LET THE SKY IN

It was late in the afternoon when we got to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. A nun in the Swedish Christian Bible Centre had very confidently told us that archaeologically there was no question, no question at all, that this would be the site where Jesus died, where his body was prepared, and finally he was buried and rose again. Our tour guide backed her up later by encouraging us to visit, once the guided tour of the walls was done.

So we did.

I hope it isn’t the place. I’ve never been in a more infuriating, gloomy, awful setting in my life. Nothing about the Church of the Holy Sepulchre speaks of the resurrected life at all. I wanted to tear it all down, break free of the walls and let the sky come pouring in all its brilliant glory. I apologise if this seems disrespectful, but honestly, that place is dreadful.

The heaviness was back. Crowds of us surged up the steep steps to the ornate gold glinting regalia surrounding ‘Golgotha’. The air was choking (and I assume it always is) with the sickly smell of incense. And it was dark - dingy, windowless, oppressively dim. A huge line of people were queuing up to kiss the image of Jesus above the altar. I just felt ill up there - claustrophobic and so so weary of the religious obsession that paints the humble things with gold and entombs them in silver.

The church, we understood, seems to be managed by an old agreement between six different Christian traditions (it’s literally called the Status Quo) - none of them have overall control, and even the keys have to be entrusted to Muslims to stop one group changing the locks. Our tour guide told us that passions run high between the Christians in these matters.

The Rotunda and the Aedicule

We came down the steps, just in time to join a very short queue of people waiting to visit the Aedicule in the rotunda. The Aedicule is a Nineteenth Century shrine, surrounding the small slab of limestone and the cave they believe Jesus was buried in. It’s ridiculous - a huge candlelit box, ornately decorated with an entrance that must be five-foot high, through which only two people can pass at a time.

Paul and I got swept into that queue and before we knew it, we were yards away from the entrance with a swarming mass of people pushing us forward. I’ve never been in such a thing - momentum squeezed us toward the tiny entrance while people of all shapes and sizes were attempting to get out. It was dark, crowded and there was no other choice really than to go inside, even though I already knew I didn’t really want to.

A man with a beard and a hat started singing something and waving what looked like a holy book in the air. Out of nowhere, some burly priests (presumably from a different tradition) tried to pull him aside at which point, he started shouting: “Don’t touch me! I’m a bishop. You can’t touch me.”

I felt sick to my stomach.

This isn’t what the resurrection is about! It’s the opposite. Death is broken, the tomb has no real meaning, that’s the point: light, life and love have splintered the curse and shattered the teeth of our separation forever! Yet there we were, queuing and barging and arguing our way into a tiny restricted room with a slab of rock, some old paintings, ornate Latin and a collection of gilt-edged candles.

 Let the sky in.

-

“Where are you guys from?” asked the friendly guy in the booth. He was in his early thirties, olive-coloured skin and sparkling eyes above a thick but neatly groomed black beard. We told him that we were from England, and we’d been hoping to visit the garden tomb before it closed. Evening was already setting in, and we could see the garden illuminated by gentle lamps, angled across the flower beds and olive trees.

He let us in. This, this had been in my list of two things I really wanted to see - the Garden Tomb, just beyond the Damascus Gate.

I don’t know that this is the place either. In a way, it just doesn’t matter - what mattered right then and there was the peace. We were the last visitors of the day, strolling around while the sky faded into night. Birds sang in the trees - almost as though they knew we were there.

The Garden Tomb is a small, well-kept Garden near the bus station in Old Jerusalem. It was a short walk from the Damascus Gate on the North side of the city, outside the walls of course. There is a tomb in it, and its entrance leads right out into the open space of the garden, to the sky.

Where the sepulchre had been oppressive, this place was free. Where crowds of strangers jostled in to a relic, the garden was empty of everyone - other than Paul, myself, and another couple who’d arrived at the end of the day. It was a beautiful end to a long day - my birthday still of course - and it reminded me that faith in God is much more about breathing in the fresh air, than it was ever about fighting your way into a darkened room; He just isn’t there. And that’s why it doesn’t matter.

The friendly guy gave us directions to get back to the tram, and so we made our way back to the park and ride, and eventually, the drive back to Tel Aviv.

It has been hard to describe everything I felt in Jerusalem: it’s an extraordinary place - and it really isn’t like any other city at all. What I do know is, that for my forty-first birthday, I was there at the very centre of the world, seeing first-hand the time-piece of history at this remarkable point, where three continents and three religions collide. And while I waited for Paul, just outside the Garden Tomb before we went back, it occurred to me that now, it’s part of my history too. And I really love that.