The Way of the Cross

We visit the Pools of Bethesda where Jesus told the paralysed man to pick up his mat and walk. We grab a moment and sing in St Anne's, enjoying the wonderful acoustic. Now for Mass at the Ecce Homo Convent.

Bishop Alan preaches. The disciples had followed Jesus for all kinds of reasons, he tells us: for adventure, to bash the establishment, in the hope of a new political order. They'd arrived in Jerusalem on Palm Sunday to a rapturous welcome: the Kingdom was about to come.

But over the course of a week, everything had taken on a darker tincture. That Last Supper, Judas's betrayal, the scattering of the sheep. We, of course, know the end of the story; for the disciples, they just saw a trap being sprung. Worst of all, Jesus appeared to be doing nothing to stop it. How did that feel?

Jesus allwed himself to be overwhelmed and arrested. "Salvation was wrought not through a rescue by his disciples, not by saving the day and asserting control, but from giving it away," he says. "Where does that leave us?"

God wanted something better, and more painful. "In our leves, there are things we must let go of if we are to find death and resurrection."

Via Dolorosa

In silence, we leave in our three groups and follow the Stations of the Cross. The Via Dolorosa is crowded, the road is uneven. The crowds jostle us; vendors approach with their wares. There are awkward twists and turns along the way. One or two of us lose our footing; some need to be helped along the way by fellow pilgrims, their burdens shared.

At street level, it is close and hot. We are tired and uncomfortably thirsty. We pass through arhces, tunnels even, having to bend and stoop. Half way through we suddenly emerge into daylight, as if coming up for air. A blessed relief; then, just as suddenly, we descend again, and resume the journey of pain and tears.

At best, our silent procession is an object of mild curiosity; largely, the world carries on oblivious and goes about its business.

And then, the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. It is heaving, surging with people; an extraordinary number of pilgrims, singing and praying in their own tongues, all drawn to this holy site.

We enter, lose each other in the gloom; the groups disperse, scatter, reform. There is a press of bodies, incense, sweat. We find our different routes to the foot of the cross. Some are overcome by the moment.

And then - quite suddenly, it seems - we find ourselves in the oasis of the Franciscan Chapel. All 117 of us have somehow gathered: we are a body again. We hear the Easter reading (John 20: 11-18), as Mary meets Jesus in the garden. We sing, we share the Easter Greeting.

Alleluia, Christ is Risen. He is risen indeed: Alleluia!