Theofilos III, Greek Orthodox Patriarch of the Holy Land, leads the Palm Sunday procession at the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in April 2008. (Kevin Frayer/Associated Press)

---

The site has had many names over the ages, depending on who was speaking: Golgotha, Calvary, the Church of the Holy Sepulchre.

The 1,700-year-old church, on the spot where many Christians believe Jesus was crucified, died and rose again, is the holiest church in Jerusalem. Saint John of Damascus once called it the mother of all Christian churches. But it's crumbling. Some say it's in danger of collapse.

The ladder at the entranceway, a symbol of a dispute unresolved. (Stephanie Jenzer/CBC)

For centuries, rival factions have jealously guarded and quarrelled over every stone and every corner that they have held from times past.

Armenians, Greek Orthodox, Roman Catholics, Ethiopians, Copts and Assyrians all live here. They have all claimed different chapels and corners of the church as their own.

The list of their arguments is long and sometimes bizarre.

For example, a ladder stands a lonely vigil above the main entrance to the church. It leads from a ledge to a set of windows.

Years ago monks lived inside the windows and their meals were delivered via the ladder. But the ledge belongs to one group and the windows another. No one can figure out who the ladder belongs to, so it's stood there for more than 156 years.

Holy fist fights

A few years ago, Ethiopians and Copts (Egyptian Christians) fought on the roof when a Coptic monk moved his chair out of the sun on a particularly hot day.

Alas, the shade was in the rival denomination's territory. A fist fight broke out and Israeli police were called in to break it up.

Earlier this year, Armenians and Greek Orthodox monks were filmed in an open brawl beside the tomb of Jesus. Bearded men in long, priestly cloaks began bashing each other with whatever was nearest at hand. That included ancient wooden candle holders.

Again the police were brought in and the images were broadcast around the world, prompting the question of Christians everywhere: what would Jesus do?

The main door is locked and unlocked by a family of caretakers. (Stephanie Jenzer/CBC)

Fixing the roof

The church was first built around AD 336. It has since been destroyed and rebuilt over and over again.

Its architecture is a jumble of Herodian, Crusader, Byzantine and modern styles. As long as a church has stood here in the Old City of Jerusalem, all six of Christianity's major denominations have worshipped at it. Just as often they have quarrelled.

To mediate these disputes, an edict was issued by the ruling sultan in 1757. It was meant to put an end to the seemingly endless arguments.

Called the status quo edict, it governs everything from who can pray where and when to who can light specific candles at specific times. It also dictates who can clean and repair areas of the church.

Despite the very detailed rules, it is what the status quo does not address that causes most problems. The latest is very serious indeed: a village of Ethiopian monks on the roof.

An Israeli engineering report, commissioned by the Ethiopians, has found the village structures are in dire need of repair. If they are not fixed, the engineers fear they could collapse the roof and fall onto the church below.

Not ceding an inch

The matter of the roof is just as contentious as the labyrinthian corridors of the church itself.

Ethiopians were exiled to the roof after being banished from the church over a tax dispute centuries ago. They have since argued vigorously with the Coptic church over who has the right to the area the village is built on.

Because this specific issue is not addressed in the status quo, neither side is willing to give an inch, leaving the dispute to be disputed seemingly forever.

Archbishop Matthias, the Ethiopian patriarch, says the monks live in squalor. There is no sanitation, he points out, and the electricity and the water pipes are in dire need of repair. But he says any attempt to fix the village is being blocked by the Coptic Church.

"The Coptic Church doesn't care about human beings. They don't care," Mathias says. "They have their own beautiful monastery. But we don't."

The Copts say the whole thing is a manufactured crisis. Father Antonias el Orshalamy, the general secretary of the Coptic Church of Jerusalem, says there is no danger and no problems.

He accuses the Ethiopians of wanting to renovate and install air conditioning and satellite televisions.

Frozen in time

Under the status quo agreement, whichever group last hung a painting, cleaned a stone or made repairs has ownership rights. The Ethiopians and the Copts have never agreed on who "owns" the rooftop area of the village.

El Orshalamy says this latest dispute is nothing more than a cleverly orchestrated land grab.

As if any further proof was needed of just how far apart the denominations remain, just look to the door of the Holy Sepulchre.

The doorway leads to the rooftop monastery of Ethiopian monks. (Stephanie Jenzer/CBC)

When Salahdin captured Jerusalem from the crusaders in 1187 he closed off all the church entrances but one. In an attempt to keep the rival denominations from fighting, he entrusted the keys to the only door to two Muslim families.

More than 800 years later, Wajeeh Nuseihbeh is the official custodian and door keeper of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. He holds the ancient key handed down from generation to generation, from father to son.

Every day, in a formal ceremony, he opens the door in the morning and locks it again each evening, if only because the different groups inside can't or won't agree on something as simple as who should open and close a door.

Still, this nearly two-millenia-old building has survived wars, fires, demolitions and earthquakes.

In 1009, it was torn to the ground. In 1808, it was ravaged by fire and, in 1927, it was rattled by a strong earthquake.

Each time something of that scale occurred, the rival factions put their differences aside and saved the church.

In many ways the dispute here today seems as intractable as the Middle East conflict itself. But given the long and tumultuous history of the Holy Sepulchre, there may just be hope.