In the heart of Jerusalem’s Old City is the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, a two-domed worship space that covers the site of the crucifixion and the tomb of Christ. It is simultaneously a cavernous and labyrinth-like space––and its history is almost as complex as the winding stone hallways that open up to countless gilded chapels.
When I first visited in 2018, I was immediately struck by this church. It significantly shaped my decision to focus on liturgical theology when I got to Boston College. I planned to study abroad in Jerusalem, frequently using Google Maps to measure how far of a walk my dorm would be from the Holy Sepulchre––12 minutes exactly. Given that this would have taken place in the fall of 2020, I need not say any more. Regardless, this particular church has fascinated and consumed much of my theology education and research.
The church itself is maintained by the Roman Catholic Franciscans, the Greek Orthodox, and the Armenian Apostolics. They are immensely careful not to step on each other’s toes, so much so that there are silly instances like a wooden ladder, decades old, which sits on a ledge above one of the exterior doors. No one remembers which denomination put it there, and thus no one dares to remove it, for fear of angering the others.
The interplay between these three Churches is fascinating and rhythmic in nature. Some physical spaces are divided in three, but, for the most part, there is a dynamic overlap, almost like how oil and water can run alongside each other and never mix.
There are countless unique rituals within these two domes (one dome for Calvary and the other over the Sepulchre itself) that are not widely known––the miracle of Holy Fire, a self-igniting candle phenomenon that happens every Holy Week, is my personal favorite.
There is one Catholic ritual that happens each day, which to my knowledge is nameless, that I experienced by accident. A few of us had just prayed Vespers together, then split ways to meander, barefooted. I was fixated on the soot on the ground between the smoothed cobbles, leftovers from decades of burning candles, when I found myself near the Franciscan Chapel of the Column of Flagellation.
I felt suddenly like I was intruding upon something important––Franciscans were lining up to form a procession, with thuribles ready. Others were handing out beeswax candles to a mob of pilgrims assembling behind the friars. A familiar feeling of confusion washed over me, the feeling of being a foreigner in the presence of unfamiliar overlapping cultures and religions. I remember sinking behind a column to watch from afar––but these were other Catholics and yet I still had no idea what they were doing.
I locked eyes with “James the Jesus Guy,” a nomad living (and dressing) in the style of the apostles. We had met earlier that day, and he let me into the procession beside him. We all lit our candles from one another, and the disorganized line started to move.
Led by Franciscan priests and plentiful incense, we processed by candlelight to every major chapel and place of reverence in the Holy Sepulchre, stopping in front of places like the tomb, the column, the spot in which St. Helena found the True Cross, and the Stone of Unction. When the line halted, the friars, in a mix of multilingual chants, would bless, thank, and give praise for that particular step in Christ’s Passion. Each chapel or altar is incensed, closed down for the night, and when applicable, locked up and candles blown out. We would process to the next, until we finally made it to Calvary. Our prayer took place on our knees, where nuns, weary pilgrims, priests, and friars––and the Greek priests off to the side––all bowed over our candles and sang praise for the Cross.
The final step is locking the church for the evening, which is a multi-faith effort. Before we got to that point, in the style of the Finding of Jesus in the Temple, my frightened pastor came to collect me, thinking I was lost but then finding me at Calvary.
Regardless, the doors close every night on a space that has been filled with incense and songs of gratitude for the holy sites that center the city and the world, past, present, and future. The incense settles, the pilgrims sleep, the prayers are heard. And tomorrow, the doors will open again.
Previously the Campus News Editor and Catholicism 101 Editor, Olivia dabbles in The Torch’s writing and photography. She is a senior studying theology and applied psychology and human development with a minor in journalism. She is unashamedly passionate about youth ministry, Haiti, all things charismatic, the Oxford comma, and CatholicTV––where she can often be found as an on-camera news reporter or host of the To the Heights podcast.
- The Beauty of A Marathon - March 27, 2022
- A Tale of 5,000 Cookies and A Rare Disease - February 28, 2022
- Signing Off As Your Editor-in-Chief - December 25, 2021