Easter
I have come to appreciate the lack of build up to our
Christian celebrations here. Although it is odd to see chocolate bunnies and
eggs being sold in the souk, it is not with same intense marketing that has
become the norm in the West.
For me, Holy Week came with the sense of anticipation of
revisiting an old story in a different way. Living here where the Easter story
actually played itself out, adds a deeper layer of sadness and human understanding
to the unfolding of a tragic scene. Even when we know the end of the story, the
path that leads to the Empty tomb is a long one.
Maundy Thursday, we gathered in the Cathedral for the traditional
Service of Foot Washing, stripping the altar and leaving the church in silence.
We then assembled in the court yard and following a cross, processed down the
street, and up the Mount of Olives to a small grove of olive trees, across the
way from the formal Garden of Gethsemane.
It is hard to explain the feeling that came to me as I looked across the
valley at Jerusalem. Under a full moon, imagining this place 2000 years ago, it
was not hard to understand the disciples being exhausted and falling asleep. Nor
was it difficult to imagine Jesus praying in solitude in this little olive
garden. We sang ‘Were you there when they crucified my Lord?’ And it was quite
moving. It was a beautiful somber evening.
Good Friday, we got up very early. The Christian Churches walk together as an
ecumenical group to do the Stations of the Cross. We are a growing number as we follow the
cross to the Via Dolorosa. I have walked
this walk a number of times and each time holds its own in my memory. When I was here with the Youth Pilgrims we
would share the readings and prayers by picking, one each, out of a basket. The
year I was here with my daughter, she picked the reading for Station 2,
fourteen youth later, my turn came and my slip of paper read - prayers for
Station 2 – Jesus receives His Cross. It was profoundly moving to share this
experience with my daughter. She was given the opportunity to carry a cross,
and I was asked if I would help her – I thought that was quite symbolic.
Today, I have been asked to read the prayers again. I am handed
my paper and I look down to see I will be praying at Station 2.
We walk and stop at each station along the way, mingling
with others - pilgrims, nuns, and other religious. We stop at Station 4, Where
Jesus meets His Mother. It’s a funny
thing, being in the Holy Land, surrounded by Holiness and Holy Spirit, and you never
know when it’s going to hit you - the overwhelming sense of being loved, and of
being part of a never-ending story in which we each play a part. And as I am
thinking of my mother and my daughter and all the important women in my life,
whom I love and have loved, and all who have loved me, I look down at my
program. The hymn selection is my grandmother’s favourite - 'There is a Green
Hill Far Away' - And then it hits me.
And then, we get to do it all again the following week for the
Orthodox Holy Week and Easter!
Although I did not participate in every Orthodox service I did get to
the end of a Maundy Thursday Service. The service I went to was at St. Mark’s Assyrian
Orthodox Church - the site of one of the oldest Christian churches in the Old
City. Here is the Upper Room Down, where, perhaps, Jesus and his disciples had
the last supper. It is a beautiful little church and at the end of the service
the Patriarch is carried out of the sanctuary on his chair, upheld by men of
the congregation and followed by Palestinian Scouts playing Bagpipes and Drums.
It was quite the sight to behold and the music was fabulous.
On Orthodox Holy Saturday, some friends of mine were invited
to go the Holy Sepulcher to witness the Holy Fire. I asked if there was room
for one more and yes, I can go too.
We get in line at 9am at Zion Gate and begin the wait. We
are drawn out of the crowd to meet with our group and wind our way through the
Old City to the
Holy Sepulcher. Security is very tight and many of the routes have been closed
off. We get in the church at 11am. The crowd is beginning to build and there is
no room. We are squished in and more keep coming. In our section, young men
begin to chant and climb up the side of the Edicule of the Holy Sepulcher (The Tomb of Christ). They are singing and shouting and beating on
drums and waving flags. I am not sure whether to participate or not. I am not sure whether to be a bit frightened
or not. Some of the elderly nearby look a bit frail amongst all this and it is
very hot. The security guards have been pushing people into some of the smaller
chapels and I can’t imagine how hot and breathless it must be there. After a
time, I see people leaving, it is too much.
And
in the midst of all this, a fellow in front of me, with his hands up in the air
waving his candle and shouting away, stops to sniff under his arms. I am not
sure what look was on my face – shock or near hilarious laughter – but he
caught my eye and said ‘It’s good. I don’t smell so bad but if you go over in
that corner, agh, they smell terrible.’ I
don’t even know what to say.
At
one point I turn and see a battered silver plate being passed from hand to hand
over the heads of the people nearby. Each person is taking from the plate,
sharing and eating and passing it along. They are crossing themselves and
saying silent prayers. It comes my way and I am struck to find that it is
bread, blessed bread. I take my portion and can’t believe that I have just had
communion in the Holy Sepulcher. This touches
me deeply. For all the speculation about any of the Holy sites, for me,
anywhere that people have come, for thousands of years, to pray and weep and
search for God, it is a Holy place.
It is now nearly 2pm. I am
standing on the wrong side of the security barrier but I was sort of put there
and haven’t moved much. But now we are told to make room for the Greek Orthodox
Patriarch, His Beatitude Theophilos III, and his retinue, who will be walking
around the Empty Tomb three times as tradition dictates. I do my best to become
as small as possible but I am still so close, I can reach out and touch them as
they pass by.
From my spot I cannot see this but I understand that on the third
time round, at the entrance to the Tomb, the Patriarch is patted down (no incendiary
devices are allowed) and enters the Tomb, and there, after I assume much
prayer, the Holy Spirit lights the Holy Candle with Holy Fire and it is sent
out through a small opening to the world at large (the flame is actually sent
to Rome and 14 other countries around the world).
By now everyone is yelling and shouting, in a myriad of
languages – Come Holy Spirit Come!
And then - it really happened so fast. One minute there was
no light and the next I see a flame carried out from the tomb – whoosh - and
then candles are being lit off of the flame and then everyone is lighting their
candles off of each other’s candles and the bells are ringing and the drums are drumming and the people are crying and shouting and
praising and carrying on. It was quite amazing! I lit my candle from a neighbour and then I
just sort of stood there. I really didn’t know what I was supposed to be doing.
I wanted to be caught up in the fever and fervor, but I was really overwhelmed with
the joyous mayhem. I really just wanted to watch and relish in the joy of all
the people around me. It was wonder-filled.
Eventually, I slowly made my way out of the Holy Sepulcher. I
met my friends and we stopped for a fresh pomegranate juice. And it was delicious
– slightly tart but truly refreshing. And
that just seemed so appropriate. The perfect way to end Easter in the Holy Land
- as the pomegranate is the Christian symbol of life, hope and eternal life.
May you continue to revel in the Joy of Easter. The Lord is
Risen! He is Risen Indeed, Alleluia!
