The rite of the stations is a familiar one to my generation. We remember the prayer and its response, the rubrical bump of the knee, the slow staggered journey on Good Friday, around the walls of the local church.
Rites always run the risk of rubbing smooth. Under the veneer of chanting voice and rhythmic prayer, lay the sharp and bloody grit of betrayal, indifference and isolation; the bitter tasting herbs of agony and loss.
Passio is a parallel pilgrimage of the heart in the here and now. It is the reflection of a heart, faced with the humdrum passion of ordinary doubt and disappointment, dreading the death of indifference, thirsting for fresh revelation and resurrection.
Passio is an attempt at taking new steps on a well-worn path, and an invitation to others to make their own pilgrimage in their own way.