Walking the Crucifixion Route

I always knew it would be an awe-inspiring experience to do the Via Dolorosa, the Way of the Cross, the 13 stations representing Passion Week. Every Good Friday pilgrims pack the streets, following a massive wooden cross, united in spiritual passion. Some even carry their own crosses, wanting to draw close to Christ's sufferings. I'd seen so many pictures in my research, but I never dreamed I'd get to be part such an awesome, unforgettable experience.

Until it drew closer, and I started to dread it. So many people mourning the crucifixion, the Good Friday heaviness multiplied by thousands; what a depressing day. But I couldn't come to Jerusalem on Good Friday and not participate in this. It was the ultimate, something amazing. I had to be part of it. So I set my alarm for 5:30; it started at 9:00 but a taxi driver told me I'd better leave by at least 7:30, preferable 7:00; it was so crowded, streets would be closed off. Of course - why hadn't I thought of that? My excitement mounted.

A taxi driver dropped me off at the wrong place at 7:15, but no problem. I had plenty of time to get there. Then I saw a local said no, don't take a taxi - look, a group is just starting, right there.

What a let-down! 50 people, all responding in some sort of litany thing. I didn't even have the paper. But hey - I had to be part of this. We finished Station #1, all filing out of the church, front rows first, is a solemn ceremony. I followed some people upstairs for Station #2; why wasn't everyone following us?

Because that was the 13th station. It started at 6.

You have never seen a more dejected little face. I sat down on a stone stump, put my chin in my hands and stared at the ground, wailing "God, how could you do this to me? I've...blah, blah blah" Finally I got up. I would not miss the Way of the Cross. How did I get to the beginning?

The minister decided I had two heads. Directions? Whoa. Way too complicated. "Should I take a taxi?" Oh, gracious no, all the streets are closed. You'll have to walk. But I can't tell you how to get there. Just follow the groups backwards. There are groups going all day."

"All day? All day? There are groups going all day?" Dejection, elation... I'm the emotional type. But hold on a second - follow them backwards?

"Oh, sure. You'll see them all over the place. You won't have any trouble at all. Just ask directions here and there. All the locals will know."

Hum. Well, I would not miss the Way of the Cross. Onward Christian soldiers.

Well, he was right. There were processions going all day. All about 15 people. Sadness and woe. But, I would not miss the Way of the Cross. So I followed them backwards, a lovely idea assuming they waited more than two intersections before turning. Finally I started seeing bigger groups, that was encouraging. 50 people was beginning to sound pretty good.

So I dashed down each street as a group came along, pushing people aside in an effort to see what their previous turn was. I was rapidly figuring out that getting two turns per group was joy defined.

Things weren't too bad at first. A lot of groups came, and I got it okay. But apparently it was an early-morning thing, because they got sparser. And sparser. And sparser. Often I waited 20-30 minutes per turn.

Four hours and fourteen zillion frustration-iotas later, I made it to the starting point. St. Mary Magdalia. The place I took a 20-minute taxi ride to yesterday.

Frustration or laughter. The laughter didn't occur to me. But I would not miss the Way of the Cross. Surely an English-speaking group would leave soon. I just had to find out when. I looked for the table of who was in charge. I looked upstairs. I looked downstairs. I looked at the corner.

No table. What? All organized events operates via tables. Sign-up sheets. A point-person, committe-leader...no go. I asked around. Oh, all the tours were pre-arranged. You had to pay in advance through your hotel.

Wait a second? You had to pay to participate in this great spiritual experience? Immorality defined! But I would not miss the Way of the Cross. I'd wait around for an English-speaking group. I'd pay extra.

An English-speaking group? Oh, those were pretty rare. Hopefully one would come along at some point though, and maybe they'll let you join.

I would not miss the Way of the Cross. I would wait.

Oh, but you shouldn't wait here. You need to go to the first station.

Wait a second. You mean I'm not at the first station?

Oh, no. You have to walk a bit to get there. Some groups just meet here. Follow another group, you'll find it without a problem.

More group-following? Oh, grand. But, I'll continue my hunt. I will not miss the Way of the Cross.

Eventually tenacity rewarded itself; I found the first station. Elation defined. People milled about. I bought a Coke and drank it facing into a stone corner; if they couldn't see me, I couldn't get in trouble. Rules or no, my soda was well-earned. An army troop couldn't have kept me from that soda.

All right. Tours. Some Russian groups wandered through, seeming to have already started. A French group. Some Germans. No English. Finally some woe-be-gone Americans asked me where the bathrooms were. Americans? Americans! All praise to God on high! Just a couple? Fine. No tour group. I had people to go with. And Americans, to boot! yee-hah! We decided to do the rest of the stations together, from station #2 on. Station #2?

oh, yes, we couldn't find station number one, so we gave up and started at station #2.

OK, I really felt like giving up by now, but I couldn't miss out on any of the Way of the Cross. This great spiritual experience. Surely I had to do every station. Besides, now God's reasoning is clear. Of course! I need to stay at each station and write about it. Being part of a tour group would distract me terribly; it would never work.

I somehow found out - by some person or other - that a major one was going at 12:00. A major one? The major one! It was it. It did exist. I hadn't missed it. yee-hah! Granted, God's used easier methods in the past, but I would get my Way of the Cross. My great spiritual experience, all those worshipers united.

So I waited for an hour, camera on my lap, staring into space. Finally we left. I was right at the front! The ultimate reward! Go God!

God wasn't into the mercy thing yesterday. Squished to death. I couldn't even keep my balance. It was awful. Tired, frustrated, people singing and chanting in a language I can't even read, let alone understand.

That was it. My grand spiritual experience. My fellow pilgrims, united in spiritual passion. A worship image I'd seen in pictures for years, never dreaming I could be a part of it.

A tenth of a mile later, I dropped out. Thank God! Much better. I could breathe. I could balance. And I didn't have to listen to people reading and yabbering in an unfathomable language.

But, my great spiritual experience still lay in waiting. I would do it myself. I would not miss the Way of the Cross.

I set out for Station #1.

Oh, you were just there. That's where everyone met. It's closed now.

I'd missed a station? What? Well, fine. I'd been at the station. I could remember what it looked like. Now, station number 2. I sat in a church and stared at a stained-glass window, fed up with life. Station #2 was doing no better on great spiritual experiences than Station #1. But at least I knew I was in it. Things were looking up. Finally an African group came in and sang "Yani Sore" for 15 minutes. Not the song "Yani Sore." The phrase "Yani Sore."

First it annoyed me. Then it relaxed me. Finally I struggled to repress laughter. I don't know why. It was that or frustration. Finally they filed out. Great! Now I could ponder the wonder of God in silence. My great spiritual experience at last!

Another group came in and varied the phrase. Oh, who cares! I'm about to crack up by now, and wondering what happened to the poor English couple that were sitting in the middle of it all. At least I was stuck in a chair on the side.

Life didn't get much better. My dreams of a great spiritual experience went out the door by Station #4, where Christ was buried or something, I forget, in some cave-type place. I stood in there drinking another Coke, apologizing to God for having absolutely no spiritual gusto left. I really did feel guilty, but I was just beyond.

Well, life got worse. I got lost on my way to Station #5. Finally some man decided he would help me. I made it to Station #5 panting. "Pray here."

What?

"Pray here. Pray to Mary."

OK...so I pray (not to Mary).

Move to iron grill in the floor. "Here. Pray here."

What?

Pray here.

But why?

Pray here.

OK, then. So I prayed "God, I have no idea why I'm staring down an iron grill praying or what's going on but anyway..."

"Pray here."

"I just did."

"Pray here. Pray to Jesus."

At least it wasn't Mary or iron grating.

Well so it went, to station 7. Finally I said I can do it. "Money." he said. I gave him 3 shekels - .75 US. Sorry, but if you don't ask for money beforehand, you don't get much. Sucks to be you. Aren't I such a sweet nice Christian? sigh. Sweetness was not my middle name by now.

Well, little competent woman that can do it herself, walked in circles until finally ending up back at station 4. oh, dear God. Can I burst into tears? I stared at the wall for awhile, then followed a group. And got lost. And followed a group. you get the idea. More hours, and I was at station #8. Which was closing in half an hour. (By now it was 4:15.)

All right, if every single one of these stations closed in half an hour, and I missed my Way of the Cross, the city would implode. I would ensure it. So I finished my non-existent meditations on my cold stone steps and dashed out the door. Where was station #8?

Oh, there is no station #8. Our tour guide said there are only seven.

What? Only 8 stations in my 13-station Way of the Cross? No way.

I really really really felt like believing him and quitting, but my little booklet said there 14 stations in my 13 station Way of the Cross, and I would do all 14 even if they did close. I would sit outside the church and meditate on the Scripture. I would not miss my Way of the Cross.

I dashed down a street. Where is Station #8?

Oh, just down that street.

Rapid dash. Wrong. Rapid dash back. Nothing. Rapid dash to the right.

A tour group! "Excuse me, do you know where Station #8 is?" I think that's the one we're on. That plaque of there, that's Station #8.

A plaque? One of my great spiritual experience sites is a plaque? Major let-down. But, wait a second... an American accent!

Americans! yee-hah! Pure delight. My day is worth something.

Indeed, it did improve from there. The most wonderful group from Colorado adopted me for an hour. The were so sweet and talkative and inquisitive and affectionate - I even got a hug when we parted ways at the end. The first bit of affection I've gotten since I left home three weeks ago, and I was delighted. I even followed them to the bus, figuring there would be a taxi there. Which there was.

It took me back to the hotel. Ah, paradise! I walked in my room, flopped down on my bed and ordered room service. Ring...ring...ring...ring... answering machine. In Hebrew. I left a message in the hope someone would call me back.

Well they never called and my fruit never came, but by that time breakfast and a candy bar sufficed. I put on my pj's and fell very asleep very fast. For eleven hours - one for each hour of misery, I guess. A final blessing.

Anyhow, I got my Way of the Cross. It and great spiritual experiences are now antonyms, but I got my precious, dreamed-of, awesome-to-be Way of the Cross.

ugh. Never again.

Well, if anyone's gotten this far I'm really impressed. A lot of complaining, I suppose, but it really was the most stressful day of my trip.