I remember laughing with my brother, Mark, and sister, Ann as we sat on the brick stoop in front of our house on Brookfield Road. We were off from school and trying to stay silent on this day, Good Friday, between the hours of noon and three when Jesus was said to have hung on the cross.
As young Catholics we had to do all these sort of challenging things. We gave up candy for five weeks during Lent. We had to fast before Communion so even though we were up playing for hours before Sunday mass we had to put on a jacket and tie and file into the stuffy church where one of us would sometimes pass out during the service. And of course, we couldn’t eat meat on Fridays.
I have so lost touch with that faith that I mistakenly thought it was Good Friday two weeks ago. I still love the rituals. I love the iconography. And the Stations of the Cross, a series of 14 images depicting Christ on the day of his crucifixtion, is my favorite. I love visiting old churches especially in Spain where they still have holy water fonts at the door and candles to light to your favorite saint statues. Holy Week in southern Spain is an out of body experience.
I’m writing this at two in the afternoon so the 12th station is where we’re at. All 14 of my recent version can be viewed here.
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I wonder if that hyperritualistic version of Catholicism even exists anymore? My grandmother and my great aunt were extremely devoted. They went to mass multiple times a week, their brother was the head of the Franciscan order for north and South America and they both volunteered so much with the sisters at a Catholic nursing home that they never had to pay to end their lives there. Yet we never heard of any of this stuff. Hard to imagine the Dodd boys doing all this!