Each year, the Stations of the Cross liturgy affects me more than I had planned. Annually, I am left wondering: why does this ritual work?
Well, it has much to offer: a narrative with exposition, climax and denouement; characters big and small; blood, gore, politics, virtue, cowardice and a pointer towards mystery. Who and what rolled back the stone? Where is He?
Most Catholics surely understood Pope Francis’ withdrawal from the Colisseum version this year. Undoubtedly it is exhausting but I’ll bet even he might have missed its dose of unexpected power.
Every year, something different hits me, despite its familiarity. I can virtually recite much of it. This year, the role of women left its mark. They observed the gathering horror in their groups, they faithfully stayed -in-place throughout the Jerusalem turmoil, and several took the risk to remain right by the cross till Christ died.
And there was more to this whole ritual, I realised on reflection. It is a good, hybrid form: an effective display of traditional Church practice delivering pretty well to a 21st century field hospital of pilgrims.
Both prosaic and cerebral, it really is a small conundrum. There’s that repetitive physicality to it all – kneel, stand, sing, kneel, stand, sing, repeat fourteen times! Also rosary-like optics – the Our Father followed by the Hail Mary and even the Glory Be, when else do I say that these days? – are rolled out sequentially in a way that becomes vaguely mesmerising. Where else does this happen in post-Vatican Two Church?
Not that I’m seeking a return to more of this tone, no thank you. I like the feel of the 21st century. It was on splendid display at a subsequent 9am children’s Easter Sunday Mass, replete with balloons strung over the altar that were offered to children at the end, and fabulous young cantors introducing the prayers. Maybe the presiding priest was right about the ‘controlled chaos’ brought by the huge crowd. But the overwhelming experience was exuberance that was worthy of bottling – abundant life everywhere.
Back to the Stations. It packs so much into its modest form. My fellow parishioners turned up in very good numbers at 10am and had fulfilled their obligation by 10.42am. As the saying goes, you could have heard a pin drop: that is, there was full, thoughtful attention.
I’ve even had the privilege of walking the real thing in Jerusalem some years back. Can one ever fully absorb the power of seeing those immortal words, Via Dolorosa, in real life or experiencing the Garden of Gethsemane, with that venerable old tree? I doubt it.
But this more humble, transposed version in suburban Sydney – handed down by Franciscans to needy Europeans in probably the 17th century – conferred equivalent meaning to me.
However the words chosen to accompany the ritual, do matter hugely. Last year at my parish, the readings used by the lay reader were excessively emotional and distracting to my ears, harking back to another era. This year, the reflection was moving and appropriate to contemporary consciences. The congregation’s response backed this up.
The Stabat Mater Dolorosa’s dirge-like sonority always challenges me a bit. The rhythm can be so slow, my frustrating trigger-point. Again though I am struck by the emotionality and sensuality within the hymn: body, spirit and expressiveness in equal measure, without apology. One example is stanza seven: ‘Christ she saw, with life-blood failing, All her anguish unavailing, Saw him breathe his very last’.
But it was the conclusion, sending us off to that somewhat liminal pre-3pm stage, that has stayed with me.
‘So seek Me not in far-off places. I am close at hand. Your workbench, office, kitchen, these are altars where you offer love, and I am with you there. Go now! Take up your cross and with your life, complete your way.’
Geraldine Doogue AO is a renowned Australian journalist and broadcaster with experience in print, television and radio. She hosts Saturday Extra with ABC Radio National.