Easter 2024

Two reflections and two different kinds of Easter celebrations

These are from 2023, thoughts on a trip to Jerusalem and thoughts on two very different ways (and days) to celebrate Easter. From my Washington Examiner column.

CROSS ON WHEELS

It was a pretty simple question. “So what brings you to Jerusalem, my friend?”

I’ve been in Jerusalem for the past ten days, seeing the holy sites and eating a huge amount of sesame candy. I probably should have an answer to that question by now. But as the guy at the coffee stand just inside the Damascus Gate poured me a tiny thimble of cardamom-spiked brew, I just shrugged. “I guess I’ve just always wanted to come,” I said.

This made sense to him, even though it wasn’t quite true. I’m here with a group from my church on what is called a pilgrimage on all of the printed literature and handouts we’ve received. But for some reason, I’m uncomfortable with that word, pilgrimage. It implies a level of piety and religious devotion I can’t claim to possess.

When I signed up for this trip about a year ago I think I was imagining some kind of religious moment, some set of powerful revelations that might push my faith from Restrained Episcopalian to something more technicolor. When I sent in my deposit, I may have even said to myself, I’ll bet I come back from this a much better person.

That particular delusion was destroyed on the first day when I saw a group of tourists (or maybe fellow pilgrims?) squeezing through the narrow lanes of Old Jerusalem and thought to myself, Look at all of those awful fat people.

And they weren’t Americans, which I’m sure is the first thing you thought. (It was the first thing I thought, too.) I could tell because the men were wearing those idiotic pants that taper and cinch just above the ankle, often with a little dangly string hanging from the cuff. They’re called “coulottes,” I think, and they make any man who wears them appear ridiculous and European, which are often the same thing.

And then later, while in line at the Church of the Holy Sepulchre — perhaps the holiest site in all of Christendom — I used the thirty minutes or so it took for the line of fellow pilgrims to snake its way from the Stone of Anointing to the Tomb of Jesus to catch up on some emails, because Jerusalem has excellent cell service.

But you know how it is. You start checking your email — just to be sure nothing’s blowing up at home, that you’ve got the important stuff under control — and then before you know it you’ve scrolled through Twitter and Instagram, and then suddenly you’re inside the tomb, touching with your right hand the stone that was rolled away two thousand years ago — the central miracle of the Christian faith, the moment when Christ’s sacrifice freed us all from sin and death — while your left hand clutches an iPhone 14 with the text message you almost finished sending still on the screen.

“I don’t think I’m doing Jerusalem right,” I told an Anglican minister I met a few days later. “I’m seeing Jerusalem,” I said, “but I don’t think I’m feeling it, you know? I’m a really bad pilgrim.”

He smiled and told me this story. Pilgrims have been coming to Jerusalem since, well, since the stone was rolled away from the tomb. The more devout ones will walk along the Via Dolorosa — the path that Jesus took from his trial to his execution — carrying heavy wooden crosses just as he did. It’s hard work, especially in the spring and summer, when the heat makes the air still and sticky.

One year, he told me, a pilgrim invented an easier way to carry a heavy cross along the Via Dolorosa. He simply attached a set of wheels to the base of the cross and rolled it along the path. Easy-peasy.

“So don’t worry too much about being a bad pilgrim,” he said. “Jerusalem has seen much worse.”

But there’s not all that much difference between a guy rolling a cross along the Via Dolorosa like some kind of Holy Rimowa, and a guy posting Instagram stories directly outside of the Tomb of Jesus Christ. So yesterday I decided to leave the phone at the hotel and go back to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre with hands-free and eyes open.

Well, hands-free sort of. I bought a wedge of kunafeh — a crunchy sweet pastry filled with cream cheese — to eat while waiting for the line to shuffle along. But it was gone by the time I knelt in front of the stone and closed my eyes and felt Jerusalem.

In other words, I needed a second chance at this pilgrim business. Lucky for me my faith is all about second chances.

HOLY FIRE

On Easter Sunday, Christians around the world celebrate the resurrection of Jesus Christ and the promise of God’s grace. In my specific branch of Christianity, the Episcopal Church, we celebrate Easter Morning by dressing in pastel-colored clothing made of expensive, luxury fabrics and swanning around church like delighted peacocks.

And that’s just the guys. The women are resplendent in sundresses and floral hats, leading well-scrubbed and dressed-up children by the hand down the aisle of the church. The organ thunders celebratory hymns, the choir trills majestically, and everyone pretends that they come to church on the regular, once a week, rather than twice a year: once on Christmas Eve and once more on Easter morning and then, well, we’re all so busy with kids soccer and summer plans and school starting and Sunday’s are our only day to sleep in…

I’m not here to judge. (Well, I am, and I’m very good at it, but in this instance, I’m holding back.) Easter Sunday, for Americans of the Christian faith — and, as a friend of mine puts it, Christians of the American faith — is a lovely springtime ritual when everyone puts on their very best clothes and nicest available manners and gathers in a dignified and orderly celebration.

It’s not like that everywhere. In Jerusalem, in the Church of the Resurrection — the very place, we Christians believe, that Jesus rose from the tomb — Orthodox Easter Sunday is celebrated a few weeks later. In 2024, it’s celebrated May 5th.

And “celebrated” is an understatement. The event is closer to an out-of-hand block party.

The church itself, and the surrounding courtyards and narrow streets, are packed with worshippers. It’s said to be as silent as a crowd of that size can be, with the low, constant hum of prayer and the shuffling of thousands of feet, filled with the electricity of the collective anticipation of the big moment.

At an appointed hour, several priests from the Orthodox sects that govern the church enter the small chapel built over the tomb, each carrying fistfuls of unlit candles. A moment later, to great shouts of joy and hallelujah, a priest appears from the tomb holding candles ablaze with the holy fire. It really doesn’t matter how those candles were lit — the assembled faithful believe that they ignite spontaneously, touched by the Holy Spirit; the party-poopers insist that one of the priests is carrying a Bic — because before you can start to apply rational, skeptical analysis the crowd erupts into whoops and cheers and hymns of every language and sobs of joy. The great mob surges forward, everyone thrusting their own clutch of candles and beeswax tapers towards the front, lighting them and passing them back until the place looks like one gigantic moving bonfire. It’s hard to maintain a science-first posture when you’re in the middle of that much living, breathing, powerful faith.

It’s mayhem. People wave their hands through the flames like it’s holy water. The crowd passes the fire back and forth until every candle is alight. Some candle-bearers are carried out on the shoulders of worshippers to spread the flame throughout the old city. Thousands of candles are lit from that one Holy Fire, including some lanterns that are spirited to the nearest airport to make their way to churches across the globe, lighting Easter candles from that first, special, one. It’s a metaphor that symbolizes God’s forgiveness and the love that comes from this one place and that one moment and spreads its warmth and joy and good news across the world. But it’s also a lot of people going a little nuts with candles and fire.

It’s a breathtaking sight — you can watch it live, on YouTube — but if you’re anything like me you’re wondering how the Fire Marshall feels about all of this noisy and unsupervised activity. You’re thinking, as a good Episcopalian might, about the liability of it all — How does this church get insured? And You’re telling me no one ends up with third-degree burns?

And you may also be thinking, especially if you’re a reserved Episcopalian whose idea of cutting loose is wearing a pink blazer on Easter morning, that all of that hollering and shouting and pyrotechnics are just a little bit too much. A little bit, um, Mediterranean, if you get my meaning.

All of that is true, of course. I couldn’t find any record of someone’s getting seriously burned during the Easter celebration at the Church of the Resurrection in Jerusalem, but it’s hard to imagine it hasn’t happened. On the other hand, if you believe — really and truly believe — that what people say happened at that very place two thousand years ago actually happened, a pastel-colored bow tie or a straw hat with flowers may not quite cut it, celebration-wise. You may need to get out some candles and pass around the fire.

Happy Easter!