“This pious fraud, first devised in the ninth century, was devoutly
cherished by the Latin crusaders, and is annually repeated by the clergy
of the Greek, Armenian, and Coptic sects, who impose on the credulous
spectators for their own benefit and that of their tyrants.” ―Edward
Gibbon. We were forced to leave our place and move on, as the Israeli
police at New Gate would not let us in. We tried another gate and
failed, but quickly got in throught David’s Gate, whch we should have
tried first, as it is closest to the Armenian quarter where we were
headed. At the Armenian Patriarchate we were met by George, our
Armenian guide, the Archbishop of British Columbia, and the former vicar
of the Church of St Mary Magdalene Oxford, Fr Hugh Wybrew, who had
taken us to the Syrian foot-washing ceremony on Maundy Thursday. We waited patiently for the procession to the Holy Sepulcre to
begin. The Armenian Patriarch and his entourage led the way, followed
by an Armenian scouts’ pipe band—a wholesome relic of the British
mandate. Though it was one of the things that I least expected to see,
the pipes and drums were strangely moving. I thought of my previous visit to the Holy Sepulchre. After
arriving in Jerusalem, sleep deprived and rather drunk, my friend
Konstantin and I went straight there. The narrow streets of the Old
City were empty then. The light of dawn shone through small openings
above the market-stalls. Small cats wandered about freely. The feeling
of anticipation was exhilirating—much better than sleep. How can I
describe the church when I first saw it? It is noisy, crowded, and
crammed with an eccelctic mixture of decorations, paintings, lights, and
graffiti. One of the most interesting rooms belonged to the Armenians:
it was decorated with a large painting of Heraclius’ restoration of the
cross to Jerusalem. The inscription was in Armenian and I
congratulated myself on being able to read some of it. The rotunda
surrounding the aedicule, the tomb of Christ, was extremely noisy and
crowded. Apart from the strange structure in the middle—whose
appearance Robert Byron wryly compared to that of a steam engine—the
rotunda was indistinguishable from any other church. I interloped at a
Coptic mass conducted at the end of the aedicule, having been saddened
by the vulgarity of the Catholic mass I tried to attend, which had been
very modern, very Vatican II, and very tasteless. But my experience at
the Holy Fire was to be somewhat different. Spirits were high and tempers flared easily thoughout Jerusalem
that day. The Israeli police generally choose Holy Saturday as the time
to assert their authority. One of them gave George a hard time at the
entrance to the Holy Sepulcre, and told him to get out of the way and to
take us with him. But George told him off, declaring that he was
secretary to the Armenian Patriarch, and that the Holy Sepulcre was his
church—all true statements. This had the desired effect, and we were
let through. But I didn’t get very far. The official badges, which I
and the others had been given at the Armenian Patriarchate, seemed to be
doing no good. Not looking particularly Armenian, I was stopped by the
police. “I’m with George,” I said with as much confidence as
possible. This only got me through the threshold. Getting into the
Armenian section proved much more difficult: an aggressive priest began
shouting at me that I must leave at once, as the area was reserved for
Armenians only. I called out to my companions as loudly as I could.
Luckily my voice carried over the furious din, and George and Fr Hugh
came to my rescue and interced for me with the irate priest. I joined
my friends on the left side of the aedicule. The Armenian section seemed to blend with one reserved for
Russian pilgrims. There was a crowd of Russian nuns behind me, and one
of them was particularly aggressive—at least at first. She took the
gravest exception to my leaning on a pillar next to her. I have been
blocking her light, or perhaps I was simply to close for comfort. She
shouted at me several times, but we were all so tightly-packed that
there was nothing I could do. She began pounding furiously on my arm,
shouting in Russian. Brian speaks Russian, so he addressed he and
pacified her. Whatever he said, did the trick: she gave me palm cross
which she had made. “A peace offering,” said Fr Hugh in sonorous tones. The tense, lead-up to the Holy fire had all the elements of a
rock concert and a sports match. Everyone was singing, shouting, or
chanting something. Almost everyone had bundles of candles in their
hands, waiting expectantly to receive the fire. The younger Greeks, by
far the loudest there, sat on one another’s shoulders, beating drums and
shouting slogans. To me the three most distinct syllables sounded like
‘sissboombah’. The Syrians waited patiently for a lull and chanted the
Lord’s Prayer in Syriac, but this failed to subdue to Greeks entirely.
Suddenly a loud bell annouced the Greek Patriarch’s arrival. I didn’t know what to expect of the ‘miracle’ of the Holy Fire.
The Greek Patriarch entered the rotunda, candles in hand. Before going
into the aedicule he removed his heavy robes, and was searched by
Israeli police. They were to ensure that the man had no artificial
means of lighting a fire. This done he disappeared within the aedicule
to pray within the tomb of Christ. Suddenly, a flame appeared through a
small window on the left side of the aedicule, the Armenian Patriarch
lit his candle from it, and the crowd rushed eagerly towards him.
Candles held in trembling hands were stretched forward. The fire spread
throughout the church in a matter of seconds. I could feel the heat
and smell the wax and oil, and yet people washed their hands and faces
in the fire. A high-pitched bell rang out. I had read Gertrude Bell’s description of violent scrums at the
Holy Fire ceremony with some doubt. But she was right. Men and women
fighting like wild beasts to light their candles, the deafening
shouting, the light and smoke: it was all true. The crowds were so thick in the Old City that day, that I got lost and wandered aimlessly for some time before finding my way back to the British School of Archaeology via the American Colony Hotel for a gin and tonic. |
Travel Writing >