An Ancient Liturgy Preserves the Language of Jesus Christ (PBUH)

Father Peter recites the prayers in Aramaic at the Syrian Orthodox Church of Bethlehem.

There is a ring but without response. Disappointed but still hopeful, I set my phone down and decide to wait. A few minutes later, it rings. It is Father Peter.

“Sabah al Khair” he asks, which I return. “Ahki Maei (you wanted to speak with me)?” he inquires. Switching to English, I say “Father, I’m visiting Bethlehem and would like to attend Sunday mass at your church, if possible. “Yes you can, it is at 9 AM,” he responds. After I thank him, he says in a soft tone, “You are welcome.”

A short while later I am in a taxi zooming up the hills towards Manger Square in the old city of Bethlehem. The taxi driver is the same hyper youngster from last night. Thankfully this time there is a middle-aged lady sitting at the back, so he is restrained out of courtesy. He focuses his energy on his yellow Skoda, exhorting it around corners and up winding streets. The engine churns and the horn is used liberally. I roll my window down to take in the cool morning air, and soon appears the Bethlehem skyline of steeples and crosses.

Exiting at Manger Square, I begin to walk up the steps at the entrance of Star Street, which runs along from the Omar mosque into the old souk. It is Sunday morning on the third day of Eid. While markets would normally be closed, the old souk, driven primarily by tourism, is back to its routine buzzing self. I pass by eager shopkeepers, hijab-clad, Rayban-flashing women, old men that carry the burdens of time, families in their Eid dress, and nuns, in neatly-pressed white robes.

My destination is at the far end of the stairs – St. Mary’s Syrian Orthodox Church, founded in 1922. It belongs to one of the smallest Christian sects in the world – the Syriac Christian community. Other than the Church of St. Mary in Bethlehem, the denomination also operates the Monastery of St. Mark in Jerusalem. While Bethlehem is home to the majority of the community in the Holy Land, there are another estimated 500 in Jerusalem where, at some point, there used to exist a small Syriac quarter. The Monastery of St. Mark itself has remarkable ties to history. It claims to be the “First Church in Christianity,” built on the site of the Last Supper and the Coming of the Holy Spirit at Pentecost. For the latter titles, it is one of two rival locations, the other being the site of the Cenacle on Mount Zion. It is believed that the original ancient structure on the site was a house where members of the early Church would meet.

Members of the Eastern Orthodox Church,[1] Syrian Orthodox hold St. Peter of Antioch, in AD 37, as their first Patriarch. As Oriental Christians, the community believes itself to be the first people to adopt Christianity. Carrying these faith traditions across the millennia, the Syrian Orthodox community continues to persist, and its preservation of the Syriac dialect of Aramaic affords it a special place amongst much larger Christian denominations.

St. Mary’s Church in Bethlehem is amongst only a handful in the world where services are still conducted in Aramaic, the language spoken at the time of Jesus Christ (pbuh). Though the form used in the liturgy is a sacred written version (Jesus Christ (pbuh) would have spoken a vernacular dialect, likely that prevalent in the Galilee region where he conducted a significant amount of his preaching).

Over 5,500 years old, Aramaic was once the lingua-franca of the Middle East, and spoken in areas as far flung from its core in Mesopotamia as Greece and India. It is also known as the parent language of Arabic and Hebrew, with which it has significant overlaps. Aramaic is believed to have originated in what is present-day Syria, in a region called Aram, amongst the Aramean people. Its Syriac dialect, also sometimes referred to as Syriani, is an important dialect and has historically been used by various denominations of the Eastern Orthodox Church for conducting liturgy. Some small, scattered Orthodox Christian sects present in modern day Syria, Iraq, Iran, Turkey, Armenia, Georgia, and Palestine still speak Aramaic.[2] Though now spoken only by an estimated 500,000 people, in its heyday it was central to regional trade and administration. During the reign of Darius I (550-486 BCE) of Persia, it became the official language of the Archaemenid Persian Empire, used for communication between provinces. Intriguingly, the insignia of the Syriac Orthodox Church is very similar to the Zoroastrian religious symbol of the Faravahar. It makes one wonder whether there is an ancient link between the two, though that is a subject which requires separate research. Over time, as the Persian Empire was conquered by the Greek, Aramaic gave way to Greek as the regional lingua-franca. Eventually, Arabic took over, as Islam rapidly spread over the Middle East.

Today, Aramaic is an endangered language, under threat not only from a dwindling number of speakers, but also from the so-called ISIS’s barbarian hordes rampaging across northern Iraq and Syria. Formed of acolytes of a vile creed, the organisation is engaged in religious cleansing, expelling Orthodox Christian communities from lands in which they have lived for thousands of years. If not expulsion, they are offered the hideous choice of either converting to Islam, or being put to death. The barbarians should act in its name as such, is a shameful blot on the Islamic world. Thousands of Orthodox Christians – dignified families – are now seeking refuge in Erbil in Kurdistan, whereas they should be in their own homes, practicing their faith with freedom.

Sadly, the present day persecution of Oriental Christians is not without precedent, and certainly not the first experience of expulsion and exile for the Syriac Christian community. The 5,000 or so Syriacs (called Syriani in Arabic) in the Holy Land are themselves here due to massacres that took place on the eastern frontiers of the Ottoman Empire, as it collapsed in the early 1900s. 1915 to be specific. The community refers to this tragedy as sayfo in Arabic, and believes that somewhere between 150,0000 – 300,000 Syriac and Assyrian Christians were killed. Many fled, and a small community came to settle in the Holy Land. This community formed the Syrian Quarter in Bethlehem, which till this day, forms its heart and contains a Church and community center. It is believed that the atrocities were in part motivated by threat of Russian invasion of the Empire’s eastern frontiers, which led to Christian communities residing there being viewed with suspicion. Suspicion, history shows us, can lead to much more gruesome outcomes. This is part of the history of this region – in many places bloodied and tattered.

As I step in through the door in the pink-stone outer wall of the Church, the thought that I have been permitted to witness a religious ceremony that preserves a language in use for thousands of years and which forms a link back to Jesus Christ (pbuh), weighs on my mind.

Inside is a resplendent Church that sits on large columns of pink marble. Its walls are beautified with images representing significant moments from the life of Christ (pbuh). A small number of worshippers are gathered amongst the wooden pews, and the ceremoniously dressed priests at the altar seem ready to begin. Respectfully, I take a seat amongst the benches at the back. Against the right wall, there are shelves stocked with candles, and a large golden candelabra alight with the flame of several candles. As new worshippers come in, many proceed first to this corner, take a candle, voluntarily place a small donation in a box next to it, then light it and place it in the candelabra. They then draw the Cross across their chests. Three paintings adorn the wall. Two of these are of the Virgin Mary (Hazrat Maryam) (pbuh). I notice that she is represented as a dark-skinned lady. This is closer to the reality of her ethnic origin, rather than the stark white image more commonly found in the western world.

It is almost 9 AM. I wait for the ceremony to begin, hoping that no one will be offended by my presence. More worshippers begin to come in. First, a middle-aged man of large structure and greying hair. He walks over to the front pew and takes a seat. After him, a young woman, dressed in a shocking-pink shirt that stands out in the gathering, mostly a combination of black, grey, and white. Everyone is in their best clothes. The men are clean-shaven, women have their hair neatly organised, and several older ladies are wearing loose headscarves. As individuals file in, they take their seats amongst the pews quietly, sometimes smiling and waving to others that they recognise. The order and dressing of the congregation is impressive. The sense of dignified order and community is one that is often visible amongst Christians in the Holy Land, who, despite their limited numbers, tend to be more educated and prosperous than their Muslim countrymen. This is the first mass that I have attended here, and I am keen to see how it will proceed.

The ceremony begins in sudden and boisterous fashion. Led by six or seven middle aged priests at the front of the chapel, the gathering breaks into song and verse. It is the first time I hear Aramaic, it indeed sounds a mixture of Arabic and Hebrew. To the sound of clanging bells and music, a curtain decorated with biblical imagery is pulled aside to reveal a richly decorated chapel. It is constructed of pink stone that forms three large arches. Two are passages to the back of the chapel, and the centre one, similar to a mehrab, is where the priest stands to pray. Inside the middle arch is painted an image of Jesus Christ (pbuh), against the Cross, on the rock of Golgotha. In front of it is a golden cross, and a candelabra in which burn several oil lamps. Near the top of the arch is a slab of white marble, in which an Aramaic prayer is inscribed. The singing intensifies, and out comes the head priest – I assume it must be Father Peter – accompanied by two young boys, and two older men.

Father Peter is dressed in a resplendent white robe, with a broad blue lining that decorates its inner circumference. He’s a somewhat chubby man in his 50s, with a thick grey beard and a small black cap over his head. Along the beard runs a wireless microphone – the mixing of ancient with modern brings a smile to my face. The two adult men on his sides are holding large poles at one end of which is a bronze plate, with a series of smaller bronze percussions attached to it. They wave the poles over his head, making a jingling sound. Father Peter turns to the crowd carrying a frankincense burner that he swings to and fro. Wisps of smoke emanate from it and disappear into the air. He moves forward towards the crowd, swinging the incense burner in its direction as if blessing it, and then kisses a gold-encrusted prayer book on the central podium in front of him. The gathering, engrossed in strong and sonorous song, bow in respect. It is an epic scene that moves the heart.

Shortly, the bells and jingles die down, and the singing softens. The Father takes position in the centre of the chapel, and the incense burner is handed off to a second priest, who later walks with it amongst the pews, filling the Church air with a sweet, woody scent.

As we enter a more contemplative part of the liturgy, my mind tries to grasp the vast expanse of time that this language has crossed for it to echo in the chambers of a church in Bethlehem today. Many an empire, king, and people it would have witnessed. All seemingly omnipotent in the hour of triumph, all eventually swept away by the undulating sands of time.

It reminds one of one’s own mortality, and the miniscule fraction of sky that one occupies in what is a vast horizon. May all praise be reserved for the Great Creator, whose boundless imagination conceived the heavens and the earth.

Even without understanding the words, I am filled with a sense of stepping back in time and traversing the arcane. It is evident that there is a much stronger stress than Arabic on ‘kh’ and ‘sh’ sounds amongst the lyrics of the hymns. Syriac liturgy tends to focus on communal song as a means of prayer, which undoubtedly also inspires a collective sense of purpose.

Most of the pews are now occupied. It is common to see three generations together – grandmothers, mothers, and their children–testament to a culture that has retained its strong family values. The congregation sings in robust manner, and I notice that most individuals seem to know the songs by heart and are not carrying hymn books. Though I do not know what the words mean at the time, I later look up “The Lord’s Prayer,” one of the prominent prayers, in Aramaic. Its translation is below:

The Lord’s Prayer[3]

Abwoon d’bwashmaya

O Birther! Father-Mother of the Cosmos/ you create all that moves in light.

Nethqadash shmakh

Focus your light within us–make it useful: as the rays of a beacon show the way.

Teytey malkuthakh

Create your reign of unity now–through our firey hearts and willing hands.

Nehwey sebyanach aykanna d’bwashmaya aph b’arha.

Your one desire then acts with ours, as in all light, so in all forms.

Habwlan lachma d’sunqanan yaomana.

Grant what we need each day in bread and insight: subsistence for the call of growing life.

Washboqlan khaubayn (wakhtahayn)
aykana daph khnan shbwoqan l’khayyabayn.

Loose the cords of mistakes binding us, as we release the strands we hold of others’ guilt.

Wela tahlan l’nesyuna

Don’t let us enter forgetfulness

Ela patzan min bisha.

But free us from unripeness

Metol dilakhie malkutha wahayla wateshbukhta l’ahlam almin.

From you is born all ruling will, the power and the life to do,
the song that beautifies all, from age to age it renews.

Ameyn.

Amen.

As I look around the gathering, I sense strong reverence amongst its members. This is a collection of dignified and hardworking individuals coming together in gratitude, and in search of solace from the struggles that all humans face.

As I ponder over these thoughts, there is some commotion near the altar ahead. Father Peter has come closer to the gathering, and I see a collection of people around him, with hands extended. The Father’s own hands, are held out with a little gap between them. Individuals walk up to him and clasp his hands in theirs. Then, as if carrying something with them, they repeat the gesture with others, as if passing something from hand to hand along a human chain. As the wave progresses, I wonder if it will reach me. It does, as eventually a short, stout, grey-haired lady who seems in her seventies, walks up to me, smiling and holding her hands together. Respectfully, I too take part in the exchange. Deep down, something tells me that she recognises that I am an outsider – it is after all a fairly small community – however this does not prevent her from including me in the proceedings, nor do her actions do not betray any sense of concern over my presence. Her wide smile exudes a sense of kindness and acceptance.

After this part, a series of prayers ensue. It is an amalgam of rich colour, candle-light, song, organ music, and air that is alive with the scent of frankincense. Eventually, the ceremony begins to draw to a close. The congregation, which has been standing for nearly an hour, erupts in song once more, with renewed vigour and a tone of finality. The last hymn is sung as a prayer for which everyone holds up both their hands with palms open. Men, women, and children engaged in supplication with deep reverence. As the final verses are completed, the Father and his companions disappear behind the curtain once more, and the music ends. A complex ceremony, seamlessly orchestrated with participation from a reverential audience, comes to a grand end.

There is another commotion now, and a few middle-aged women can be seen hustling about. They carry boxes of Communion bread towards the entrance of the Church. Members of the congregation begin to file out, and as they do so, each person is handed a neatly packed piece of bread filled with raisins and aniseed. As I step out, one of the ladies makes sure that I am given one, which I gratefully accept.

I walk out, exchanging friendly glances with members of the congregation who are now waiting to greet each other and the priests. Crossing the Church’s small courtyard, I step into the busy old market beyond it, trying to process what I have just witnessed.

Here in Bethlehem, itself a small town by any measure, resides one of the smallest religious communities in the world engaged in the valiant task of keeping the ancient Aramaic language alive. I descend the stone steps that lead up to the church platform, and walk sideways further into the market. From this spot, I look back upon the main entrance of the Church. I see members of the congregation leaving for their homes. An elderly couple ascends the steps. A grandmother in a turquoise blue sweater, curly blond hair, and one of those carry-all handbags descends the steps with what I assume to be her grandson. He is holding the Communion bread. Further down walks a young mother, smartly dressed in black pants and a white shirt. Nestled in her left arm is her baby. It is noontime on Sunday, the market is busy, and the air contains a sense of freshness and renewal. A moment of peaceful equilibrium.

I leave the market and wander further down the Syrian quarter. A few members of the congregation head towards the Syrian Club. Founded in 1946, it sits at the base of the Church and serves as a small community centre for the Syrian-Orthodox. Past the Club are the alleys of Star Street, which are somewhat deserted that day. They are lined by off-white stone buildings, fitted with striking turquoise-blue doors. Past the Russian Orthodox Church, I ascend a flight of stairs and sit by a pomegranate tree, which happens to be laden with fruit that glistens in the bright sun. Here I open the Communion bread, which is fresh, take in the smell of aniseed and raisins, and turn to my thoughts.

I am touched by the spirit of inclusion and kindness with which the Church community has treated me that morning. Moreover, I am impressed by the determination with which the small Syrian Orthodox community is engaged in preserving their traditions and religious values. It shows that even a small group of organised individuals can take on the challenges of demography and less-than-favourable socioeconomic circumstances.

What the ceremony also underscores is the strong conviction and attachment that all faith communities have to their religious beliefs and traditions. To have traversed nearly two thousand years and the upheavals of 1914-18, 1939-45, 1948, 1967, 1973, 1986, to still be here must have taken incredible strength of faith and careful negotiation with the machinations of man and time. The presence of this tiny Arab-Christian community existing in harmony within a much larger Arab-Muslim community also stands as a testament against the conflicting binaries visible elsewhere in the Middle East. In Bethlehem’s faith-mosaic, there is room for both Christianity and Islam to coexist with mutual respect for each-other’s practices. Given all that is going on in the region, this is remarkable and should stimulate introspection amongst those who purport a clash of faiths to be inevitable. The heinous and despicable crimes being committed against Oriental Christian communities in Iraq and Syria are not inevitable, they are rather the outcomes of complex geopolitical circumstances which should be understood and addressed in totality.

As I continue walking through the old souk, whose predominantly Muslim hawkers carry everything from traditional carpets and olive-wood crafts to modern school supplies and women’s clothes, I also think of how a society’s texture is enriched by the presence of multiple faith and ethnic communities. The challenge is to maintain these in balance. Doing so should surely be the objective of diverse cities and countries everywhere, and reflects upon the level of maturity, cultural empathy, and social justice within the said society. The greater the social harmony, the stronger becomes that society’s claim to moral progress and enlightenment.

Our truths may never all be the same. Our rituals will always differ. However, we will continue to occupy the same planet, and share the same desire for basic necessities, love for family, and freedom of practice. Communities with real confidence in themselves will not merely tolerate the presence of others, but envelop them in a wholesome embrace of mutual respect and empathy. There is no reason that church bells cannot ring melodiously from the same street that the moving Azaan is called out. Indeed, this is the case in Bethlehem, where a few feet away from St. Mary’s Church lies the Mosque of Omar, believed to be upon a site where the second Caliph of Islam once prayed when he visited the Holy Land.

As I descend the final steps and exit the souk, that morning’s special ceremony kindles that feeling which lies between the world as it is and the world as it should be – hope.

[1] http://syriacpatriarchate.org/

[2] https://www.theatlantic.com/international/archive/2015/09/aramaic-middle-east-language/404434/

[3] Dr. Neil Douglas-Klotz from the Peshitta (Syriac-Aramaic) version of Matthew 6:9-13 & Luke 11:2-4: http://abwoon.org/library/learn-aramaic-prayer/