Delivered at First Presbyterian Church
Birmingham, Michigan
Scripture: Matthew 27:32-37
March 25, 2005 - Good Friday
Although, as a pastor, I have kept many a death watch, I have never been on a death march….my own, or anybody else’s. I have never done the “dead man walking” thing. Although, like many of you, I have seen the Dead Man Walking movie. Twice, however, I have been to Dauchau, a scant thirty miles from Munich, where I have walked from the barracks where the dead men lived (and no, that is not an oxymoron) and walked to the chambers where the dead men died. And four times I have been to Jerusalem and walked the Via Dolorosa where Jesus walked….and, at the end of which, Jesus died.
Only a few verses of the Gospel (less than a handful, really) are devoted to our Lord’s walk from Pilate’s court to Golgotha’s hill. But because the facts are so few and far between, it is hardly surprising that a host of elaborations, exaggerations, even blatant additions have grown up around what little the Bible gives us. That Jesus stumbled and fell….that he met and spoke with his mother along the way….that a woman named Veronica (not to be confused with Archie’s girlfriend) wiped his brow with her veil to the degree that his face became imprinted upon it…. these are all traditions (I dare not call them legends) that have evolved over the centuries.
It took a thousand years, but these embellishments were gradually organized into what eventually became the most familiar devotional practice of the Christian world….namely, the Stations of the Cross. Not that people walked them in the beginning. But by the early part of the 17th century, we know that the Franciscans….whom the Pope had named custodians of the holy sites….were leading barefoot pilgrims to Jerusalem through the stations, every Friday evening. Originally there were eight regular stops along the street (where prayers would be offered or hymns would be sung). And the experience became so popular that pilgrims to Jerusalem, desirous of recreating it for others when they got back home, began installing miniature versions of the Stations, both inside and outside their churches. Eventually the eight stations grew to fourteen, with Pope Clement XII finally locking in on that number, early in the 18th century.
As devotions to the Stations spread, artists went to work, depicting them in every medium from stained glass to oil. Which meant that artistic imagination was layered upon historic imagination, so that the biblical scholar was left to say: “The Stations of the Cross are lovely….even moving….but it is difficult to vouch for their authenticity.”
Still, every Christian should walk the Via Dolorosa at least once. It covers but a few blocks of Jerusalem’s old city. There are, as I remember it, a couple of corners where turns must be made. Signs exist, but one must keep watch for them. It is possible to become sidetracked, even lost. Footwork must be monitored, given that the paving stones are uneven and the elevations change frequently. It is, after all, a very old city….the streets scarcely wider than alleys….the shops flush up against the curbings….and, unless the shops are shuttered, the foot traffic is enormous.
Every pilgrim is, at one and the same time, a tourist. And every tourist is a customer. At least a potential customer. Which means that while you are looking down (to mind your step)….and looking up (to find the Stations)….the merchants are honing in, trying to lure you into their shops. Which is sometimes done with coffee (thick and bitter)….wine (syrupy and sweet)….or banter (which has been polished across centuries of selling). They are waiting to sell you olive wood (which I have bought)….antiquities (which I have bought)….pottery, old and new (which I have bought)…. falafel and baklava (which I have bought and eaten)….religious souvenirs, “a lovely dress from Israel for your wife back home”, even woven wall hangings and miniature carpets (all of which I have bought). What I am telling you is that it is hard to stay focused and empty-of-hand while tracing the journey of Jesus from the Antonio Fortress (Pilate’s place) to the Church of the Holy Sepulchere (the crucifixion place).
Not that you can be sure about either place….or any of the places in between. That’s because Old Jerusalem has been leveled and rebuilt since the days of Jesus. Meaning that the street grid has been altered at least a dozen times since the first century. And even where a new street closely follows the route of the old, the old is (at a minimum) 18-20 feet below the new. Each reconstruction, you see, built atop the debris from before. The only way to be sure you are retracing the literal footsteps of Jesus is to walk the Sea of Galilee….given that the shoreline has the best chance of being the sure line. That is, if that matters.
To me, it never does. It is enough to simply be in the area….to know that I am close….and to know that Jerusalem was as unspiritually chaotic then as it is now. It was a city….and still is a city….a city filled with people coming and going, buying and selling, eating and drinking, talking and laughing. People may not have known what was “going down” then….or who was “going down” then….any more than present-day citizens of Jerusalem know who is “going through” now (as tourists retrace the steps of Jesus with guidebooks, hymn books and pocket-sized versions of the New Testament). The Via Dolorosa is neither a religious shrine nor a historical recreation. Yet to walk it, as a pastor, is to wish that every one of your parishioners could walk it with you.
What is known (from the limited description the Bible gives us) is that a stranger in town….a foreigner, really….one Simon of Cyrene, was conscripted to carry the cross for Jesus. Actually, he was conscripted to carry the crossbeam (the side-to-side beam, not the top-to-bottom beam….the top-to-bottom beam being already embedded in the ground of the killing field, as it were). Historians who have patiently dug out the details of first-century history have told us that the Roman army had the power to requisition goods and services from ordinary citizens, even onlookers and strangers. And in the case of Simon, this is apparently what happened. The implication being that Jesus was too weak to carry the crossbeam by himself. But that is all we know about his walk from here to there….or from there to here (depending upon whether you start from the Antonio Fortress and look forward, or from the Church of the Holy Sepulchere and look back). The old spiritual says: “Nobody else could walk it for him.” But, in the person of Simon, we know of at least one who walked it with him.
Last night, in a much-beloved hymn we Methodists love to sing (“Are ye able, said the Master, to be crucified with me?”), I said that I was. Or at least I sang that I was. I’d like to believe myself up to it….crucifixion, I mean. But I don’t know. When it comes to crosses, I haven’t signed up for any lately. Nor am I planning to in retirement. Oh, if one appears suddenly, maybe instinct will take over and there won’t be time to talk myself out of it (or excuse myself from it). After all, I still carry a note from my mother excusing me from Calvary on Friday….or was that gym class on Wednesday? But I am not sure Jesus is looking for martyrs, so much as the company of a few good walkers. And I can do that. At least I think I can do that.
The most interesting person I have met this Lent is doing exactly that. She is a nun who lives and works locally. Although she doesn’t look like the nuns of my childhood, meaning that she wears ordinary clothing and blends nicely into the environment. She did not always live and work in the suburbs. Rather, her roots are in Detroit. Where, over the course of the last thirty years, members of her family have experienced, firsthand, the pain of crime and societal disintegration. A rape. An assault with a knife. A carjacking. A mugging. Several break-ins. Frightened, she moved away. And stayed away.
Until recently, that is. Now, as a part of her spiritual journey, she returns. Not to work, but to walk. Every Friday afternoon she drives into a section of the city….cases it by car….parks in a public place….prays against her dashboard….and then walks a block (two, three) in every direction….taking note of the people, the houses, the stores….offering the streets to God….the people to God….herself to God. Letting the anger melt. Facing the fear that remains as the anger recedes. Healing, ever so slowly, the pain of memory. Walking with Jesus the streets where dreams were crucified.
"Are you careful?” I ask.
“Yes,” she answers.
“Are you afraid?” I continue.
“Sometimes, but less than when I started,” she answers.
“Do you see some ministry or charity growing out of all this?” I inquire.
“Perhaps,” she says. “But I don’t think about that yet. For now, it just seems important that I walk.”
Do I understand that? Not really. Am I moved by that? Profoundly. How best can I translate that? Perhaps these lines will help.
