Africa & Middle East > Israel > Israel and the Palestinian Territories > Jerusalem > Articles > The Armenian Convent of St James, Jerusalem

Apparently there is a psychological condition peculiar to Jerusalem, in which believers, people of all the religions and denominations that consider the city holy, feel that they are being personally contacted by God.

It is difficult, though, to feel sanctity in a place as crowded as this: the Church of the Holy Sepulchre is chaos. Religious and secular tour groups crowd the altars, with devotees actually clambering underneath them to kiss the vital spot. There is a constant hum of human traffic; you can easily wait half an hour to get 30 seconds at the Sepulchre itself. Who knows, perhaps some people like a busy, active church: but somehow wonder and reverence seem to go better with quiet. It is not surprising that some places allow entry only at certain times of the day or week.

And so I decided to pursue other mystic lines in order to feel the significance of the city. I settled on my patron, St James. Perhaps he would reveal something. St James is of course the patron Saint of Spain and his body was supposedly taken there in the 9th century, but he was beheaded in Jerusalem and his head was supposedly left here, now in the Church of St James in the Armenian Quarter.

The Armenian Quarter is a little known part of the city and its stone passages and cloisters give it a secluded, monastic air. Actually it was a monastery for many centuries, but following the Armenian massacres until earlier this century there was an influx of refugees and they have stayed and formed a community. They still close the gates at night.

I arrived for the afternoon service in St James's and paused in an atrium through which the priests, dressed in black vestments with pointed hoods, were passing to enter the vestry. On the wall a curious polished beam hung on chains, a bit like an ox's yoke. In times past, bells were banned in Jerusalem and so the faithful were summoned to the resonant thumping of these synamdres.

I pulled aside the heavy leather curtain and it took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the cool, dim interior. There was the familiar square plan of an orthodox church and around the walls at head height there was a band of paintings and some icons. Four pillars stood in the centre: the altar was partitioned off with wrought iron grilles and the side walls were tiled in blue and white floral patterns. A hundred strings and chains dangled candle lamps and small chandeliers at about ten foot. Finally, from the cupola high above, a thin, angled shaft of light cast through the dimness, every particle of dust picked out and spiralling slowly in the air.

There are no pews of course, so the people stood against the walls or sat on small picnic stools at the sides and back, watching the action in the central nave. The priests were now dressed in black and gold, which made them shine in the candlelight - ten elfin-like hoods stood in a line, moving around the points of the compass in the nave and eventually to the two altars. Two incense-men swung their silver caskets on chains. The smoke crept upwards and swirled in the column of light, swirling on its own tide.

But the most magnificent thing about the church was the noise. The chanting filled the church to bursting. Forty male voices sang in spell-binding chorus, softening at moments and then rising, fortified, to a crescendo. Occasionally there was a pause as the priests moved to another part of the nave; a thin voice would sound singly in the silence, trailing off to a momentary pause; then a huge melodious roar would rise in response, pushing the acoustics into overload.

There are apparently 1200 Armenian hymns which have remained unchanged since 1300. They have the same timbre as Gregorian chants and have varied intricate melodies. I can't claim to have understood a word of course, but the singing was having a rather more fundamental effect. It'd be stretching it to claim the Jerusalem syndrome (I never did discover what is supposed to happen to atheists), but the combination of the cool, the gloom and the chanting was enough to send shivers down my spine.

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