Walking the Stations of the Cross

By Jeanne Taylor

Today I walked the Stations of the Cross for the first time ever. Tim had spearheaded the stations for the past two years and this is his last year with us. I thought I had better get myself there before he -- and the stations -- went away. There were two other walkers besides me: Jenna, a second year seminarian; and Claudia Gimson. Tim led us in the prayers and readings.

I started out by saying that in all my years as a Roman Catholic, from birth to the day I married Josh, I had never walked or even prayed at the stations in any church I had attended. The stations were always on the walls of the sanctuaries, some sets pretty to look at, some drab and boring. I knew "something" was done before each plaque during Lent, much kneeling and dolorous murmuring, but I was never interested in even finding out what it all meant. Holy Week was an event that melted into the anticipations of Easter Sunday -- translate that into a new outfit, shoes, and the very best, a decorated straw hat!

Then today as I was walking the path (created all those years ago by Justin Bradshaw), I realized that I had participated in the station pathway for years as a member of the choir (duh). We have sung some beautiful music at the Good Friday service over the years and there is more to come in two weeks. I was already conditioned to sit and "be quiet" for three hours by my Catholic mother who said under no circumstances were my brother, sister, and I to even think about doing any kind of "fun" activity during that time. Thus, sitting in the choir loft for three hours is not a hardship.

In 1997, Josh and I went on a cruise from Istanbul to Athens, stopping in Southern Turkey, among other places. One bright and sunny day after touring the ruins of a very large temple, we were sitting at lunch talking with some shipmates about the upcoming stop in Israel, highly anticipated by us all. One lady described a pilgrimage to Jerusalem she had made years before with her church. She became tearful as she described her experience walking the Via Dolorosa. It was noisy, crowded, dirty, and hot, full of humankind mingling, buying, selling, stepping on and around each other. In the midst of it all, there was the overlay of Jesus carrying the cross, being stripped, taunted, nailed, bleeding from the crown of thorns, drinking vinegar and then dying. It sounded, to me, like nothing had changed since Jesus' time. At that time and for a long time afterward, I blew off her story, thinking that she was disappointed because the Via Dolorosa WAS so very ordinary, not at all like the pictures of beautiful gardens and "God sky" that we were shown in Sunday School.

Today I feel differently about this story. Perhaps my cruise mate really did feel the way I described, but just maybe she experienced the Via and the stations as holy among the ordinary and painful and that is why she cried. Anyway...

Walking the stations today shifted my view. God knows I am no theologian, just the missus from Peoria, but standing before each station (especially the one with the stole made by Elizabeth Mark from her mother's clothing), I started seeing the stations in another way: that even in chaos and death, there is life.