Stories From Westlake Village

Christ, as portrayed by Hughie Webster, wears a plastic crown of thorns on his head and a robe of white percale. He walks with divine detachment all the way from the lobby, through the rosewood doors of Our Lady of Perpetual Devotion, to Railroad Avenue, and thence up the gentle slope of Westwood Avenue to the bus stop at the top of the hill. It's a short walk, and he makes it last. Hughie's not a fast walker to begin with and, encumbered with his enormous fiberglass cross, he makes every moment count. After all, there are fourteen stations to be done . . . the Stations of the Cross. Yes, the people of Westlake Village are not without their Passion on this Good Friday.

Father Stanley is beside himself. He must be there at the church to bless Hughie before he leaves and then beat him to the bus station at the top of the hill -- the hill we have named "Golgotha" for the occasion. There is so much to do! There is a traffic light at the corner of Westwood and Railroad Avenues. Must Jesus wait for the 'green,' or will the centurions, Todd and Mark Buffalini, stand in the middle of the road with folded arms and declare the route sacrosanct? It can go either way. There are drivers on the road at this time of day who will not let Jesus and his motley crew stand in their way. Todd and Mark are quick to anger, and we must not have unpleasantness on this holy evening.

The annual Stations of the Cross festival (all fourteen of them) occur at dusk on Good Friday. There is normally little cause for passion of any kind in Westlake Village, but what little we possess erupts in religious fervor during that sobering procession. My friend Seymour often remarks to me, "What is it with you people . . . if he was the Messiah, would he put up with this meshugas? One day a year you give him a dinner, the rest of the time he begs at your back door." There isn't much point in arguing with Seymour. In chess and religion, he has formidable credentials. Notwithstanding, the Stations of the Cross, all fourteen of them, are played out on Good Friday evening with great passion by devout Catholics, while the more moderate Protestants are taciturn and inclined to watch such things on television.

As featured editorialist for the Westlake Village Guardian, it is my journalistic duty to observe and comment objectively on the conduct of this most solemn occasion. I would not dare stoop to poke fun at our mundane reenactment of our Savior's agony, although the temptation to do so is overpowering -- they recall some of the moments of Saturday Night Live. Witness the Buffalini brothers dressed as centurions and Florida Oregon as Mary Magdalene. But these anomalies, ludicrous as they may seem to a doubting Thomas, would probably bring an understanding smile to the lips of the Holy Father. ("Forgive them, O Lord; they do as much as they can with the little they have.")

Yes, He has to wait for the 'green.' Railroad Avenue, after all, is not the Via Dolorosa. There is a moment when Hughie Webster meets Florida . . . just after the first fall, when I thought we might strike a spark. It is just about dusk, and the sun seems to linger, as though time hiccuped, pausing long enough to make the moment memorable. On the negative side, the Veronica station is not a success. Her veil reveals the face of the Savior before she reaches Him. This is followed by the second fall with one more to go. Most of us, unfamiliar with the fall count, wonder whether Hughie would make it to the end, but the encounter with the women of Jerusalem seems to spur him on.

Our Golgotha is the bus stop at the lip of the hill on Westwood Avenue. From there the multitude can look out over the vast expanse of Westlake Village. It is no Oberammergau. It is similar to the town of Jerusalem only in that the hill is low, the town is run down, and the citizens are poor. There are probably other towns more worthy to play the Passion. Two other crosses are already up on the hill. They are symbolic, not large enough upon which to crucify a man. On the other hand, the fiberglass cross that Hughie has dragged all the way from Our Lady of Perpetual Devotion seems unnecessarily large. Were it made of wood, three or four men would have been required to carry it here. Hughie is tied to the cross, not nailed, and there is a small platform at its base for him to stand on.

After the descent, the cross will remain there on the crest of this hill until Sunday morning. People driving through Westlake Village may pause and wonder what it's doing there. After the solemn ceremony of the Friday night Passion, the Cross is all that's left. The Buffalini centurion brothers are back in the Hollow Leg Saloon, and Christ himself, in the person of Hughie Webster, is on twenty-four hour call for the Long Island Lighting Company. The Cross will stand alone as it must have stood on that hill called Golgotha two thousand years ago when they took Him down. After church on Sunday, it will be dismantled and put away until next year.

The procession leaves many of us in a meditative state of mind. We have done all we can do, but we are honest enough to admit that our efforts to recreate the Passion have somehow diminished it. There's no one to blame -- it's just that a great Passion, once achieved, will not easily come again. Our meager efforts only serve to remind us how miraculous a time it must have been.

It's not Hughie's fault either. Most of us know him well. He is a likable man, rarely intemperate, and faithful to his wife and children. But he's not a Christ-like figure. He is black-haired and balding, with a rose tattooed on his left biceps. He wore black Nikes during the procession and only took them off when he arrived at the foot of the cross. But to be fair, none of us knew Christ at all. What sort of man was he? There are three plaster statues of him at Our Lady, two with blond hair and one with brown. Two with black eyes and one with blue. There will always be racial and ethnic preferences in man's concept of the Almighty. We can't fault Todd and Mark for shouting at the traffic either . . . they got our Savior safely across Railroad Avenue at the height of the evening rush hour.

So the miracle of the Resurrection remains a mystery to the good people of Westlake Village. Perhaps the mystery is deeper now than it was before. It was far, far away and long, long ago. Forgive us, O Lord; we do as much as we can with the little we have.