The Sacred Steps

Today, I climbed the Sacred Steps in Rome.  In case you aren’t familiar with these steps, the Scala Santa are a set of steps supposedly from Pontius Pilate’s palace in Jerusalem; the same steps that Jesus walked up when he was brought before Pilate.  They were brought to Rome in the fourth century by Constantine’s mother, Helen.  Whether or not they are the actual steps Jesus climbed during His trial to be crucified is debatable.  What is certain, though, is Christians from all over the world make the pilgrimage to Rome to climb these steps.  Christians have been doing this for hundreds of years.

I’ve wanted to climb these steps for years.  I heard about these steps for the first time as a child.  My father told me about them and how he watched an elderly woman climb the 28 steps on her knees.  That is the only way you can climb them.  People climb them one step at a time, stopping to pray on each step.  I thought that sounded amazing.  I wondered at the dedication it would take to do that.  I wondered how it would feel climbing them.  Today, I found out.

I went very early in the morning.  As soon as I walked inside, I knew this church was unlike any of the other churches in Rome.  There were no tourists taking pictures, nobody was talking, and I saw no vendors.  The church was silent except for the whispered prayers of the people climbing the stairs.  I stood and stared at the steps for awhile.  I don’t know why.  I watched the people on the staircase.  Many of them held rosaries.  Some had their heads bowed; some had their hands lifted up.  At the top of the stairs was a depiction of Jesus.  I watched everyone moving slowly closer to Him, one step at a time.  I took a breath and knelt down on the first step.

The steps are covered in wood for protection.  The wood is very smooth and very shiny from the thousands and thousands of people who have pilgrimaged there.  My knees found the indentions in the wood made by all the people who had climbed before me.  It hurt.  I looked up and wondered what it must have been like for Jesus to climb up these steps.  Divine though He was, He was also human and He must have felt fear for what He knew was coming.

When I climbed the next step, I groaned inside.  The wood was hard and hurt my knees.  By the fourth step, I was using the rail to help pull me up to the next step.  I was not sure how I was going to make it all the way to the top.  The top: the end for me.  But for the Jesus the top was just another step.  I thought of how Pilate would try to release Jesus, but the people, the people He came for, would demand His death.  It must have hurt to hear them, to hear Pilate tell Him His people wanted Him killed.  He knew what He was doing.  

By the eleventh step, I was crawling up the steps on my hands and knees.  I was in agony.  I reached down and touched the gleaming wood with my hands.  It was polished from all the people who had done what I was doing.  I had wanted to be a part of that.  I wanted to join my Family in recognizing the sacrifice that saved us.  I wanted to show Jesus I was willing to endure the pain of watching His pain for my sake.  Climbing those steps, I watched His walk towards death with detail I had never before considered.

On the twenty-second step, which I had pulled myself onto with my hands, I looked up at the image of Jesus.  He was so close.  I remembered Stephen, the first martyr, seeing Jesus in Heaven.  I thought of James and John, the Sons of Thunder, who did drink from Jesus’ cup.  I remembered, also, the many beatings and humiliations Paul suffered.  I looked up again at Jesus.  I will stay by His side, too.  I reached for the rail and climbed another step closer.

At step twenty-seven, I stared at the last step.  The final one.  I had been aching for it.  But I found myself not wanting to leave.  I closed my eyes.  The joy and the pain.  His love for me and my love for Him.  Each time I learn a new way of experiencing that joy, that pain, I cling to it with wonder.  Like Peter, running to Jesus, even over water, hoping I don’t lose it in my everyday world.  He always lifts me up again, whenever I sink.  I remember that and I remember how.  I opened my eyes, and took the last step.

I looked behind me at my brothers and sisters still climbing.  It doesn’t matter if the steps are real.  It doesn’t matter if Jesus ever set foot on them.  The love, the dedication, the relationship is real.  I wanted to run up to each of them and share in the joy of that relationship.  I stood there at the top for a minute, watching the flow of people moving slowly up the stairs.  I didn’t climb because I thought the steps were real.  I climbed because I love Him.

Climbing the Scala Santa