All the bells and whistles and incense followed. If I felt lost, it wasn't long before I was found again, keeping the aroma of the priests and nuns in front of me. As I entered the courtyard to the Church of the Sepulchre, security guards were motioning guests and tourists to enter through the other side of the gate, which was only on the other side of the police barrier which divided the walkway into two lines.
The Faithful filled the pews which had been set up for the event. The mass was set to run through various stages and last several hours. I stayed for the first two. Though I didn't understand most of the service proceedings, the call and response was familiar and the choirs sang from above the main sanctuary. Priests filled the halls and watched on as the benediction was given.
After some time, I slipped away to view the other relics of the Holy Site.
The alter in the opening of the church sits in the place 'they' say Jesus was crucified. There are candles burning above, holy water lightly puddled on the alter and drips of oil from the lanterns. Guests flocked the stone, laying their candles, scarves and bowing their foreheads as if to atone or to earn their blessings by their pilgrimage. I knelt down, just for a moment, reached my fingertips to the stone and prayed, "Is this, is this where your cross stood? Is this where you were when the weight of the world with you?" While it was a fascinating site, I kept wondering, is it the Godly humanity that brings them? Or, the draw of what the Catholics built?
True, the dedication is…quite something. The gold mosaic on the walls is exquisite art. The centuries of standing stone - the history of the land underneath it. The tomb in the middle of the main sanctuary is said to be Joseph of Arimathea, a Pharisee who asked for Jesus' body. The mass itself was a ritual. Done rarely in Latin anymore, it was a ceremonial - created to give the visitors a traditional Catholic service. Ironically, in all the distraction of cameras flashing and choir hymns and the bustle of priests taking part in the mass; it was as if the room stopped for just a moment, silent, like the movie had paused and I was the only one standing in the scene. It was a moment of reverent reflection and the slow motion left me realizing the pomp & jewels didn't matter, just the ground, the dirt, the heavenly humility.
Next stop: The Mount of Olives.
I planned on walking (hiking) as far as a I could go before hailing a cab or a bus - mostly because it's largely recommend one enjoy the Mount of Olives from the top down, that is, walk (hike) only one way because it can be strenuous and tedious going through the village to get there. But I was stopped by two young Arabs - who looked to be in their late 20s and claimed they had connections with the taxis (apparently one guy's father owned the local company) and they would escort me for free. So they did and acted as my tour guides, body guards and introduced me to all their friends who live near the top - including 'Obama' the Camel.
As jovial as the visit was and their knowledge of the Holy sites, they were kind enough to give me moments to myself to reflect the view over Jerusalem.
I could see the Dome of the Rock, now a Mosque, contested land where they say King Solomon's first temple was built. The Mount itself has numerous Biblical references spanning form David to Jesus. The cemeteries below were split among the Jews, Christians and Muslims. The Garden of Gethsemane sat next to a church built by the French, was quartered off by a fence and the Olive trees were blooming. The road back down to the Old City, they later told me, was believed to be the path Jesus took on the donkey when he came into Jerusalem.
Easter Sunday was filled with remnants of religious history, interesting people and breathtaking oversight. In a place like Jerusalem, no Bunnies or Eggs or Candy colored marshmallows, just rock and stone reminding each person that passes, the Faithful, the non-Faithful and simply, even the Curious - sacred things still exist.
The sacred is what keeps us in check. Holy is ground is everywhere, if we choose to pay attention.
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