Greetings from Pastor Khader:
As many of you know, I grew up in the Greek Orthodox tradition, and while my theology has shifted, I still feel a deep connection to the ceremony of the Holy Fire.
Walking through the aisles of Walgreens, I imagine the fluorescent lights transformed into the intense glow of an ancient church, and all of the chocolate rabbits, pastel-colored toys, and marshmallow chicks also transformed—into a crowd of churchgoers from all over the world—and I am one of them. I imagine the aisles of Walgreens are the walls of the Old City—I imagine Easter in Jerusalem.
Easter in Jerusalem has a… different taste. This city that silently watched Christ’s crucifixion and death also witnessed His resurrection, and gave birth to a renewed light that has since spread throughout the world.
To me, the Holy Fire represents this: a light that emerges from the depths of a death-filled tomb to shine in the face of darkness and oppression. It is carried throughout the world in the hands of human beings, and passed from person to person, from country to country, church to church, over borders, barriers, oceans, and time.
When I was a child, my parents would wake us up at the crack of dawn on the Saturday before Easter Sunday to begin our trip to the Church of the Holy Sepulcher.
On our way out of the house, passing by the kitchen, I would be tempted by the festive smells of ma’mool cakes and hard-boiled eggs, but my mom would pull me along, reminding me that we had to hurry if we wanted to get into the church.
But no matter how early we arrived, we never beat the crowds. Thousands from all over the world descended on the church that morning, and many had even camped there for days outside of the church door.
Pale men wear tall, dark, fur hats; Eastern European women wear colorful scarves; longer pieces of cloth flow out from African and Asian pilgrims as they walk, and the air is filled with chanting and prayer. From far off, you can hear a procession approaching: clergy in black and red robes with scepters that they rhythmically slam into the ground. Orthodox clergy wear gold and white robes and tall ornate hats.
When we arrive, it is a struggle to get into the church, but when we finally make it to the door we are greeted by a wave of incense. There is no space for pews or chairs—there is barely room for all of the people who squeeze inside with their backs against pillars, stone statues of the saints, and one another. (As a kid, I only remember seeing people’s feet.) A Greek chant fills the air: “Kyrie Eleison,” or “Lord have mercy.” It builds momentum for hours until there is suddenly a powerful silence, and all wait for the Patriarch to emerge from the tomb of Jesus Christ, carrying the Holy Fire.
While those waiting don’t know what is happening inside the tomb, one Patriarch described the experience later, saying:
The light rises out of the stone {on which Jesus lay} as mist may rise out of a lake—it almost looks as if the stone is covered by a moist cloud, but it is light. This light each year behaves differently. Sometimes it covers just the stone, while other times it gives light to the whole sepulcher, so that people who stand outside the tomb and look into it will see it filled with light… At a certain point the light rises and forms a column… so that I am able to light my candles from it… Hereafter I give the flame to all people present in the Church.
Those of us lucky enough to be present at the church would bring the experience back with us along with the Holy Fire. Sections of the Holy Fire are flown throughout the world each year, to churches in Russia, Europe, Asia, Africa, and the Americas. We traveled a much shorter distance, past the checkpoint, where we would light candles held by the Scouts who would, in turn, carry the flame through the streets to the rest of our community, waiting to celebrate Easter. In this way, a single flame born from the darkness of a tomb of death is able to spread, always growing, to light the whole world. This is the miracle of resurrection.