“Walking the Via Dolorosa When the Cross Feels Personal” by Rula Khoury Mansour

Each station along the Via Dolorosa echoed something I’ve seen, felt, or carried this past year:

Jesus is condemned to death (Station 1). I thought about how quickly people here are labeled – guilty, dangerous, and even enemies – without a trial, without a voice

As Jesus carries His cross (Station 2), I saw the invisible burdens so many people carry: grief, trauma, and the ache of displacement. The cross is not always made of wood. Sometimes it is simply staying.

When Jesus falls the first time (Station 3), I felt our collective exhaustion. That kind of collapse that doesn’t come just from pain, but from carrying too much for too long.

But there were glimpses of grace, too.

When Jesus meets His mother, Mary (Station 4), I saw her in every mother I’ve seen weeping for sons lost to violence. And I saw a strength that refuses to break.

When Simon of Cyrene steps in to help carry the cross (Station 5), I thought of all the brave people who show up to help carry burdens that aren’t theirs.

And Veronica wiping Jesus’ face (Station 6) reminded me that not all acts of resistance are loud. Some are as quiet as kindness. As gentle as saying, “I see your pain. I still see your humanity.”

Then Jesus falls the second time (Station 7). This one feels heavier – the kind of fall that comes after you’re already broken and when getting up feels even harder.
And still… He gets up.

When Jesus meets the women of Jerusalem (Station 8), I realized they’re still here. Praying. Weeping. Calling for peace even when no one listens. Women have always known how to carry the ache with quiet strength.

Jesus falls the third time (Station 9). This time, it feels like maybe He won’t get back up. But He does. Even exhausted. Even when hope feels impossible. He keeps going.

And that matters – not just because He shares our pain, but because this is where redemption begins to take shape – right in the struggle, amid suffering.

Jesus is stripped of His garments (Station 10). The war has done that too – taken lives, homes, dignity, sometimes even faith. There’s pain not just in the loss itself, but in how vulnerable it leaves us; laid bare with nothing to shield us.

Jesus knows that too. God does not look away.

Jesus dies on the cross (Station 12). He entrusts Himself to the Father. Love, poured out completely. The cost of redemption, paid in full.

The sky goes dark. And I realized: this is what collective grief feels like.

But we call it “Good” Friday, not because the pain is good, but because of what it brings. Because this suffering wasn’t pointless. It was purposeful. Jesus didn’t just suffer with us, He suffered for us. And that changes everything.

Jesus is taken down from the cross (Station 13). Even in death, someone still shows up to cradle the broken. To honor the body. To hold the weight of loss with love. There’s sacredness in that, too. Mourning is part of love. We don’t skip this part. We sit in it. Because even here, in the stillness and sorrow, God is present.

In a year of massive loss of life, this station felt especially heavy – mourning and remembering the lives taken by violence, the bodies never held, and the grief left unspoken and unseen.

And then, Jesus is laid in the tomb (Station 14)… and silence.
The kind of silence that feels like the end.
The kind that lingers in hospital rooms, in refugee camps, at gravesides.
It’s the ache of despair, the gut-wrenching fear that morning may never come.

And maybe that’s why we’re still here.

Life in this land has long been marked by fear, suffering, and division.
As Christians in the Holy Land, we are often overlooked and forgotten in a conflict that rarely sees us or hears us. Many are leaving, not because they’ve lost faith, but because the cost of staying has become too high.

Still, a remnant remains.

A small, ancient community rooted deep in this soil, holding fast even as the world seems to pass us by.

Still, we stay.

Because it’s not just that Jesus suffered with us. It’s that He redeems suffering. His death wasn’t just a tragedy; it was a triumph. Through His cross, real peace became possible. Forgiveness, justice, and healing are not just hoped for; they are promised.

Resurrection means love doesn’t quit. God doesn’t walk away.

And so, standing by the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, watching pilgrims trace those final steps, I remembered why we stay.

Not for safety. Not for comfort.

But because this land’s story – of death and resurrection – is our story too.

In a region so often defined by violence and division, holding onto resurrection hope is a radical act of faith. A daily decision to believe that just peace is still possible. That Sunday still comes.

So yes, the Stations felt heavier this year. But somehow, more alive too. And so does the resurrection.

We walk this painful road not to despair, but to remember that tombs break open. That justice lives. That death, no matter how loud, doesn’t get the last word – because Christ has risen.

We’re called to carry the message of reconciliation. Not a cheap reconciliation, but a costly one; a cross-shaped one.

That’s what I carried home that day. That resurrection isn’t just a twist. It’s the truth. The kind that changes how we suffer and how we hope.

Christ is Risen, He is Risen indeed!