Easter weekend!

Like a rose, trampled

Our walk to church goes past an open garbage skip which is permanently placed on the street. This is where the locals toss their rubbish and it’s collected weekly, more or less. On Maundy Thursday a red, red rose had been thrown there carelessly, its petals scattered like blood drops all over the rough, grey pavement.  I was on my way to sing in the choir, but a new song filled my mind: “Like a rose, trampled on the ground, You took the Fall, and thought of me above all.” And so Easter weekend began.

In church, the Bishop washed feet, pouring ice-cold water over them into a lovely, local, hand-painted basin as he knelt. He dried them with a white towel. Little kids grinned and wiggled their toes. Adults tried not to shiver! The choir sang, “God is love, and where true love is, God Himself is there.”  It seemed He was! The bread was broken and cup raised, as Jesus had done at His last supper: “My body, broken for you. My blood of the new covenant. Remember Me.” We ate and drank and sat in light. But it would not last long.

Jesus' grave in Holy Sepulchre Church

The altar was stripped, simply and without ceremony. Glorious, ornate cloths, as well as practical linen coverings were removed and folded up by priests and strong women. The room darkened.  Bishop and priests left in white, and returned in simple black robes. Only two candles remained lit, standing before the cross on the wall, where they’d shine through the dark night. I had a fleeting feeling of the night when my beloved mother was dying.

We prayed, and left in silence.  We were going to Gethsemane, where Jesus had taken His disciples directly after their meal in the Upper Room. (I’ve been to the church of the Upper Room. It’s small, dim, made more intimate by several pillars that break up the sacred space. It’s a place where people draw close to shut out the darkness. I could imagine them there on that silent night, so unlike the one we sing of at Christmas. This night no angels broke through.)

The walk to Gethsemane, at the foot of the Mount of Olives, takes about 30 minutes from Jerusalem. We’d so recently walked that road, waving palm branches, singing. Now it was night. The world carried on around us, dashing by, shopping on, blaring music, eating, drinking, hanging out. We did our best to stay together. Pastor Hosam in front carried a large wooden cross, symbolizing pilgrimage rather than journey or casual stroll. (Like the pathway of every Christian's life, I suppose.) One car pulled over to the side of the road at the sight of the cross, as cars used to do when a funeral passed. 

After a while Pastor Hosam asked, “Who else can carry the cross?” He gave it to Elliot, who put it on his shoulder. The one with the cross becomes the leader. As in all of life, authority and burden go together. Yet even as leader, Christ's call to love, His mandate (Maundy), remains – pace yourself for those coming after you. Elliot did so, silently bearing the wooden cross, as we followed him to Gethsemane.

Near the foot of the mount Elliot looked for someone to pass it on to. Oliver was beside him. Oliver took the cross, and carried it up the hill, into the Garden. How good it is, when you have a burden to bear, to have someone near, whom you trust, to take it from you.

Jesus had none of that.  Jesus in the Garden knelt and prayed alone. His disciples, whom He asked to share the burden, fell asleep.

At the entrance to the Garden of Gethsemane were soldiers. Not play-acting people helping us in our pilgrimage, but real Israeli soldiers, with guns, making sure nothing got out of hand. The ancient story continues here in the Holy Land.

Jerusalem at night, from Gethsemane

We stood, a small group in darkness, among the olive groves. Across the way sirens blared incessantly as traffic streamed by. Police were on high alert. Anything could happen on a night like this. The Dome of the Rock glowed huge. We were alone. With the cross. 

Pastor Hosam prayed, and my heart lifted as his first thought was for those who share the land with him, a Palestinian. “Lord, when little Jewish children ask, ‘Why is this day different?’ may they know it’s because a greater Passover has come to them.” After a hymn and reflections, during which time we could imagine Judas coming, the kiss in darkness, the betrayal; we left. The soldiers at the gate had moved on. Nothing more would happen there.

We walked 45 minutes, around the eastern city wall, and arrived at Caiaphus’ house. He had been high priest in the time of Christ. Here was the place where Peter, aroused from sleep in the Garden, went on to deny Christ in the courtyard. We sat where Peter sat, feeling how often we have done the same. 

Prison where Christ was held

Inside the house (now a church), are dungeons. Several levels of dungeons. We went right down to the lowest one, where Jesus was kept on that night after Caiaphus gave Him an illegal trial (outside of “business hours”. You don’t legally hold trials in the dark. But they did, and had to keep Him somewhere till the next day.) Our family stood in the lowest dungeon, small, hollowed out roughly, with only a round skylight that opened it up to the air above. 

Wall relief depicting that night

A Japanese minister and two followers entered.  Without hesitation he stood and read Scripture aloud. They sang a lovely Japanese hymn. Then, in English, he invited us to join together in the Lord’s Prayer. And so the world united in Christ. In a dungeon, hope shone out.  “Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done” - even as Good Friday approached. 

Red poppies gleamed amid pure white daisies at the roadside as we walked to church on Good Friday morning. Inside, there was no music. All was quiet. Blood red carnations lay on the cold marble floor at the foot of the altar. The service began. 

“Elai, Elai, Lamech Sabbach thani!” That was familiar, though this time it was in Arabic. Then the voice went on, “Faqala yasu': ya abatah ighfir lahum liannahum la ya'lamun madha yaf'alun." (Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they do.)

As the Gospel was read on this Good Friday in Jerusalem, it sunk deeply into my spirit that my Lord is not an Englishman! The culture, context, and content of His Words spring from the soil of this land where my feet are planted for a season. (How blessed I am!)

Pastor Hosam approached the altar from the back of the church, carrying a cross stained scarlet. “Behold the wood of the Cross whereon was hung the Saviour of the world” he cried, as he carried it to the front and stood it there. We sang, “O sacred head now wounded,” blending Arabic and English words as a congregation. Lying below the cross, the red carnations gleamed with the wounds of Christ, as in silence we prayed.

On Saturday night came “The Great Vigil of Easter”. In the church courtyard a tiny bonfire burned. The flame was hardly visible, but it was enough to light the Paschal candle, tall and white, into which the bishop thrust five wooden pegs in cross formation – for the five wounds of Christ. From the large candle we lit our small ones, and entered the silent church together. "The light of Christ!" called Pastor Hosam, and as we entered, the church glowed.

In semi-darkness, lit only by our small flickering flames of faith, we heard the story of Creation – how God made light shine, created birds and fish, plants and animals, and human beings. We heard the story of the new Creation – how God made light shine through His Son, and in Him was life. 

Suddenly the season took a turn. In Him was life! The call came to renew our baptismal vows. We walked to the baptistry. Kids peered into the water, nudging each other. “Do you believe in God the Father?” we were asked. “I believe in God, the Father Almighty, creator of heaven and earth.” And so, through questions and answers, we reaffirmed our faith, proclaiming it loudly into that night of vigil, saying we believed in Jesus Christ who suffered, was crucified, died, buried, descended to the dead, and rose again! As we finished, the church bells rang.

And the lights came on!  In the light we could see bouquets of flowers, beautiful and glowing in midnight glory, as Easter morning arrived. “He is risen” the pastor cried. “Hallelujah” we responded, and shared His peace with each other. We’d made it through another season of darkness into His eternal light.

“Christ the Lord is risen today” we sang, as we returned to our seats. Pastor Hosam walked backwards down the central aisle, carrying a bowl of baptismal water. The Bishop, walking forwards, dipped in a cluster of rosemary herbs and flung joyful sprays of water over us in every row. We are renewed, restored, resurrected through Christ’s life!

The organist got excited and before the bishop could bless us in his usual solemn way, she burst into the Hallelujah chorus – and so the great vigil concluded with laughter and applause, and ordinary happy human chaos, just as it should. 

Pastor Hosam & daughter

On the way home we met others who talked about the wonderful Latin and French services they’d attended, the amazing 8-foot bonfires, the incredible music from around the world. Our service was ordinary, even faulty, by comparison, but we had chosen, in this season of death and resurrection, to give up being tourists for a while, and simply join in our local church. Here Pastor Hosam’s generous, humble spirit shone, causing Paul to exclaim, “He’s beautiful! I love him!” And at the happy Easter reception following the service, Pastor Hosam said to Paul, “Your family is beautiful!  I love you!”  Christ’s loving mandate was alive and well in the local church. 

At dinner time the Tantur chef, a Muslim, insisted on cooking a whole roast lamb for the community, legs and all, which he presented to us with great joy and pride. Delicious! Later on, the young college students here invited Elliot and Oliver to join in their massive Easter egg hunt! 183 packages of eggs! And  the roses that border our patio burst into golden bloom. He is risen indeed! Hallelujah!

Easter egg hunt

Easter Sunday roses!

Three days later!