living stationsWhen you're in charge of a small(er) congregation--one clergy, assorted overworked laity, aging population, never enough money, sometimes it seems as if we're always scraping by, making do, improvising.
St. C's tradition is Stations of the Cross on Good Friday evening (Prayer Book liturgy at noon). We gathered last night. On previous occasions, I am told the youth had done it, but on other occasions, I was told, people simply rose and read each station.
Last night, that's what we did. I started us off, then, one by one, people rose and went to each station. I looked round and there were people waiting at each station, wanting to take their turn. And there were teens and adults, well-off and struggling, accents from across the country and across the world, women and men, varying cultural origins. . .
When one of the women in our congregation, who I believe is originally from Ghana, and a mother of two beautiful young women herself, read the 13th station, (Jesus is laid in the arms of his mother), there was hardly a dry eye in the building.
In the quiet dignity, in the mix of those gathered, in the ancient collects and prayers--Good Friday was more real to me than hours of "The Passion of the Christ."
Thanks be to God.