Jesus Christ, Superstar (6/21/2008)

The Church of the Holy Sepulcher is the holiest site in the world's largest religion; its outwardly ordinary yet inwardly fascinating naves, domes, and chapels cap the hill of Golgotha where 1.9 billion people contend that Jesus of Nazareth was crucified, died, was anointed, was buried, and rose in a borrowed tomb about 40 hours later. While the site is disputed, Christians don't debate the event -- after all, the Resurrection is the central tenet of the religion, regardless of sect (and as a t-shirt I saw recently says, Christians have the best sects.)

Thus, the devout flock to the Sepulcher - first upstairs to the crucifixion site, then back down to Jesus' tomb. The sociology in the church is fascinating: the line to get into the tomb is an amalgamation of Orthodox, Catholics, Protestants, and apathetic yet curious tourists. As the believers near the entrance, the hoopla crescendos - pilgrims light and extinguish candles, women cover their heads, many people bow, they kiss the remaining piece of the famous cover stone that had been rolled to the side that Sunday morning.

My father and I entered the tomb amid a group of Russian Orthodox. The devotion was stunning - several pilgrims lay their hands and faces on the rock of resurrection (well, technically the one covering the rock of resurrection) and seemed on the verge of tears, begging forgiveness for silent transgressions. Others just stared in awe at the pageantry - and yet, sheer simplicity - of the tomb's interior. The supervising priests gave us pretty much free reign to do what we wanted inside it (provided we finished in 30 seconds), which is staggering considering the tomb has been the focal point of the world's largest and most fiercely disputed faith for about 1700 years. (By comparison, the Smithsonian holds Chelsea Clinton's ballet slippers behind armed glass.) The experience culminated as we were outside, gazing up at a mosaic of St. Matthew, when a pilgrim followed us out - an old, disheveled Russian man sporting a raggedy t-shirt announcing "THIS THING IS BOOTY."

The Holy Sepulcher culminates the Via Dolorosa ("the path of sorrows"), which traces Jesus' route from condemnation to resurrection and which earned Mel Gibson a paltry $611 million. The path winds through old Jerusalem's churches and bazaars -- starting in the Muslim Quarter and ending in (would you believe it) the Christian Quarter. Finding the stations, which you know too well if you paid attention in Sunday school, is more difficult than those on your average pilgrimage. Unlike Boston's Freedom Trail, with a continuous red line on the sidewalk and clearly marked stops ("THIS IS PAUL REVERE'S HOUSE."), some Via Dolorosa stations are discernible only by Roman numerals chiseled into walls ("Three? ... three. Seven ... seven? Ten...?"), others by friezes, and some by churches and statues hidden behind convent walls. For arguably the most famous path in the world, the church fathers didn't make it easy to find.

But, in many ways, the Via Dolorosa's charm is in imagining and re-piecing together what may have happened where, who built what where (Hint: usually the Catholics), and how the streets may have looked before those bazaar owners and walking booty ads had moved in. Pre-packaged and antisceptic, it's not. While the reward in navigating the Via Dolorosa was a success on its own, getting lost in our imaginations -- and in the tight alleys and bazaars on the way -- was just as exhilarating.