Room of One's Own

Limited space evokes competition between sects, suds, siblings, and species.

Golgotha, the site of Christ's crucifixion, appears in most paintings as a substantial hill in the countryside, far from the city walls of Jerusalem depicted in a distant background. In fact, if the traditional spot has been correctly identified, Golgotha is a tiny protuberance located just next to the old city limits but now inside the walls built by Suleiman the Magnificent in the early sixteenth century. These walls extended the boundaries of Jerusalem, and the old city now sits as a small "jewel" at the center of a much bigger, modern city. Golgotha is small and low enough to fit within the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, located within Suleiman's city walls. Visitors just have to climb an internal staircase to reach the top of Golgotha, located on the Church's second story. (Several theories compete to explain the derivation of the name, for Golgotha denotes "skull" in Aramaic, while the alternative label of "Calvary" means the same in Latin. Most scholars think that the name designates the shape of the small hill, not the mortal remains of executions.)

As one of the most sacred sites on earth, the Church of the Holy Sepulchre might be expected to exude dignity, serenity, and a spirit of transcendence above merely earthly cares. Yet in maximal, almost perverse, contrast, the church is a site of constant bickering and division. The etymology of "religion" may refer to "tying together," but the actual experience, given the propensities of Homo sapiens, the earth's most various and contradictory species, tends more often to separation and anathematization. The precious space is "shared" (in this case, a euphemism for "wrangled over") by six old Christian groups--Greek Orthodox, Roman Catholic, Armenian, Syrian, Coptic, and Abyssinian. (The various Protestant denominations came upon the scene a few centuries too late and didn't even get a pew.)

Before visiting the church several years ago, I thought of the Latin phrase status quo as a purely general description for leaving well enough alone. But I learned that the phrase can also be a proper noun--capital S, capital Q. In 1852, after centuries of less-controlled bickering, the six groups signed an agreement, called the Status Quo, to regulate every move and every square inch in the building. At this point, I will yield to Baedeker's Guide to Jerusalem (1982 edition), a publication generally known for authoritative and stodgy prose but uncharacteristically pungent in this case:

   No lamp, no picture, nothing whatsoever may be moved without its giving
   rise to a complaint. The rules governing when and where each community may
   celebrate Mass are minutely prescribed as are the times when the lamps may
   be lit and the windows may be opened. Everything must be done in accordance
   with the originally agreed rules, i.e. the "status quo." ... Modifications
   to this are persistently being sought and just as persistently
   rejected--they even cropped up in the negotiations for the Treaty of
   Versailles and in the League of Nations.... Anyone hoping to find harmony
   and quiet contemplation ... is due for a disappointment--the sects are on a
   Cold War footing. Even the background noise can be put down to
   psychological warfare--the sound of the blows of hammers and chisels
   constantly engaged on improvement work mingles with the chanting of Greek
   plainsong, blasts from the Franciscan organ and the continual tinkling of
   Armenian bells.

And lest anyone hope that equality might reign among the six groups, I hasten to point out that the Status Quo assigned 65 percent of the church to the Greek Orthodox, while granting the Abyssinians--the only black African group by ethnicity--just the tomb of Joseph of Arimathea ("a tiny cavity that can only be reached by passing through Coptic territory," to quote Baedecker's one more time). Adding insult to this injury, the poor Abyssinians can't even reside within the church but must live instead in tiny cells built on the roof! (And let me tell you, it was really hot up there the day I visited.)

To move from a ridiculous story about a sublime place to the fully ridiculous all around, I got the idea for this essay from an English newspaper story of July 9, 1997: "Punch-up Between Brewery Rivals Over Future of Historic Hostelry." One of London's most interesting pubs, the Punch Tavern on Fleet Street, bears a name that reflects a former role as the favorite watering hole for staff members of the famous humor magazine. These ghosts of the past could have filed quite a story on the current situation. Bass, a large national brewery, owns two-thirds of the property, including the only toilets. But Samuel Smith, a smaller, regional operation, bought the other third, including the passageway for delivery of beer to the Bass side. The two businesses have coexisted in constant tension and bickering but have now opted for something closer to the Holy Sepulchre solution of strict division. A new wall is now rising within the pub, and the Bass people are building "a new cellar drop so workers can move beer supplies without using Samuel Smith's passageway." We must assume that the Smith folks will construct some new toilets, for we all know that such items rank second only to what comes in the other end as a necessary fixture in these establishments.