Reflections on the Holy Seplchure

Rector’s Rambling, April 2010

In place of the above, from Easter through the Day of Pentecost

Celebrant Alleluia. Christ is risen.
People The Lord is risen indeed. Alleluia.
Book of Common Prayer, p. 323

On Easter, the Feast of Resurrection, we gather to proclaim the good news that Jesus is alive again, and that for us he has overcome death and the grave. I began Lent this year in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem. It is a cavernous place, first built by Roman engineers at the behest of St. Helena and at the command of her son, the Emperor Constantine, over 1600 years ago. At that time it was nearly twice the size it is now. After the destruction of time and war, it was rebuilt by the crusaders a thousand years ago, and it shelters the holiest sites of Christendom. Walking the narrow streets of Jerusalem down the Via Delorosa from the Old Roman fortress Antonia, I paused in each of the chapels and offered prayers. Here Jesus was condemned, there he fell. Simon was impressed by the soldiers at this place, and there is the spot where Jesus received the pitiful mercies of St. Veronica. As I entered the shrine through the great double doors, I turned immediately to the right and climbed the rough and irregular winding stone staircase which leads to the top of Golgotha. The beautiful chapels atop the mount (and inside the church) call to mind the suffering of our Lord, and the passion experienced by his mother and all those who loved him. As I knelt to touch the spot where the upright of the cross fitted into the rock, I felt a rush of my own unworthiness, and the reality faced me that this was all of my doing, of our doing. I lit a candle in thanksgiving for and in memory of those who had gone before me and followed the line of pilgrims down the narrow and steep stairs and around to the right into the Greek reliquary, where resides the largest remaining piece of the Holy Rood, the True Cross upon which our Lord suffered and died. As I knelt in that holy place, the rude impositions of flash bulbs and jangling tourists faded into nothingness and I sensed the love of God in a deep and abiding way. I knew that He had died for me, and I was overcome. After that moment, the Greek monks moved us out quickly to make room for more pilgrims, and we beheld the stone upon which the body of our Lord was prepared for burial. Incense wafted in the air and the chant of a lone monk rose above the excited chatter and general disrespect of tour groups. In my mind’s eye, I saw the women, and St. Joseph of Arimathea, who later brought the gospel to the Britons, gently carrying the limp body to this place of sorrow, and performing as quickly as possible the rites prescribed in Jewish law for the dead. Minutes passed with an agonizing sense of eternity, and I could not think of words to pray. I was dimly aware of people coming to pray or snap a photo, but time seemed to stand still at this holy place.
Then I walked with others past an Armenian shrine to our Lord, around the small and dark Coptic Chapel, and stood in the quietly meditative line of pilgrims waiting to enter the tomb of our Lord. The Greek guardians of this Holiest place glared with some intensity at a group of tourists who chatted gaily and snapped pictures without regard for the devotions of others. Finally the monk, with his flat black hat and threadbare cassock motioned me into the crypt, and I knelt before the stone upon which our Lord was laid by loving hands so very long ago. My mind was empty, and as I signed myself, I mumbled the Jesus Prayer and the Our Father.
The misbehavior of a group of my fellow countrymen, jockeying for position to get a picture of themselves before this holy place, disrupted my reverie, and the tomb’s guardian motioned for us to move on. I wandered on, through the numerous side chapels and crypts, considering what my Lord had done for me, and giving thanks for the love which caused him to take the punishment for my sins. As I emerged some hours later through the great doors which guard the sacred sites, the bright sunlight blinded me, and reminded me that Christ, the light of the world, is risen indeed, and that because of his resurrection, I too will live forever.
Never again will I approach Easter without remembering the Holy City of Zion, and never again will I proclaim the Easter salutation without reliving the joy that God gave me that day in Jerusalem.
I hope that you will join me in Church on this blessed Easter Day, and that together, our hearts might be warmed by the experience of the presence of God.

Bill+