Along the Via Dolorosa by Valerie Ronald

The streets of Old Jerusalem are silent witnesses to centuries of history. Their narrow, winding passageways still echo with the tramp of soldier’s boots and the soft scuff of barefooted pilgrims. One route in particular bears an ancient Latin name descriptive of an event that changed the world. The Via Dolorosa, meaning “way of suffering”, is believed to be the path that Jesus walked on the way to His crucifixion. The winding route covers a distance of about 600 metres, marked by nine Stations of the Cross based on biblical accounts of events leading up to the death of Jesus.

I am not a traditional Lenten observer. For medical reasons, I cannot fast from food, and I do not feel a driving necessity to abstain from much in my simple lifestyle in order to remember what Christ went through. What I have done in my decades as a believer is spend the season of Lent walking with Him through His Passion; a mental pilgrimage down the Via Dolorosa, if you will. Considering the eternal impact of the events leading up to the cross, there are not a lot of descriptive details in the gospel accounts. As I repeatedly, thoughtfully read each account, I imagine myself in the various scenes or as the different characters. It is how it all becomes real to me, hearing the sounds, seeing the faces, smelling the odors of dust and blood and seething crowds. I walk the Via Dolorosa alongside my beloved Lord and Savior. His way of suffering brings paths of tears down my cheeks with each step I take.

Following is what I imagine Simon of Cyrene may have experienced in his singular encounter with Jesus.

Simon of Cyrene   

Drawn by the roar of an excited mob, I stepped out from a narrow Jerusalem street into a scene of mayhem. I, Simon, had traveled far from my home in Cyrene to celebrate Passover on the Temple Mount, never expecting to come upon such chaos on a Feast Day. Fists punching the air, voices yelling invectives, the crowd surged closer to the entrance of the Praetorium. I found myself absorbed in the seething throng, jostled and pushed until I was thrown up against the open gate.

The object of the crowd’s ridicule hardly seemed worth their fury. Surrounded by a company of Roman soldiers, a man beaten and bloodied beyond recognition struggled under the burden of a heavy beam. I winced at the gruesome sight of the prisoner’s back laid open by brutal flogging and his limbs purple and swollen from countless blows. I had seen condemned prisoners before but none tortured so viciously. The man’s face was a mass of open flesh where his beard had been plucked out; his brow gouged by the long, cruel thorns pressed on his head. Blood filled the hollows of his eyes, running down his chin to pool on the paving stones at his feet. I thought of my sons, Alexander and Rufus, relieved they were not here to witness this atrocity.
 
“Crucify him! Crucify him!”, screamed the mob while soldiers goaded the prisoner forward through the gate. His clothing hung in bloodied shreds, still I recognized remnants of the tasseled stole of a rabbi. Could this be the rabbi I had heard stories about ever since arriving in Jerusalem? The one rumored to have healed the sick and raised the dead? Some even linked the title Messiah to his name. Surely he did not deserve this inhuman treatment.

I wanted to shut out the awful procession; close my eyes to the pain and blood, my ears to the labored gasps for air, my nose to the reek of sweat, but I could not. The prisoner sagged beneath the weight of the rough timber, stumbled then collapsed to his knees at my feet. Sentenced to die, he was forced to carry the beam of his own cross to the place of crucifixion but he could go no further. 

Suddenly rough soldier hands grabbed me, shoving me toward the man on the ground, shouting at me to pick up the beam and carry it for him. I felt the sharp prod of a Roman spear in my side and knew I must obey or die. As I stooped to lift the blood-slick beam, the condemned man raised his head to look at me. Roaring mob, forceful soldiers, the smell of blood faded before that capturing gaze. The pain and suffering creasing the man’s brow and squinting his eyes could not diminish the absolute love blazing out. I felt my heart suspend its beat for the length of that look, only to take it up again as a renewed heart, an alive heart touched by this almost-dead rabbi. 

Hefting the rough wood across my shoulders, I felt sticky blood staining my hands but was not repulsed. Instead, strength coursed through my limbs, enough to grip the beam with one hand, reaching down my other to help the bleeding man to his feet. The crowd parted as we moved towards Golgotha.

(based on Mark 15:21)

Valerie Ronald lives in Portage la Prairie, Manitoba. She is a graduate of Vancouver’s Langara College journalism program, and has worked as a newspaper reporter, freelance writer, public speaker and bookstore employee.Valerie finds being a member of the Manitoba Christian Writers Association has honed her writing skills and confidence. She writes devotionals for her home church bulletins and her online blog. Her current book project chronicles how God’s faithfulness saw her through the dark valleys of divorce and cancer. Along with her husband, Valerie enjoys spending time with their blended family and six grandchildren.She is a nature photographer, water colorist, cat lover and Scrabble addict.
    

More of her devotionals can be read on her blog   https://scriptordeus.wordpress.com

My Hope is Christ Alone by Lynn Dove

Via Dolorosa (“Way of Grief” in Latin) or Via Crucis – Way of the Cross, is a road in the old city of Jerusalem, a path where Jesus was led away in agony, carrying His cross through the streets after he had been judged, tried, tortured and condemned to be crucified on a cross on Golgotha Hill.

Christians around the world, and even in my small town of Cochrane, Alberta, will walk the “Way of the Cross” on Good Friday, in remembrance of Jesus’ sacrifice for us on the cross.  There are a total of 14 stations along this “walk”, where the Easter Story will be read and hymns of remembrance will be sung. For many years, my husband and I have attended this solemn walk, gathering alongside those in our community who choose to remember Christ’s life, death and His victory over death on Resurrection Sunday.

The traditional 14 Stations of the Cross originally began as a Roman Catholic devotion and is commonly done during the season of Lent, on Good Friday, however of the 14 Stations, only eight are explicitly mentioned in the Gospels.  Thus, in 1991, Pope John Paul II introduced a new form of devotions called the Scriptural Way of the Cross, that are grounded in Scripture.  It is this devotion, that our ecumenical community adheres to each year, as we walk in procession down the main street of Cochrane.  Our final stop is at the cenotaph, where the cross, that has been carried along by various members of the church congregations, is raised beside the bowed head of the bronze serviceman statue.  A white cloth is draped over the cross brace as the crowd silently disperses.  On the morning of Easter Sunday, the white cloth is replaced with a purple one and we greet one another with “HE IS RISEN!” 

“He is Risen Indeed!”

Over these many years, I have lost loved ones to sickness and tragic circumstances.  I have attended their funerals and I miss them.  I grieve for a loved one’s passing, but I seldom remember the exact day someone died.  I don’t feel the need to memorialize them every year, on their “death day” nor do I visit their graves.  I’m not being heartless, I just firmly believe they have left the confines of their earthly bodies and are experiencing their eternal reward.  They are not “present” on earth anymore.  I rejoice for those who are in the arms of Jesus, and I grieve over those who are eternally separated from God because of their unbelief.  I have confidence when I die, I will be reunited in Heaven with those who have accepted Jesus as their Lord and Saviour.  I look forward to this reunion with great anticipation and joy.  Death does not scare me. 

Why?

Jesus’ Life, Death and Resurrection is my surety of life after death.  If I believe the Scriptures to be true, and I wholeheartedly do, I do not grieve like the rest of mankind, who have no hope, for I believe that Jesus died, was buried and rose again, and I believe God will bring with Jesus those who have fallen asleep in him.  The Lord will come down from heaven, and the dead in Christ will rise first, and those still alive will be caught up together in the clouds to meet the Lord in the air.  And so we will be with the Lord forever! (Paraphrased from 1 Thessalonians 4:13-18)

“In Christ Alone my hope is found

He is my light, my strength, my song

This Cornerstone, this solid ground

Firm through the fiercest drought and storm…” 

(“In Christ Alone” written by Keith Getty and Stuart Townend)