The Idler: At Christ’s Tomb

Our vigil at the Holy Sepulcher went very well, notwithstanding the Greek cleric who hissed like a snake and barked like a dog.

We locked ourselves into the Church of the Holy Sepulcher at 8:30 in the evening, planning to emerge at midnight when the Greeks arrived to celebrate their Saturday Vigil. Since we were in Jerusalem on retreat it seemed the perfect occasion to pass a substantial stretch of time in the greatest shrine of Christianity without the distractions that occur during the normal visiting hours.

I found my seat on a narrow bench facing the Sepulcher itself. The actual closing of the church doors is preceded by a complex and puzzling clanging of bells, rattling of keys, and rapping on doors; anyone still left unintimidated inside is then personally encouraged to leave by a hovering Israeli policeman who, apparently, was unapprised of our intention. After an increasingly determined discussion on both sides, we were rescued at the door by a disarming Franciscan who, with a wave of the hand, achieved what all of our pleading could not.

I returned to my bench only to find a good African nun left undisturbed, placidly holding her corner, perfectly camouflaged in the shadows by her dark habit.

The door of the church slammed shut with a jolting thump which ought to have signaled the so-desired peace of our vigil. But there was still plenty of activity to come. There was the hauling out of ladders to replenish the oil burnt in the stalactite forest of lamps. Monks passed in and out of the dark carrying various arcane instruments, presumably associated with either maintenance or cult in the basilica. What looked like garbage or laundry was silently wheeled around the empty tomb of our Savior.

I settled into my meditation despite these distractions. A rather determined Greek lady, clearly well-accustomed to the sacred precincts and convinced everyone understood her noble tongue, tried to clear one bench to permit herself a place to sleep. Unsuccessful, she approached our bench and persuaded me at least to shift far enough toward Sister to allow her a place to curl. This was quickly found unsuitable for her purposes. So she entered the roped off sanctuary of the Greek Catholicon, spread herself out on the choir stalls, and went very audibly to sleep.

Off to the side, about a hundred feet from the shrine of the tomb, a group of French religious were quietly chanting. From what I could determine this must have, in some peripheral way, offended against the status quo of religious observances. A Byzantine monk had earlier tended lamps and publicly cleaned his teeth at the window of his cell attached to the inside of the rotunda. He now began ostentatiously hissing across the vast expanse of the crusader dome. This attempt to silence the determined Gauls met no results, even though it continued for some 45 minutes. Clearly irritated by this display of unchecked Frankish piety, the oriental cleric took more drastic and imaginative efforts by placing himself in a concealed archway where he emitted sounds like a barking dog. The French held their ground, and the Byzantine, ever-resourceful, mounted to his cell to irritate further by raising and lowering the volume on his television.

Far from being a distraction as one might be led to conclude, these activities only were a backdrop of humanity which, I found, left me unhindered in my pursuit of union with God. It is not the question of detachment. I confess I have little ability in disentangling myself from distractions, and advanced meditation will always remain elusive to me. What does matter, I learned, is the frame of mind one has when confronting such situations. If one adopts an attitude of acceptance, the whole experience can be transformed from an anxiety-raising tragedy to a moment of genuine spiritual refreshment. It is this possibility I want to discuss in order to defend the present, much maligned, spiritual atmosphere in the Holy Sepulcher.

Six religious denominations hold some kind of proprietorship over this building—so sacred to Christianity because it preserves not only the Tomb of Christ, but also the site of his crucifixion. The Greek Orthodox seem to have the lion’s share, while the Ethiopians maintain a precarious foothold on the roof of the church. All six have rights to the public celebrations of their liturgies, which inevitably overlap and collide.

Piously intentioned guidebooks will invariably warn the tourist/pilgrim not to expect a sublime religious experience when visiting the church. This is done in the same self-righteous tone that nineteenth-century guidebooks alerted Englishmen to the less than exemplary hygienic standards of the Latin races. Attention is always drawn to the territorial squabbling and liturgical contests that occur in the building. What it really comes down to, though, is the noise and the dirt.

We western Christians have come exclusively to identify silence and cleanliness with piety, an identification which is foreign to a vast segment of not only the Christian faith, but other faiths as well. And this notion, when pushed to the extreme, is profoundly anti-Christian. For if we deny dirt and noise, we deny the Incarnation.

I remember the first time walking through the Damascus Gate in Jerusalem. It is a riot of life: vendors of all kinds selling everything from socks to spices; odors and smells that range from the most noxious to the most alluring, all in a matter of seconds; humanity dressed in colors and textures with veils and turbans and even a few poor colorless westerners. In the background the cacophony of merchants’ shouts and music, and clanging metal and crying children. It is a far cry from Sunday in Switzerland!

Now, if people are attracted to and stimulated by such variety in the marketplace and town square, why do we expect a Swiss Sunday when we walk into the truly universal and ecumenical temple of all Christians? Let me state that I am not advocating that our ordinary Sunday assemblies should be like the Damascus Gate. I do believe that order and quiet are the only assurances of a sustained, mature spirituality, both of individuals and communities. What I am arguing here is that all experiences need not be so configured, and indeed, some demand a radical diversity.

The spiritual atmosphere of the Sepulcher is unabashedly virile, aggressive, importunate, and sensual, an attitude denigrated by the exclusive agents of mauve spirituality whose ideal consists of the hushed tones of introspective sensitivity sessions and the inoffensive decor of suburban funeral parlors.

You enter the Church of the Holy Sepulcher and all your senses are assaulted. There is the mystical perfume of incense in several varieties, mingled with the corporeal emanation of perspiration. There are, at any given time, two competing choirs straining along in opposing tongues and chants, interspersed with the rhythmic jingling of bells, the pious mumbling of pilgrims and the outrageous explanations of harried tour guides. There are the gaudy polychromes of newly installed mosaics, and the dim images of ancient frescoes. The intriguing costumes of the six custodial churches augmented by the ceaseless parade of visitors in everything from beach attire to self-designed apocalyptic robes. The uneven floor reminds you of a countless army which has sanctified itself in the same path. The steps to Calvary seem constructed like some Olympian obstacle course; they are not for the weary. If there were ever a reminder of all the implications of the Nicean “et homo factus est,” it is here.

A routine I witnessed for several days may serve to illustrate: At about 5:15 in the evening the Franciscans are doing the Stations of the Cross. They enter the basilica for the final four stations; these involve prayers and chanting. Just as the Franciscans are finishing up the fourteenth station in front of the Holy Sepulcher, the Armenians begin their evening service. The Armenians seem to have hedged a bit in the selection of choral participants since the phalanx of singers seems selected explicitly for their robust voices rather than tonality. As the Franciscans retreat to their chapel the Armenians come swooping in asserting vocal supremacy; and indeed the volume is terrific. The Franciscans, with dove-like simplicity and serpent-like cunning, however, have installed a pipe organ which is a strategic coup de grace on the part of the Latins. Theirs is the only rite which permits accompaniment by musical instruments. While the others are restrained by liturgical precedent from attaining a parity in weaponry, they choose to augment their more conventional means of assault on the Godhead.

But why should we find offense in all of this? Would we be happier if each rite retreated to its own church? Is this audio warfare less preferable to the more physical combat of former ages? Is competition always contentious? The good will and relaxed exchange between representatives of the six Churches at other times certainly indicates an underlying harmony.

There are indeed those who would like to replace the “lusty roar,” as C.S. Lewis says, with calmer, measured worship. Is the Divine Majesty confused by the minor Pentecost of tongues? Is this loose order liturgy, displaying a kind of hearty brag, unlike the raucous social exchange at a lively family gathering?

It appears to me that this only proves a maxim I have developed from Chesterton, namely, that true religion produces ugly shrines. The contrast is no more evident than in Jerusalem when one compares the two purported sites of the Resurrection. There is, of course, the Church of the Holy Sepulcher already described, which enjoys overwhelming support from scholars and faithful. Then there is the site wonderfully discovered by General Charles “Chinese” Gordon only in the last century, which enjoys solely an aesthetic proof. It is a restful, lovely, and well-tended garden. One can imagine our Lord rising from the dead, stepping out amidst the impatiens and crocuses, and going straight away to have his tea. When I visited it, there was a group innocuously singing “Kumbaya.” I’d much prefer the roaring of the monks.

What the real Sepulcher forces you to confront is not only the riot of diversity in religious expression generated from the extraordinary event of the Resurrection, but also the enormous diversity in human response to Christ’s saving act.

One morning while meditating before the Holy Sepulcher I was able to see this most vividly. First a group of handicapped people were wheeled up to the shrine and with great difficulty were walked, or practically carried into the tiny inner chamber. It would break your heart. Not long after, a group of young men from England appeared, tired and bored. Two sat down next to me. One said to the other, “What are we looking at?”

“A tomb.”

“Whose tomb?”

“Jesus’s, I think.”

The Church of the Holy Sepulcher forces one to deal with this spectrum of responses which can run from fanaticism to faith to indifference to hatred. All these, of course, reflect the vastly divergent attitudes of society to the Christian message, which is no better summed up than in the message of the Sepulcher, “Christ is risen.”

Maybe in a more perfect world Christians would unite to resolve the festering territorial conflicts and instill a sense propriety and reverence as a dominant atmosphere in this shrine; they would finally restore the crumbling crusader stones and give lustre and order to a dreary interior. This will happen only after the more endemic disorders facing the churches and society are resolved, if ever. Until that time this venerable and tarnished edifice will be a mirror reflecting to us a perfect image of ourselves: the deficiencies and achievements we have in Christ.”

When I visited the church for the last time, a young man sat next to me on my left, fingering his rosaries and weeping quietly. Next to him a tour guide was explaining to his clients where they could get the best deal on olive oil. How could one not love the humanity of such a place?

Author

  • Monsignor Steven Otellini

    Rev. Msgr. Steven Otellini, is a priest in the Archdiocese of San Francisco currently serving as pastor of The Church of the Nativity in Menlo Park, California.

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