The Stations of the Cross is one of the oldest of Christian popular devotions – it is usually dated back to the early 4th century – though the 14 images in Catholic churches only began to appear commonly in the late 17th century. So they have been associated with specifically Catholic, or Anglo-Catholic, iconography.
The Good Friday practice can be seen as a kind of pilgrimage, charting, as it does, Christ’s last day on earth as a man. It was (and is) the custom to follow the Via Dolorosa in Jerusalem as a Holy Week pilgrimage: but those who could not make the journey there physically could follow in spirit.
Though the tradition is old, I find that it can be, psychologically, a journey and a meditation altogether applicable to modern times. We are all condemned to death, and as we age, the more that weighs upon us; we must all carry a cross, and many must face a heavy cross of personal affliction; we all fall – the first time, the second time, the third time.
We all need a Simon of Cyrene to come to our aid, and we all need a St Veronica, metaphorically, to offer comfort. We can all understand the idea of a mother suffering to see the sufferings of a son (or daughter).
In an era when exposure can be remorseless, we may all be “stripped of our garments”. Anyone who has ever been shamed, humiliated, bullied or exposed to ridicule knows about this station in life. There is a growing literature on the experience of those who have been “publicly shamed”, sometimes via the internet. It is a beautiful, though sometimes mentally agonising, devotion, full of truth about the human condition.
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As a springtime birthday treat, a friend took me to see Shakespeare’s Pericles at the Sam Wanamaker Playhouse, within the Globe Theatre at Southwark, London. The play itself is a bit all over the place – unsurprisingly, since Shakespeare himself probably did not write much of it. But the Sam Wanamaker Playhouse is an extraordinary jewel on the banks of the Thames, with a fabulous history behind it.
In design, it’s a faithful model of the Blackfriars Playhouse, which was Shakespeare’s first indoor theatre, built around 1596, constructed on the site of an old monastery at Blackfriars (so called since it was the domain of the Dominican order – the black-and-white friars; each time you alight at the London Underground station you are in their dispossessed territory). After the closure of the monasteries, this site “became available”, and thus did the London theatrical entrepreneur James Burbage construct his Blackfriars theatre, as the first covered-over playhouse in London. The Globe itself has, of course, an open roof and so only performs between May and September.
And now, the Sam Wanamaker Playhouse – named after the American theatrical philanthropist, father of Zoë, who virtually rebuilt Shakespeare’s Globe – hosts plays in this setting, which is still shaped like the Dominican refectory on which it is based. It is small, intimate, somewhat uncomfortable to sit in, but exquisite in design, and the only lighting used is beeswax candlelight. If you use enough candles, you can get brilliant lighting effects. It is altogether amazing, and even if Pericles itself is a bit wobbly as a plot, the performances and production are ace.
Like much of London theatre, it can be difficult to obtain a ticket, because we are living in an age when the theatre is once again hugely popular. And I noticed that plenty of older people were willing to accept the discomfort of the auditorium benches for the experience of reliving the Blackfriars playhouse.
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We have an adopted cat … no, let me rephrase that: a cat has adopted our household (it is well known that while dogs have owners, cats have staff). Anyway, Pussolini simply walked into the side door one day and decided this was her home (maybe her part-home: I suspect she is a bigamist, and has another family). Anyway, during a cold night last week, she disappeared in a huff after an argument over feeding arrangements.
I worried all night about her – but the feline knows where her comfort lies and the prodigal returned, to much rejoicing.
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