Cross walking

The fifth Station of the Cross, “Simon of Cyrene with Christ” by Titian (1565). Museo del Prado, Madrid.

Originally posted Feb. 8, 2012, at Crossing the Jabbok. Republished with permission of the author.

Editor’s note: Jim Foster is an ELCA pastor in Holland, Mich. He was called to the ordained ministry following a career in corrections.

One of my favorite memories is a childhood memory of the Stations of the Cross on Good Friday.

Tall, gangly, gentle Father Clem, in sandals and a long, dark, hooded robe, would lead a parade of children from station to station along the outer perimeter of the sanctuary, pausing at each plaque on the wall to read another brief chapter in the story of Jesus’ walk to his death on the cross, lead us in a short litany, then move to the next plaque.

Westerns like “Gunfight at the O.K. Corral” had taught me how crowds can turn on their leaders and abandon them, so deep down I always knew how this sad story would end.

I remember waiting for Peter to deny Jesus three times before the cock crowed, hoping this year, this time he would have to courage to acknowledge their friendship, certain he would not.

I remember thinking how strange it would feel to be in the shoes of Simon of Cyrene, a friend of a friend of a friend, yanked out of whatever he’d been doing to help this dying young man carry that heavy, awkward wood cross to his death. How it was that a stranger came to Jesus’ aid when his closest friends would not.

And I remember feeling the shame of bullies stripping off your clothes and then tossing dice in a back alley to see who’d win them.

I remember my mother at my side throughout the service, as surely as Jesus’ mother had been at her son’s side, and I think now as a parent and grandparent how horrific it would be to have watched a crowd of priests and civil servants and neighbors and friends walk your own son to his death.

I think of all of that every year on Good Friday. I remember all of those images and all of those sad feelings, and yet all of that I remember with fondness and warmth.

A place for me

I knew the story, and I knew there was a place for me in that story and a place for Jesus in my story.

Even though I almost always came to church alone, I knew there was a place for me in that church. There was a place for me in that long, sad walk with Father Clem. There was a place for me in the life of Christ.

That is why we do church. That is why we drag our kids and ourselves out of homework and housework and into the sanctuary, to read the same story from the same book year after year after year.

Embedded in our hearts

We do it to embed that story in our hearts so that our hearts can be embedded in Jesus.

We do it to prepare for the time when each of us must carry our cross — when our friends betray us or deny us or abandon us and only strangers come to help us. when bullies strip us naked and then laugh at what they see.

We do it so that when we make those dark crossings, we will know and our children will know with absolute certainty that we are not alone, that we are not unloved and that there is a place for us, and there is a life for us.

We become what we do. So we practice doing that story so that when we stumble our way into our own private Golgothas we will remember that the cross we are given to carry does not lead us to death — it leads us through death, into Easter.

They compelled a passer-by, who was coming in from the country, to carry his cross; it was Simon of Cyrene, the father of Alexander and Rufus. Then they brought Jesus to the place called Golgotha (which means the place of a skull). And they offered him wine mixed with myrrh; but he did not take it. And they crucified him, and divided his clothes among them, casting lots to decide what each should take (Mark 15:21-22).

Find a link to Jim Foster’s entry on the blog Crossing the Jabbok at Lutheran Blogs.

You might also like to read:
We are an Easter people in a Good Friday world
Praying with an open heart
The view from the cross