During my recent episcopal visit to St. James, Endeavour, I was struck, quite unexpectedly and quite deeply, by a beautiful set of painted Stations of the Cross. They were reverent without being ornate, prayerful without being precious.
I found myself lingering at each station, grateful for the way art can slow us down and invite us again into the mystery at the heart of our faith.
Although I was raised in a parish that referred to our priests as “Father” and was complete with a rood screen and eastward-facing altar, the Stations of the Cross were not a part of the “Anglicanism” I grew up with. It was not until seminary that I discovered this venerable and ancient tradition was very much a part of the worship and architecture of the Anglican Church.
The Stations of the Cross follow in Jesus’ footsteps from Pontius Pilate’s praetorium to the tomb. In the 16th century, this pathway was officially entitled the “Via Dolorosa” (Sorrowful Way) or simply Way of the Cross. In 1462, an English pilgrim named William Wey visited the Holy Land and is credited with the term “stations.”
Before this time, the path usually followed the reverse course of ours today: moving from Mount Calvary to Pilate’s house. At the time of Wey, the reverse, going from Pilate’s house to Calvary, seems to have taken hold.
What moved me most about the Stations in the Endeavour parish was not only the artistry, but what the Stations represent within our Anglican life. For some, the Stations of the Cross feel very “high church or Catholic,” perhaps even unfamiliar. For others, they are a beloved devotional practice, grounded in Scripture, silence and embodied prayer.
Our Anglican tradition has never been about enforcing a single expression of worship. Rather, it has sought to hold together reverence and accessibility, beauty and simplicity, word and sacrament. In one parish we may encounter chanted liturgy and incense; in another, spoken prayer and a kitchen table Eucharist.
Neither is more faithful than the other. Both, when offered with care and prayer, draw us closer to Christ.
Any Anglican who has travelled and had the joy of worshipping in an Anglican Church that is not their home parish knows that, although these differences exist and are indeed integral to our identity, so too is the sense of familiarity we encounter in Anglican churches the world over.
Herein lies a paradox that further emphasizes the richness of what it means to be Anglican. In every Anglican church in the world, you will find an altar and a font. The placement of the altar and font will vary greatly from church to church. We hold dear commonalities while still being able to celebrate differences.
Standing there at St. James, Endeavour, I was reminded how Anglicanism, at its best, makes generous room for both experiences and for everything in between. The Stations at St. James, Endeavour did exactly that. They told the story of Jesus’ passion in a way that was grounded, human, and quietly powerful.
They reminded me that theology is not only something we say; it is something we walk, something we see, something we carry in our bodies and hearts.
I give thanks for every one of our parishes and for the faithful creativity they represent in sacred space and worship. May we continue across the Church to cherish the wide, gracious space of Anglican worship and common life, where many paths meet at the foot of the same cross, and where Christ continues to meet us, exactly where we are.