Modern Day Stations (of the Cross)

In lieu of the Archdiocesan Proposal, I thought I would share this short essay I wrote almost 2 years ago.

1.     Desire: “For whenever you eat this bread and drink this cup, you proclaim the Lord’s death until he comes.” (1 Corinthians 11:26)

I grew up in a Catholic home, but to remain faithful to God has been my decision alone. When I was a young girl, perhaps five or six, I remember sitting in Holy Rosary Church’s sacristy, learning about the Eucharist. To many, it might sound like cannibalism to be eating the flesh and drinking the blood of a man, but it is in fact the most sacred part of the Catholic tradition because one shares in Jesus’ last gift to humanity.

I remember leaving that meeting and asking my mom why I couldn’t eat the Eucharist during Mass yet. She explained to me that I wasn’t ready yet. I didn’t understand that. I believed in God and Jesus, and I wanted to participate in this part of Mass.

It wasn’t until two years later that I made my First Holy Communion. On that day, I was able to eat of the Eucharist, which I believed was truly God.

A survey conducted at a church near where I live said that 90% of those who were completing their confirmation, which is a sacrament within the Church that symbolizes one’s final devotion, or confirmation of one’s faith, didn’t believe that the Eucharist was really Jesus. 

Well, a few years ago now, in Legnica, Poland, there was a church that was holding Mass, and a piece of Communion bread fell on the ground. In this situation, one must place the bread into water to let it dissolve. So, the piece was put into the chalice with some water.

Hours later, it still did not dissolve. Someone from the church went to check to see why this was occurring. What they discovered is both horrifying and miraculous. Inside the chalice, they noticed a thin stream of red liquid. Almost not believing, they picked up what they thought was the bread. Instead, they were shocked to find it was…flesh.

Upon later testing, the flesh was determined to carry type AB blood. This blood type is most common in Middle Eastern and Jewish people. It is also the same blood type that has been found in other Eucharistic miracles and on the Shroud of Turin.

2.     Doubt: “But what about you?” he asked. “Who do you say I am?” (Matthew 16:15)

I see God in mainly two ways: as a Father that tries so desperately to hold me and protect me, and as a friend, in the form of the Son, Jesus, who hugs me and protects me and carries me when life makes it unable to take even another step. Many girls at my high school grew to have a devotion to the Virgin Mary, the Mother of Jesus, but I always preferred the Father and Son. My favorite part of Mass is the “Our Father.” I love it even more sung, and even more, sung in Polish.

If I had to describe my relationship to God in one word, I would use the word desperate. Ever since fourth grade, my family and I have tried to sort through a myriad of health issues, both my own and that of the members of my family. But it was the first time that I truly felt different and apart from others because my body wouldn’t cooperate. I was slower in running and physical tasks. Sensations against my skin were stronger. Pain radiated up and down my legs. And perhaps the worst yet— I could experience the pain of others.

Much of my time in middle school was spent trying to find a neat-bow solution to my body’s ailments. By the time I reached high school, I still did not have an answer, but the problems bothered me less, and the friends I had didn’t care how fast I was or how strong. However, in entering my sophomore year of high school, I developed chronic gastric issues. I would come home from bed, and be forced to sleep, sometimes skipping dinner, and sometimes not beginning homework until nine at night. It was a miserable cycle. It didn’t make it any easier when I was diagnosed with chronic breathing issues almost four years later, and then developed chronic pain just a few months after that.  Every night, I would lie in bed under the protection of a carved wooden angel that had been made by a dead man. On the other side of the room were three lines of shelves, each containing a myriad of angels. Some held harps and some were dancing and some sat peacefully with outstretched arms. But between each of these little figures were pictures. Two had been added in 2015. One in 2018. One, 2021. My two grandfathers, one whose heart had finally loved more than it could for this world, and one whose mind had long passed from the transient nature of Earth. My mom’s cousin, who I called Uncle Ben, whose heart failed when he had finally discovered how strong it could be, and then his mother, who I called Ciocia Joanne, whose breath had, quite literally, been taken away. There, their pictures stood amongst the angels, and there I was beneath an angel, trying to coax myself to sleep, wondering if the next morning I would still be in my bed, or among them in the forever resting place.

I was angry that God had taken them from me; I was angry that God had allowed me to be stripped of my ability to breathe and my ability to live a healthy life; I was angry that nothing would ever be the same.

Over this past summer, 2022, there was a special exhibit of the Shroud of Turin at the Museum of the Bible in D.C. The shroud is said to be the burial cloth of Jesus Christ. The picture printed onto the shroud is said to actually be a picture of Jesus’ body, but many do not believe this to be true. I remember very clearly looking up at one of the pieces of evidence on the wall that talked about how the shroud contained no pigments, paint, or any evidence whatsoever that anyone drew, painted, or otherwise created the image. I recall someone walking by saying: “it’s fake.”

I pointed up at the evidence, looked them dead in the eye, and said: “then how do you explain that?”

For how else could an image be clearly visible on the fabric without etching it onto its surface?

There was a small room as we left the exhibit that allowed you to share what you thought about the shroud. At the top, it read: Who do you say that I am?

And all I think looking back on that moment now is: “You are the Lord, the only one who can save me now!”

3.     Pain: “’My soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death,’” he said to them. “Stay here and keep watch.’…’Abba, Father,’” he said, “’everything is possible for you. Take this cup from me. Yet not what I will, but what you will.’” (Mark 14:34-36)

My family took a pilgrimage to Austria and Germany over the summer in 2022. We were especially there to see the famous passion play that is only preformed every ten years.

There I was, in the middle of a crowded outdoor covered auditorium on June 24th, watching as on the stage in Oberammergau, Germany, Jesus Christ was condemned to death. There he stood, head bowed, bound in ropes around his wrists. Jesus asked, rather angrily, “Why will you not understand my words?” To which Annus, a member of the high council replied: “Because I do not like them!”

High above, the clouds that had parted when the performers took to the stage suddenly gathered as the first act came to a close. The trees swayed and a terrible downpour greeted us as we made our way to dinner. It was as if God was yelling at us: “Behold my Son! Listen to Him!”

Jesus of Nazareth was crucified after being beaten, whipped, crowned with thorns, mocked, spit on, harassed, stripped of his garments, and was forced to carry the wood that would later hold his dead body. He was nailed to that wood, his arms outstretched in love for each and every individual on the Earth, and his feet crossed, perched as if ready to dance in the eternal resting place, heaven. Jesus, when he died, was then pierced with a lance in his side.

Those who receive the stigmata receive the wounds of Jesus Christ. Many saints have borne the marks of Jesus on their hands and feet, an outward sign of the miracle Jesus preformed that day.

At the end of October 2022, I had a dream about the stigmata. I woke up the next morning with pain in my feet and hands, as if nails were being driven into them. I checked the entire day to see if any marks would appear.

It is said that St. Francis of Assisi was the first to receive the stigmata. However, in Galatians, St. Paul says: "I bear the brand marks of Jesus in my body” (Galatians 6:17).

Though the stigmata is painful, it is seen as a gift. But after that dream, and after I woke to the pain, I didn’t feel as if what I was experiencing was a gift at all. There I was, in my bedroom at night, crying as I desperately prayed the Sorrowful Mysteries of the Rosary. My feet felt as though there were needles in them, an endless battle of my body versus my soul. For each of the 59 beads on the rosary, I read a part of the passion. I cried hardest at the line: “take this cup away from me.” For that is what I had said over and over again for months.

It was over a month later that I was diagnosed with fibromyalgia, a chronic pain disorder. I look back on the rosary I prayed that night when I was in the worst pain imaginable, and I realize that Jesus did understand and was there through every moment of it with me, by my side, trying to comfort me in any way he could. It is hard to say to someone to unite your suffering to Jesus’. I, in fact, have always thought that to be the most unhelpful piece of advice.

But when I saw Jesus on that stage in Germany, looking at those who had condemned him, yelling that no one understood what he was saying, I finally thought in my head: he actually gets it. And he’s the only one who might ever will.

4.     Loss: “Those who passed by hurled insults at him, shaking their heads and saying, ‘So! You who are going to destroy the temple and build it in three days, come down from the cross and save yourself!’” (Mark 15:29-30)

My family and I are partitioners of two different churches. One of these churches is Holy Rosary, which is a Catholic church in Baltimore city. This year, the Archdiocese of Baltimore launched a new campaign: “Seek the Kingdom to Come.” In this campaign, the Archdiocese is looking to see what Baltimore City needs in terms of parishes. In a sly and clever way, they are aiming to close parishes that cannot sustain themselves and are not growing.

Holy Rosary is on the list as one of the parishes that could close. 

It is the Archdiocesan Shrine of Divine Mercy. This is the same church I was baptized in and grew up going to with my family. It is, in many ways, my home. I remember going to Polish school there and going to Polish Mass with my family, as my grandmother is an immigrant from Poland. I am saddened that perhaps one day, I won’t be able to attend Mass there anymore. I might not be able to hear the sung “Our Father” or see the beautiful Christmas decorations, usually including twelve Christmas trees. But mostly, I might lose this place in which I can feel God’s presence so deeply, a site of a miracle and a place where John Paul II prayed. 

5.     Acceptance: “’For I know the plans I have for you,’ declares the Lord, ‘plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.’” (Jeremiah 29:11)

God has a plan. I know he does, and it is acceptance of this plan that I struggle so hard with. As much as I hate this campaign, maybe there is something I should take away from its message. It is the kingdom that is to come that is the most important, not this transient life on Earth. In this life, we prepare for the next, and so therefore, I must be steadfast in my belief that a loving God would not take and take and take from me, but would rather show me the path towards salvation. I’m not sure how not being able to breathe or chronic pain or the loss of a spiritual home is any of these things, but I must believe, for it is all I have to hold onto when times like these arise. Therefore…

“Seek first his kingdom and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well…” (Matthew 6:33).