Easter in Jerusalem

This morning, fog covers the hills of the valleys like whipped cream as we ascend to the holy city. Smelling of cigarette smoke, my sherut winds up the roads crossed by untold numbers of people over the centuries. Sometimes I feel like I don’t truly appreciate the history of this place. Emperors, slaves, diplomats and prophets have walked these roads I now climb. The Turks, Egyptians, Israelites, Hittites and countless others have traded along this passage, have been healed, converted, robbed and even slaughtered.
The source of religious conflict for over two thousand years, this piece of land has produced the most important and consequential historical events in the last 2000 years. I, for one, am completely fascinated by religion. It is one of the only things in the world that produces vast chain reactions; extreme reactions in general. People die out of religious conviction, settle in war zones because of religious principle (settlements in Israel), start revolutions, create cults…it is one of the only things in existence that completely controls people. People are often more critical and apprehensive about trusting other people as leaders but will give anything and everything for pleasing a higher power.
Easter Sunday. 9am. Getting of my sherut, I walked bags in hand to the Old City. Quiet, the city was beginning to awaken. Even smelling holy, Jerusalem emit ed all the new smells of morning. Stores opening its doors, shops pulling up the metal fences and opening, and cafés busy with travelers on their way in need of a caffeine fix; I descended down the slippery steps of the Old City to David street where my friend Dave and I were meeting to drop off our things before heading to church. [Dave and I go to Ulpan together and he was raised Christian so we decided to celebrate Easter together.] Entering the New Swedish Hostel and walking to the front desk, the manager asked me why I was speaking in Hebrew. I responded in Hebrew, “Because I live and study here.” Disgruntled he said “we do not speak Hebrew here.” Puzzled only for a moment I replied, “in Jerusalem?” He says, “Yes this is an Arab city, here we speak Arabic.” I accidentally giggled out loud and he wasn’t pleased. Fixing my mistake quickly, I responded in Arabic telling him I also study Arabic. Much happier, he told me where I could leave my things and went back to sipping his coffee and ignoring me. I met Dave and we ventured to the church, met a priest in training from Florida, got lost and eventually found the beautiful stone church situated quite obviously beside Jaffa Gate. We met some fellow travelers and were early for the 9:30 service. Anglican, this church was built in the 1800’s as a Protestant place of worship with clear Jewish roots, as exhibited by the wooden rerodos at the front of the church, where a synagogue usually keeps the Torah. The priests were all funny, sarcastic guys and seemed to live in the real world, which is quite refreshing to see especially among Christians who live in the Old City.

The church was definitely not as crowded as I had expected it to be on Easter Sunday. We began the service by reciting the Schma and singing traditional Protestant praise songs. This was the first time during my trip I ached for home. Singing those familiar songs made me teary, nostalgic of Easter in Jupiter at my church. But most of all, I missed my family. This is the first Easter in which I’ve been without any family or for that matter, away from home. I tried to concentrate on the service, on experiencing Easter in the city where Jesus died and rose again. A lot of scriptures we read that morning pointed out that we were in fact celebrating Easter in this holy place. The sermon was just okay, about remembering the Resurrection every day. But during the sermon the preacher kept squinting and I kept asking myself, is there sunlight in his eyes? Can he see when his eyes are so squinty? Does he have to go to the bathroom? Anyway, I left the church happy but still missing the familiarity and holiness I feel when I am at my church.
Afterwards, Dave and I wanted to go to the Garden tomb, the actual site where Jesus tomb was. We made it for the French service at 12:30. Listening to familiar songs in French and snapping photos, we observed all the Frenchies for a while. After about a half hour Dave and I both looked at each other with a look that said- I’m done, I hope you are too. Too hungry to concentrate on a church service in a language we didn’t understand, we headed back towards the Old City still walking the streets of East Jerusalem. We noshed on hummus, falafel and pita before making our way through the Damascus Gate to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre where the ‘remains’ of the original cross are; where the cross once stood. Crowded with tourists and different ethnicities celebrating in their unique ways, we entered where woman gather at this marble plankon the ground called the Stone of Annointing and bless all kinds of things, sob, clutch their crosses and pray pleadingly. Moving further in, Dave and I were awestruck at how many people were waiting to enter the Edicule where the tomb of Christ also is. (There is much debate among Christians because there are claims from both sites to be the actual tomb)The Syriac Orthodox Arabs were in charge of the church on Easter- they were keeping the line to enter orderly by clocking all the people with a huge wooden plank. Mob like, people were pushing, cutting and yelling. It detracted a bit from the sanctity of the place for me. Men in Fez’s patrolled the corridors keeping passages clear and escorting important people to the front of line, much to the dismay of those waiting. Also, at one point they kicked this Israeli guy and his girlfriend out of the church- to the point of him revisiting and them physically forcing him out. Rather uncomfortable. We left that section of the church and migrated to a large, ornate room called the Catholicon where a ceremony was taking place. Some kind of Bishop or Archdeacon was wearing an ostentatious gold, jewel encrusted crown and was blessing those gathered around him and leading prayer. Clutching crosses and moaning personal prayers, people were enraptured by this silent blesser. Experiencing enough hierarchical holiness for one day, we went and met my friend Emily from UF for coffee who now attends Hebrew University. We grabbed some snacks and went back to the hostel and indulged in a lovely nap before our evening activities.