On my first retreat at The Springs, I sensed great peace as I settled in. I’d contemplated what it would be like to spend time at a Catholic retreat center. The family I grew up in did not attend church every Sunday. We didn’t even go on Christmas or Easter. Therefore, my religious training was scant.
I had a lot to learn when introduced to Jesus in the early 1980s as a young adult. I still discover gaps in my understanding of religious traditions. The Stations of the Cross is one of those areas I didn’t know much about.
The first night of The Springs retreat we gathered in the chapel. My eyes were drawn to Jesus on the cross. I believe it was the first time I saw his humanness—He was a man. Jesus is God, but I saw him that night as human. It struck me how sad and hard and unnatural it looked to see him hanging there so vulnerable and in need of care. Memories appeared in my mind’s eye of my husband, son, dad, grandpa and friends I’d seen in hospitals, in pain, near death. Men—strong healthy men—injured, ill, vulnerable. They are the ones I lean on and look to and seeing them incapacitated is difficult for me.
Christ on the cross was a startling reminder of the pain he endured and the humility and abuse he met from men he could have overpowered.
He chose not to.
For me.
He.
Chose.
Me.
The following afternoon, I walked the path through the Stations of the Cross. I’d never done this before. Each pure white statue depicted a scene of Christ’s journey from trial to crucifixion and each seemed to emanate an historic peace. This bothered me. I’d read the gospel accounts, and my memory recalled the brutality of this course of events. These colorless sculptures left me with questions so I returned to the quietness of my room to study the scriptures and gain a better understanding of Christ’s final hours.
I did some research and discovered the titles and themes of each of the 14 Stations of the Cross and learned some background. I delved into my Bible searching for truth. (See Matthew 27, Mark 15, Luke 23 and John 19.)
I found it.
Violent.
Harsh.
Abusive.
Quickly I realized that type of punishment couldn’t be fully reflected in cream-colored carvings. I’m uncertain if I’ll ever fully understand His horrendous yet supernatural sacrifice. That is not a pretty, holy, serene looking Jesus. He endured more than most of us will in a lifetime.
Deeply humbled and nearly in a state of shock, I allowed the gravity of that tragic injustice to soak deep. The profound truth of Christ’s unwavering expression of faithfulness, love and obedience to the Father’s will silenced my mind and granted me peace as I prayed:
Oh, God I don’t ever want to discount or squander your sacrifice and the unimaginable cost you paid to save my soul. It’s so valuable and heavy I can barely carry it.
© Kim Bagato 2011
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