveled into the old city to walk in the footsteps He once did.
The first couple of stations felt no different than any other site that we’d visited here. Pretty, holy, and sometimes even serene. Singing “Were You There” at one of the first stations felt lovely at best, and maybe just quaint at worst. But certainly, a good exercise to do.
But then there was the fourth station, where Jesus meets his mother. The first street corner where the hustle and bustle of the city began to close in. The reading of the story and the prayers offered by the group were interrupted by trucks passing, and shopkeepers getting ready for their day. I noticed myself getting quieter and quieter, as it dawned on me that this was no private moment between a grieving mother and her dying child.
Just then, we looked to begin to climb. If you haven’t done the walk before, it’s hard to realize how much of a climb it really is. Stairs upon stairs, through a busy and narrow thoroughfare. I have been travelling with a group of twenty during my time here, men and woman (mostly clergy) from various ages and parts of the world. It was then that I noticed one of our more vintaged (I’ve learned not to say “older”) participants – who had fallen on her first day here and damaged her knee. She had a look of trepidation on her face. She looked back at me and reached out her arm for mine, they linked, and it felt like an embrace. Step-by-step, and arm-in-arm, we moved forward station-by-station. Simon of Cyrene, Veronica offering comfort and care, Jesus falling, and then falling again.
One member of our group carried a large wooden cross between each station and through the streets, passing it from one to another. I didn’t think much about it because my focus wasn’t there, until my companion reached out and took the cross in her arms as well. With one arm she carried it, this heavy rugged instrument of both destruction and salvation, and with the other arm she held on to me. I was terrified she’d trip or stumble. I was sure that I was going to lose my grip. But we took each step, one at a time, me holding on to her, and her holding on to me.
I have people in my life that I struggle deeply to carry, and those who I know struggle to carry me. There are relationships I’ve prayed for in this city and back at home, wanting desperately for God to intervene. And there I was – with almost a complete stranger – being formed by God’s cruciform way. Trusting, and leaning on, and giving of self – being ministered to by another disciple struggling on the Way.
The Gospel of John tells us that while hanging upon the rugged Cross, Jesus looked at his beloved disciple, and looked at his mother below, and gave them into each other’s care.
The Way of the Cross is our way of life. Here in Jerusalem, or anywhere.