During the forty days of Lent, especially on Good Friday, many Catholic churches (and an increasing number of Protestant ones) pay particular attention to the Way of the Cross and its stations. In some churches fourteen small crosses can be seen on the wall, sometimes paired with Roman numerals. Other churches present artistic representations of the stations. A quick surf of the web shows the many and varied artistic representations of the Way of the Cross. In this article I seek to explore the proclamatory impact of artistic expressions of the Way of the Cross. I ask: How does it guide us, as followers of Christ, on our spiritual journey? How does the portrayal of Christ’s suffering move and touch us, from the inside out? And where does the proclamatory power actually reside: in the text or in the image itself?
The proclamatory effect of the various visual representations would seem to be especially evident where artists have deviated from the more familiar iconographic imagery. These ‘different’ images somehow compel us to look more closely and to search inquiringly into what the different stations want to say to us. We are slowed down by the strangeness and individuality of the images; challenged to go beyond our often taken-for-granted assumptions about this devotional ritual. The peculiarity of the images encourages us to remain open to their eloquence, and reminds us that they are much more than ‘small devotional tableaux with a story’.
A lovely example of a set of ‘different’ images can be seen in the Way of the Cross in St. Peter’s Basilica in Boxmeer, the Netherlands. Made in 1960 by the then thirty-year-old Limburg artist, Frans Deumes (1930-1986), this Way of the Cross consists of sixteen large pieces.1 In addition to the usual fourteen stations, this particular representation begins with ‘Gethsemane on the Mount of Olives’ and ends with ‘the resurrection’. Short Scriptural texts are visible under each of the stations. The descriptions attached to each station do not make use of the more customary, traditional titles (such as: ‘Jesus falls for the second time’) and neither are the stations numbered. In this article I stand and inquire into four of the stations, which are incorporated into this article as colour images. My intention is not to focus on the colours (such as the dominant oranges, blues and greens) but to pause and meditate on the form of the images.
Those who Look On
When we view this particular Way of the Cross in its entirety, we see Jesus in all of the stations with, at the most, two other people. Particularly noticeable is the coarseness of the lines and of the features of the human figures: coarse hands and feet, large eyes and a very heavy representation of the face. At the fourth station (picture 1) we see three men, including Jesus. In the foreground is Jesus, on his knees and clasping the cross with both hands. The cross lies on its side and Jesus is clinging to it. It looks as if he is trying to haul himself up. The concentration in the face of Jesus is palpably visible. His eyes are lifted up. In the colour images, the redness of the thorns in his ‘crown’ stands out.
Behind the kneeling Jesus, two men look on. The figure on the right (facing) stands cross-legged with his right arm across his waist and his left arm raised, the fingers touching his left temple; it looks as though he is sticking out his tongue. The figure on the left stands with his left arm across his waist and his right arm raised, the hand cupping the chin. The body language suggests that here are two people, onlookers, who are nosily intrigued but ultimately indifferent to the events unfolding in front of their eyes.
Although the fourth station is clearly a visual representation of the text: ‘Jesus falls for the first time under the cross’, the actual text which sits beneath it reads: ‘He is wounded for our transgressions’ (Isaiah 53:5). Is this what I see happening?
If we follow the gaze of Jesus, he is looking into the church, in the direction of the apse. Here I see Jesus looking intently towards the Father. In his eyes and his kneeling posture I see utter concentration and supplication. Jesus is searching for guidance from his Father and pleading for the strength to endure what lies ahead of him. But even though I find this an exquisite representation of Jesus, it is the two men in the background who really capture my attention. With their closed-in body language, what is going on in them? Behind them is a wall but directly behind them this wall loses its form and is replaced by darkness. I see a fracture, a fissure, a chasm: the abyss of death. The man on the left, and the man on the right with his raised eyebrow, both look bored to death. It seems to me that they look on without being touched by what they see. They do not see how Jesus has taken up his cross and is attempting to raise himself up with it. They keep themselves at a distance, which contrasts markedly with the intense solidarity between Jesus and his Father.
These men mirror me, a spectator: one who looks on. I see their image and become aware of my own way of looking. Am I, like them, an interested though ultimately indifferent spectator? The judgment I make about the stance and attitude of these two men is turned back onto me. In looking at them, I become aware of myself. The text beneath the image (‘He is wounded for our transgressions’) reinforces my identification with the two men. This is not about finding fault in them (the other) but about recognising my own faults; the ways in which I also fall short in my relationship with God. Will I allow myself to be touched by Jesus who has fallen beneath the burden of his cross? By looking for his salvation from the Father he is, at the same time, pointing the way to me. He calls me to turn around.
Solidarity
The next station, the fifth, shows Jesus with his mother (picture 2). I immediately notice how mother and son are looking intently into each other’s eyes. In this image, both figures are of the same height and have the same broad feet. The cross stands between them. Jesus clasps the cross with his right hand, and with his left his mother’s hand. Their hands are beautifully and tenderly intertwined. The two people and the cross are like a trinity: distinct but closely interdependent.
Under this station of the cross hangs a text from Lamentations (2:13): ‘Vast as the sea is your sorrow’. In Mary’s eyes we see her sorrow. Her mouth is closed, her eyes full of affliction. She looks into her son’s eyes and he looks at her. Mother and son, they speak no words to each other, but in the intensity of their gaze they express what is essential. If we take a look at the book of Lamentations, we read: ‘Yes, vast as the sea is your ruin, who will heal her?’ and it becomes clear that only God can heal this breach, this ruin, her ruin, vast as the sea.
Words from a poem by the Dutch artist Hein Walter come to mind and compel me to look even more deeply at the image which stands in front of me:2
A mother is familiar with her child, she knows her child.
She hears what he is not saying, she sees what he does not reveal.
Their eyes met each other, a moment,
an eternity. They said nothing,
but everything.
The child knew himself recognized, knew himself known.
She carried the cross that he carried, she wept
the tears which he could have cried, she felt
the pain that, for a moment, he did not feel.
This poem of Hein Walter compels me to look from Mary’s perspective. What I now see in the image is that Mary’s shoulder is under the cross. Her knee is bent; she is helping Jesus carry his cross. But then, when I look at Jesus, I see a reversal: it is he who is carrying Mary’s cross. With his right hand, I see how he takes the cross away from her, and with his left hand moves her hand away from it. I see him in this picture once again taking up the cross. And he does it for Mary; for her alone. The image touches me deeply. I am reminded that Jesus does not just take up the cross for the whole of humanity but for every person; for each one of us.
Once again, I look at Mary. The sorrow that I see in her eyes expresses powerlessness. Meanwhile she moves with her entire being towards Jesus. They said nothing, but at the same time everything.
Encounter
At the ninth station (picture 3) we encounter three figures: Jesus, a woman and a child. The text beneath it is from Zechariah (12:10): ‘They shall mourn for him as one mourns for one’s own son’. This is the station where Jesus meets and consoles the weeping women of Jerusalem.
When we look at the woman in this image, we see that she is covering her eyes with her left hand and that tears are running down the line of her nose. She holds her right hand in a strange, almost cramped position on her stomach. She weeps as for the child of her womb; for her own son. She would seem to be the same woman who appears in the fifth station: Jesus’ mother, Mary. But here, at this station, she does not look Jesus in the eyes. Her head is bowed and turned away from him. For a moment she has withdrawn into herself and cries bitterly.
Jesus also has tears in his eyes. He directs his gaze to the woman. He sees her and appears to be speaking to her. Whilst he is looking at her, he holds the cross. His large right hand is raised behind the woman as if he wants to comfort her by putting it on her shoulder, but he does not do so. It looks as if his left hand is already fixed to the cross; without a nail, but riveted. Is Jesus trying to console the woman with the cross? Although the woman has turned and hides her face from him, her head is bowed towards Jesus, as if she longs for the consolation he can give. Or, described otherwise, she receives the consolation that he offers.
I notice Jesus’ eyes; they do not look in the same direction. The right eye looks to the woman, but the left eye that is wet with tears, appears to stare blindly into space. This eye seems to be looking at us, the spectators, offering to console us.
Lastly, the child stands with his back to us. His right hand touches the cross and the left reaches for the stomach of the woman (mother). In this way the child makes the connection between womb and cross. The feet of the child are not visible. Although it is possible that his feet are so small and narrow that his heels are hidden from view, they look to me as if they are buried in the ground; disappearing into, and rooted in the darkness.
This is the only image in this set of stations where a child can be seen. Next to the large, coarse figures the child looks slight but strong. Is he the woman’s child? Is this the young Jesus? Does the child seem to want to imitate Jesus? As a young human being he does what Jesus does: he reaches out for the cross and tries to console the woman. The child reaches his small hand out to her stomach. In this beautiful image I see a young child making a profound connection between the beginning and end of Jesus’ life with a simple gesture. Or is this child trying to tell us that the cross is the way to new life? While I look at the image, I realize that I have started reasoning. I try to look at the image again. I see the child with its back turned to us, as if this child has stepped forward from our midst, giving us an example to follow.
Crucifixion
The twelfth station (picture 4) provides the final image for this reflection. Once again, the artist Frans Deumes has produced a very individual composition, the theme of which is: ‘Jesus is nailed to the cross’. Two men are present in this image: Jesus, who hangs on the cross and the one who nails him to it. This second figure is bowed over with his back and rear facing Jesus. He stands with outstretched legs; with his right hand he lifts up a sledgehammer. His long right arm is raised high above his head. Looking at his posture we can anticipate the awful power of the sledgehammer which is about to come down and pierce Jesus’ feet.
Jesus hangs on the cross. His arms are spread wide whilst his legs are being forced together. His feet are being nailed to the cross and blood flows over his left foot into the gaps between his toes. The palm of his large right hand with its curled-up, pain-racked fingers face us. There is a nail visible in this hand and blood runs down it onto his forearm. We see only the back of his left hand which seems to be clutching at the cross.
In this image of Christ crucified I do not see a weak-willed victim, but someone who has accepted and taken up the cross. I am struck by the calm expression of Jesus’ face. His mouth is closed. His head is turned to the side and his large eyes look upwards. The image reminds me of the fourth station (picture 1) where all of Jesus’ concentration is being directed to his Father as he pleads for support. Here, at the twelfth station, I see Jesus turning away from what is being inflicted on him, and entrusting himself to his Father. There is yet another similarity with the fourth station (picture 1): the dark background; the abyss of death.
However, standing at the twelfth station, I am particularly affected by the figure with the sledgehammer. There is something strange about this composition which puzzles me. In most artistic representations of this station, we see Jesus being nailed to a cross which lies horizontally on the floor. What then is the meaning of this man who stands in front of the vertical cross with his back to Jesus? The position that he takes in relation to Jesus, together with his exposed body, which is almost identical to the naked body of Christ, creates the impression that both of the figures in this image represent Jesus. That would mean that Jesus is nailing himself to the cross. This impression is strengthened by the nail that is being used to pierce Jesus’ feet. I can see the nail driven through the left hand of the man as it covers the feet of Jesus. Initially I reject this interpretation of what I see: surely this is not the case? But nevertheless, it is what I see and the idea keeps on returning: I feel almost haunted by it.
The text under this twelfth station comes from the prophet Micah (6:3): ‘my people, what have I done wrong to you?’’ Although this text fits well with the twelfth station, ‘Jesus is nailed to the cross’, the image that stands in front of me addresses me in a different way. What I see and hear is Jesus addressing his Father. Or is it the voice of God himself speaking directly to me, asking me: ‘What have I done wrong to you’ that you have allowed my beloved Son to endure this?
When I once again walk by all the stations, viewing them as a whole, I am struck by the artist’s portrayal of Jesus: not as a victim but as a strong person who resolutely walks the way that he must walk. Here, in these images, I come to regard the cross of Christ as a victory procession, hence the addition of the resurrection as the final station. The ultimate perspective is not death but resurrection. And the first station, ‘Jesus praying on the Mount of Olives’, is significant with regard to the message that I see in this representation of the Way of the Cross. In Gethsemane Jesus prays to his Father. His orientation to the Father, the solidarity he has with him, is seen over and over again in this representation.
Let the Way of the Cross proclaim its message
By way of looking at a few stations by Frans Deumes I have attempted to say something about the proclamatory power of images and the way they can address and speak to the attentive spectator. We have stood still and meditated on four images, seeing them not as supporting tableaux to a devotional text, but as striking forms in their own right, which are waiting to yield up their own treasure.
I have attempted to unleash the proclamatory power by describing how the images have touched me from the inside out. There is much more to see and experience in this representation of the Way of the Cross. Perhaps you will have the opportunity to visit St. Peter’s Basilica in Boxmeer and reflect on these images for yourself. Perhaps, and even better, you will be inspired to search for a set of stations in your own neighbourhood and reflect on one or two of them, allowing the imagery to speak to you. In this article I have tried to show that two things are important for discovering the proclamatory power of an image. The first involves looking very carefully, scrutinizing the image with your eyes and looking at what is actually there. What figures, postures, relations and features do you see? Look at the faces, at the eyes and mouths of the figures; what emotions do these evoke in you? In which direction do they lead you? What gestures do you see? The second involves a conscious awareness of how the image is addressing you. Does something in the image surprise you? What moves or touches you the most? What strikes you in either a positive or a negative way? Is there a figure that seems to address you directly? In what direction does this figure guide you? Are you being left with questions? Is something puzzling you?
I wish you an inspiring encounter with stations of the Way of the Cross. I hope I have inspired you to look with fresh eyes, that the images may speak out to you.
- The sixteen pieces measure approx. 1 metre in length and 75 cms in width and are made from opaline and enamel. ↩︎
- The Dutch poem has been put to music. See: www.heinwalter.nl/poezie/34 (or the direct link: www.youtube.com/watch?v=Pa9Hd0r0RjU). ↩︎
