Good Friday in Jerusalem

A bloodied man dressed as Jesus was led along the Via Delarosa by a Roman soldier carrying a cross. Tagging along was a woman barking into a microphone, imploring “Jesus” to continue walking. Earlier, I had seen a man with shoulder length hair, wearing a white toga, and walking barefoot. And so begins Good Friday in Jerusalem.

Throughout the day, throngs of pilgrims retraced the 14 Stations of the Cross along the Via Dolorosa, Way of Suffering, to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, the spot where it is believed Jesus was crucified.

We decided to walk with the Franciscans around noon, and given the anticipated crowds, a kind lady in the Christian Information Centre suggested we enter the Old City by way of the Lion’s Gate, which is close to the First Station.

Since we were a couple of hours early, we decided to not heed the advice and instead walked through the Old City. Soon, we were swept along with a sea of people. There was no choice but to follow along. After some time we were able to break from the group. We turned down a narrow street, then down another, and yet another. Then we stopped, realizing we had no idea where we were. Navigating the Old City can be like that. Then we found ourselves in the middle of another group of pilgrims. Only problem was we were going against the tide, trying to squeeze our way up the Via Dolorosa, while hundreds were stopped with nowhere to go.

One guy shook his head and said it would be impossible to make our way up. Where there’s a will, there’s a way, I thought to myself. Besides, some might say that Jesus often went against the grain. At one point the crowd was so tight that I was pushed on an angle, and I feared falling over. Two others were also trying to make their way against the crowd, and from behind me I could hear, “In the name of the Holy Spirit...God please make a path for us.” Maybe someone was listening, because soon after the crowd thinned, and we scrambled past.

It was amazing to see thousands of people from all over the world chanting hymns in different languages. I met Yousef and George, two Palestinians who live near Bethlehem. As one group began the procession, Yousef turned to me and said, “God created many languages.”

He then asked me if I was a Christian. I always find this question uncomfortable, because of the requisite lecture that usually comes. Sometimes I think it would be easier to just say, yes. Instead, I’m honest.

“Well, not really,” I stammer. “I was baptized as a child, but I don’t believe in God.”

“You mean you don’t feel anything in your heart,” he pushed.

“Oh, I feel lots of things in my heart, just not God,” I replied, hoping the topic would change.

“You know, if you believe you will live for eternity, but if you don’t, you won’t. Well, it’s good that you were baptized, but you need to work much harder,” he concluded.

I just smiled, and left the conversation at that. This is what I dislike about the overly pious. The insinuation that if you don’t believe somehow there’s something wrong and you need to “work harder”. It reminded me of a sermon I once heard at church in which the priest asked the question, are there Saints outside the Church? I wanted to yell out, you bet there is!

By 12:15 PM hundreds of people had gathered at the First Station. Once underway, the procession squeezed through a narrow doorway and started down the Via Dolorosa, stopping at each Station along the way to recite prayers and hymns. It took an hour for us to walk the 500 metres.

Near the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, a scuffle broke out as soldiers and police tried to stop the procession, in an effort to control the crowd. In front of me, a group carrying a seven foot wooden cross surged past the police, and through an archway that led into the church courtyard. Feeling victorious about pushing past the authorities, they pumped their fists in the air and chanted. In the ensuing fracas, I found myself standing at the entrance of the courtyard. Behind me the throng wanted to push forward, while inside I saw people pushing and shoving with police and soldiers. To gain a semblance of control, the soldiers started to push the big steel door in front of me closed. I didn’t resist, but others tried to force the door back open, but to no avail. Within a few minutes, the big door swung open and we continued to spill into the Church.

Inside, hundreds of pilgrims roamed through the cavernous Church, in search of the last five Stations. Near the entrance was a long piece of stone, which was placed here just 200 years ago, at the spot where people believe that Jesus’ body was prepared for burial. A large group surrounded the stone. Some poured water on it, while others wiped it with a cloth. Others still knelt down and kissed it.

We walked to a large rotunda, where in the centre sits what is believed to be the tomb of Jesus. A large mob of people jostled with one another to gain entry to the tomb. John and I felt safe standing behind a makeshift barrier, but knew these kinds of situations could turn ugly at any moment. Security struggled to keep people orderly.

Wanting to leave this circus-like atmosphere, we vowed to return the next day when we hoped the feverish atmosphere would subside.

Good Friday in Jerusalem...a remarkable experience to be sure.