Good Friday

I decided to skip the procession of the cross down the Via Dolorosa, the Way of Sorrows.

Originally only seven Stations, it is now fourteen, the last additions being made in the 19th century. There is little that is historical about the Via. It is entirely symbolic. For many, though, it holds tremendous emotive power. They walked the route, now a busy market way selling slaughtered animals, jeans and trinkets, singing, praying, and reading scripture in every language.

I did attend services at the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, the site, held by tradition, where Jesus was crucified and buried. The liturgy, twenty-seven pages long, was entirely in Latin, and was presided over by the Nuncio. A thousand people, standing for two hours, were pressed in closely around the platform before the tomb. After each of the four Gospel readings we knelt in prayer. Easier said than done when you are crowded so tightly. I couldn’t help but think that it would take only one person, fifty over, to lose his balance and topple all of us.

Even though the Franciscans could use a few singing lessons from the Armenians, and they really do need an Anglican or two to help them with the pomp and liturgy, you could not but be drawn into the deep well of faith that the words, the place, the people represented. At least 1,700 years of Christian tradition reside at this place.

Interestingly, apart from the minor key of the organ, there was little that resembled the Protestant shadow of solemnity and grief that we associate with this day.

I will be back for midnight Easter services Saturday night.