Via Crucis 5 comments

By A.G. Harmon

Orange traffic cones spaced at ten-foot intervals marked off the way of the pilgrims. Running the entire length of the Via Crucis, the funnels were connected to each other by bright yellow police tape that repeated the word “Caution” every so often. The Friday was warm, windy, sun-drenched—good. Around the world, at that three o’clock hour, the faithful were gathering for the same purpose in grand cathedrals and ancient cities just as they were in this small Southern town. And what they were to do in those far off places would no doubt also be grand—sober and majestic.

What I was about to witness would not; in the past, that would have made me mad.

The scene of the passion was the parking lot at this suburban Catholic Church—close to the Food Lion and the Kwik Sak. The cordon was meant to block off a fifty yard length of asphalt that would take the imaginative powers of a whacked-out Homer to envision as Jerusalem in 33 A.D.

Still, the setting had a reason, for along the asphalt ran a raised sidewalk leading to the church, and along the sidewalk, a series of lamp posts, each bearing a plaque depicting a different station of the cross. Those gathered for the passion in the sanctuary—including me and mine—had been herded back out again, as we were “in for a treat,” announced the deacon.

Such news always breaks waves of loathing over my heart, but I mustered myself to comply. Out we came, into the grand afternoon.

They were standing at one corner of the parking lot: the priest with an assemblage of children dressed as first century Jews and Romans. The producers had apparently recycled some costumes from the Christmas pageant, as there were inexplicable magi, angels, and if I’m not mistaken—a donkey and a cow among the passionists. The “Star of Bethlehem” sat astride a fire hydrant, smacking gum.

Then, in O’Connoresque fashion, what looked to be a thirteen year-old shepherdess appeared. With an accretion of authority that belied her small voice, she called us to our task forthwith, marshalling our attention to the mimeographed booklets given out by a small boy in NBA shorts.

“The Stations of the Cross by St. Alphonsus Liguori,” she began, over her microphone, attached to a guitar amplifier, itself sitting inside a little red wagon.

And off we went.

At the first station, I grasped the design. For as the girl rolled to a stop, and as she recited the obligatory prayers, a tableau was being staged on the grass just before us.

Jesus, a Hispanic boy with Jonas Brothers hair, wearing a tunic, was saddled with his life-size cross by two Romans. Then the actors freeze-framed while the shepherdess put us through our orisons for that station. In a bowdlerized version written for “all ages,” we were queried on whether we made people sad or tired (“Jesus Falls the First Time”); were reluctant with our charity (“Simon the Cyrene helps Our Lord”); slow to console the aggrieved (“Jesus Meets the Women of Jerusalem”), etc.—as all the while Jesus, the Romans, the Blessed Virgin, and others staged their scenes in cinematic still shots. Whenever a station was done, we were led in an off-key chorus of the slave spiritual “Were You There When They Crucified My Lord?”

And the red wagon rolled on.

Along the way, St. Veronica’s veil blew out of her hands, tumbled across the grass towards the road, and threatened to blind oncoming traffic (what a sign that would have been: a bed sheet with Jesus’ face on it, plastered to your windshield).

When we got to “Jesus is stripped,” everyone grew nervous, but we were relieved to find the dying Lord permitted some biker’s pants and a T-shirt. His little brother, an onlooker, didn’t cotton to his sibling’s crucifixion and had to be taken away, squalling. And finally, Jesus proved too heavy to lift, so his paper-mâché tomb had to be raised and settled over him like a pot lid.

In the end, the wagon rolled to a stop, the priest blessed the event, and we dispersed for veneration.

As I said, in the past, I would have felt cheated by all this. But instead, I was both moved by the effort, by the incongruities, and also shamed at my conceit. What had I expected, after all? This is a small place; the level of talent here can only be so great; the resources, only so deep. The church is basic—take off the cross and they could be selling car insurance inside. But the plans were no doubt cheap, and the roof keeps the priest dry when he says mass.

Did I really expect Chartres here?

All I know is that better people than I—parents, children, the old—give what they have, knowing that what they do is not enough, or unmindful of whether it is. Offering a broken voice is better than offering none; a mess of a tribute is better than self-conscious silence; the widow’s mite was not only small, but likely dirty as well—yet....

And now I wonder if my offerings have always been so paltry because I’ve wanted them to be so perfect.

But perfect for whom? For me, it seems; and therefore, they will never be perfect, because they are disordered. The irony of grand gifts is that they are often not gifts at all—but monuments to vanity; a generosity inverted. They need not be, but that is the danger.

I live far away now from the rural South of my youth, in a big Eastern city. There are many beautiful cathedrals here—many grand and holy rituals. And I still wish the same for those small places I visit. But if it cannot be, it is more important that it simply is.

I believe God was pleased at what He saw in the parking lot—the great act happened there on that Friday, just the same.

And it was good.