Editorials
Retracing Jesus’ steps
It was Good Friday last year and I was retracing Jesus’ steps on his way to crucifixion — up Day Avenue at the margin of downtown Roanoke. How far was this from Golgotha? Not far.
I was with a group of about 60 Christians — Catholic youth, their families and friends — making this annual Justice Walk through our city. We carried a cross and stopped at various “stations” along the route representing Christ’s passion on this contemporary way of the cross.
We would pray at the food pantry for those condemned to poverty, at the health department for the mentally and physically ill and their caretakers, at the federal building for peace, at the courthouse for troubled families, and at the jail for mercy and love among people who know little of either. But as we walked four long blocks on Day Avenue, the vision of Jesus’ suffering opened before us. At night this street is pretty mean, often mentioned in news accounts of shootings and robberies. In the light, Day revealed human struggle in nearly every home and person we passed. Some voiced approval and waved from their front porches where they sat on worn, torn sofas with stuffing poking out. Others went inside as we approached. A few pedestrians scowled and swore under their breath, then brushed roughly against us forcing us off the sidewalk. A car honked, its driver rolling down his window to curse at us. Two passengers flashed obscene gestures as they sped off.
One of our youth, obviously shaken, dropped into step next to me and whispered, “Why did they do that?” I shrugged. Experience would teach. We Catholics believe that Jesus’ redemptive suffering and resurrection didn’t happen just one time, but that through his Spirit in the Body of Christ it happens over and over again. In saving us, Jesus poured his life into ours.
Carrying a cross up Day Avenue is a reminder of who he has made us to be as we walk on our small section of the earth. We meet Jesus in the hungry, thirsty, naked and imprisoned in our community. And we embody Jesus as we love them with encouraging words, embraces and silent vows to help care for them and heal our society, even as we are reviled and mocked for it.
As we turned the last corner, a disheveled, grizzled man — a stereotypical street person — briefly interrupted our progress. He gently offered his hand in greeting — many spoke to him. Bringing up the rear, I took his hand. “You all are so beautiful,” he said. “God bless you.”
“Thank you for coming,” I responded. The teenager next to me, eyes wide, asked, “Do you know that guy?” Holding back tears, I took a deep breath and steadied my voice, “Yes.” 
Jean Denton
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