4th Week of Lent - The Way of the Cross

"There followed him a great crowd." St. John, 6:2

"He suffered under Pontius Pilate." Creed.

Among the heroes of World War Number One was a young man by the name of Joyce Kilmer. A convert to the Catholic Church, Kilmer was a well-known poet, the author of the poem we love so much, "Trees", which begins with the haunting lines, "I think that I shall never see, a poem lovely as a tree."

Although he had a wife and three children, he enlisted as a private. In the service he could write few poems. One of these efforts, he calls, "Prayer of a Soldier in France." When his pack grows heavy, he thinks of the cross on Christ's shoulder; when his feet burn, he remembers the pierced feet; when officers shout and curse, he recalls the shouting mob; when his rifle hand grows numb and stiff, he thinks of the nailed hands of Jesus.

From the sufferings of Christ this poet-soldier drew courage in his own sufferings. In the middle of Lent we want to meditate on the way of the cross, too, because it was one of Christ's principal pains. We will join that great crowd that followed Him. Those stations lining the walls of the church will help us keep our thoughts on the main steps of that painful procession.

After the torture of the whips and thorns, the week-kneed Pilate, wish­ing to satisfy Christ's enemies, "handed him over to them to be crucified." St. John, 19:16. A coward's crime, to condemn an innocent man in order to save his own job. Perhaps we sometimes play the part of Pilate. We make Christ suffer by preferring evil to good, by choosing dishonesty, impurity, and unkindness in preference to honesty, purity and charity.

Roman and Jewish law demanded that the execution follow the sentence as soon as possible. Between eleven and twelve o'clock on that first Good Friday Pilate condemned Christ to crucifixion. His enemies lost no time in carrying out that cruel sentence, as we see in the second station.

The cross is brought forth. Tenderly Christ embraces it, lovingly He kisses it, as the rough wood bears down on His wounded shoulder. The painful procession starts, headed by the soldier carrying the so-called cause of the punishment, a tablet on which the governor had written: "Jesus of Nazareth. King of the Jews."

Unintentionally that title paid tribute to the real King, not only of the Jews, but of all men. Soldiers surround our Savior. Behind Him walk the two thieves, carrying their crosses and sur­rounded by other soldiers. Then come the judges, the chief religious rulers of the people on horseback, followed by a large crowd on foot. From roofs and doorways others look on, cursing and blaspheming.

Through the narrow, crowded street they push and prod our Lord. Dragging His heavy cross, He is overcome with weakness, He stumbles and falls to the ground. Roughly they force Him to His feet. In the crowd Christ catches sight of His Blessed Mother. What agony in Mary's soul! Would that she could help Him. The sight of her so saddens Christ that He totters and almost falls.

A strong-looking stranger by the name of Simon of Cyrene is forced to help Him. Had Simon known who the Victim was, he would have gladly gone to His help. You and I know. We have been invited to help. Too often we have to be forced.

Louder and louder grows the shouting as the procession moves, along that street of Sorrows. Th1e heat is smothering; the dust is stifling. Sud­denly a door flies open and a veiled, noble-looking woman rushes through the crowd and past the soldiers. She offers a linen napkin to the tortured Victim, to wipe from His face the blood and sweat and spit and dust. In speechless gratitude Jesus covers His countenance with the cloth, and silently returns it. Veronica takes it quickly into her home, there to find, painted by Divinity Himself, the lines and features of His Sacred Face.

No more such scenes do the soldiers want. They hurry Jesus on, but the effort and exhaustion again make Him fall to the ground. The cruel ex­ecutioners pull Him to His feet, and half drag, half carry Him through the Gates of the Holy City. At the foot of a steep hill a crowd of weeping women meet Him, offering words and tears of consolation. Jesus appreci­ates their pity, but His trembling lips remind them: "Daughters of Jeru­salem, do not weep for me, but weep for yourselves and for your children." St. Luke, 23:28.

Climbing that hill takes all the strength of Christ. Even with the help of Simon our Lord stops, reels with dizzying pain, and crumples in a heap beneath the cross. Four strong soldiers step forward, jerk Him up, and drag both cross and Victim to the top of Calvary.

One would think that hate had had enough. One would think that cruelty had filled its cup. We have followed Jesus along the last mile of His life. For another day we will reserve the consideration of the crucifixion itself.

More we cannot stand.

But those sad and suffering steps, the stations of the cross, will be burned upon our hearts. As we make the stations these Lenten days, remember that you are walking with Christ to Calvary. Realize the pain, the weari­ness, the anguish. Yes, He really suffered. He went through it all, to the lengths of love - for you and for me.
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Adapted from Talks on the Creed
by Fr. Arthur Tonne, 1946