Church of the Holy Sepulchre, Jerusalem

The Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem is a labyrinth of stone, time, and faith. It is difficult to encompass it in a single glance, and even harder to grasp its stories. From every angle, a different layer of history emerges – old stones destroyed and rebuilt, arches given new life, facades conquered, ruled, and reconstructed. For centuries, empires, conquerors, and Christian orders fought over this place, each seeking to leave their mark. Ultimately, however, the deepest mark is that of time itself.

The entrance to the church leads to a stone-paved courtyard, always bustling with visitors and full of movement. Usually, when I photograph panoramas, my attention is focused on the landscape – on the lines, the light, and the architecture. Only after I prepare the images at home for the panorama do I notice details I hadn’t observed during the shoot. This was also the case here: I noticed one person, presumably a tourist, wearing a blue polo shirt that suddenly stood out significantly. He was walking with a camera in hand, just like me, and repeatedly entered the field of view of my lens without my noticing.

The gaze rises to the church’s Romanesque facade, with its large arches adorned with Gothic details and narrow windows that leave the interior space shaded yet softly lit. Slightly higher, on one of the balconies, stands a simple wooden ladder, almost negligible in appearance, yet laden with history. This is the “Status Quo Ladder,” one of the church’s well-known symbols. It has been there for centuries, a silent testament to the complex system of agreements governing the site. No one touches it, as any small change here could provoke conflict among the Christian denominations that control the church.

Beside the Church of the Holy Sepulchre stands the minaret of Omar Mosque (not to be confused with the Temple Mount), a small mosque built in 1193 during the Ayyubid rule, by Al-Adil, Saladin’s brother. The mosque was built on the spot where, according to tradition, Caliph Omar ibn al-Khattab prayed outside the church so that it would not be taken over by Muslims. The adjacent minaret creates a fascinating contrast between the gray stone of the church and the simple Muslim architecture next to it, and it has remained here even after the inhabitants changed, the rulers changed, and the world around continued to change. The gaze is drawn to it like a sharp vertical line in the heart of the ancient stone’s horizontal labyrinth.

Inside the church, the first step leads to the Stone of Anointing, which is one of the first stops for visitors. The stone, with its reddish-golden hue, is traditionally believed to be the spot where Jesus’ body was anointed with oils after being removed from the cross, before being laid in the tomb. Many pilgrims kneel beside it, place personal items on it to sanctify them, and sometimes rub it with slow movements, as if seeking to absorb some of the holiness that this place symbolizes.

Above the stone, several large, decorated urns hang, connected by chains to the surrounding walls and pillars. These urns are not merely decorative – they contain fragrant oils used in the church’s religious ceremonies. The oil slowly drips from them, sometimes spilling lightly onto the stone, thereby reinforcing the connection to the ancient anointing ritual. Their delicate scent disperses in the air, mingling with the smell of incense, wax, and cold stone, creating an ancient, almost timeless atmosphere. Sometimes, priests can be seen checking the urns, refilling them, tending to the flames of the nearby burning candles, maintaining the continuity of a tradition that has lasted for centuries. The way they are suspended evoked in me an association with Newton’s Cradle. Just like the metal balls connected to each other in the famous physical mechanism, here too the urns hang in a straight line, as if every slight movement of one could affect the others. I did not check…

The Rotunda of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre is the most impressive central space in the structure, its enormous dome rising above the Aedicule – the small structure covering Jesus’ tomb according to Christian tradition, carefully guarded by robed priests. Every movement here is measured, every lit candle adds another layer of atmosphere to the succession of generations present here – some living, some only in history. The dome itself is built in a style that combines Byzantine architecture with later influences, and is adorned with a series of arched openings and gilded additions that give it a regal appearance. The Rotunda’s structure was designed to emphasize the center, so that the Aedicule appears as the focal point for all architectural elements and the light filling the space.

The most prominent feature of the Rotunda is the strong beam of light penetrating through the circular opening at the apex of the dome. This light not only illuminates the space but also creates an atmosphere of deep religious significance. The sun’s rays break through the air filled with dust and incense, appearing to radiate directly from the heavens, as if connecting the earthly and spiritual worlds. The beam changes throughout the day; in the morning, the light is more focused, while in the afternoon, it disperses, illuminating the entire Rotunda with a soft glow. This light holds special significance, particularly during the Orthodox feast of the “Holy Fire,” when it is believed that the light appears as a miracle, filling the place with divine presence.

Upon completing the panorama, I return to observe it. The church unfolds on the workbench, entire sections of it familiar to me down to the last detail, yet again there are things I had not seen before. The tourist in the blue shirt, photographing like me, appears repeatedly, like a shadow of himself within the frozen history of the stone.