I certainly was amazed at how many people turned up. In fact in all the confusion I never did do a proper head count and what is certain is that I lost a few along the way. Even the rain that drizzled on and off did not seem to have deterred anyone from coming out on that Easter Sunday!
Jerusalem’s Old City was jam-packed with tourists and pilgrims and most of them seemed to be heading to the Holy Sepulchre with us. In fact when we arrived at the courtyard in front of the church, I couldn’t find a free space to address my group quietly. So, hoping I wasn’t offending any of the believers, I yelled out my explanations as best I could.
It took some time to push our way into the church and getting up the stairs to the heavily ornamented rooms that now envelope the once bare hill of Golgotha was no mean feat. As sightseers not worshippers we gave the long queue to touch the living rock a miss, contenting ourselves with watching from afar as the believers sang their hymns and jostled for a place at the rock. Everywhere was the smell of incense, every group seemed to have a different garb, clothes reflecting different cultures, eras and faiths. Faces of every colour and age were represented. Chants and bells and the hammers of the Armenians on wooden boards competed for our notice.
At my group’s request I put up my umbrella so that they could follow me through the jostling mass of people. It seemed a little incongruous to be twirling a child’s umbrella with a picture of Monet’s water-lilies and I hoped I wasn’t offending anyone’s sensibilities, but I guessed that no-one was really paying attention, wrapped up as they were in their own quest to fight through the crowds to reach their holiest places.
As we moved from area to area the crowds pressed in more and more. We found a respite down in the Chapel of St. Helena. For some reason very few pilgrims had made there way down these steps, perhaps because this area was not on the official route of the Stations of the Cross! We were able to regroup, and check out the crosses carved on the wall by pilgrims in the times of the Crusaders a thousand years ago. The beautiful mosaic floor also got our full attention!
From then on our passage became more and more difficult. It sounded like the Tower of Babel had risen again, or maybe people were speaking in tongues? One thing was certain, there was no sense of Christian brotherhood; it was every man for himself. The Church itself has been the setting for inter-faith rivalries, each group jealously guarding its own interests but neglecting that of others.
Since the Status Quo agreement of 1852 no part of what is designated as common territory in the Church may be so much as rearranged without consent from all communities. This has led to the refusal to allow badly needed repairs as the communities cannot come to an agreement among themselves about the final shape of a project. Worse, it prevents safety measures from being introduced.
I was grateful that we were not there for the Ceremony of the Holy Fire. In spite of the believers’ faith that fire will pass from hand to hand, candle to candle with no-one being burned, the truth is sadly different. There have been several tragic incidents when fire has broken out. As the churches’ rival factions refuse to allow new fire exits to be broken into the walls, it is only a matter of time before a tragedy of mammoth proportions happens. (And then no doubt they will blame the Israeli authorities, who have been pleading with them for years to deal with the matter!)
Retracing our steps, my stalwart group almost made it to the door and fresh air. But then a procession swirled by. It seemed as if the large sway of people following in the priest’s path simply could not force their way through the already packed crowds, but force their way through they did. As it was, we were in real danger of being crushed and it became imperative to get out.
Being at the head of the group I was lucky enough to exit unscathed but it was all of fifteen minutes till the last members of the group made it through, with tales of rescuing an old woman who was in danger of being trampled underfoot when she fell, and even of a near-violent incident when one of my group tangled with a sceptre-swinging priest.
The rest of our tour seemed tame in comparison, though my usually peaceful description of the view from the rooftops was punctuated by the pealing bells from one church after another, and when they finally stopped a sound like a chorus of mechanical frogs rent the air.
Only after what felt like excrutiating minutes, did it turn into the strident call of the muezzin to the faithful Moslems to come to prayer! (It seems that water from the rain had got into the p.a. system!)
Everyone who made it to the end of the tour agreed that it had been an experience well worth doing.
Would we do it again?
Probably not!!!
10 years ago
