The Man Beneath the Cross, or the Jerusalem Pope

It is possible that in the not-so-distant future, the Catholic Church will, for the first time in its history, choose a pope from Jerusalem. Cardinal Pierbattista Pizzaballa, the Latin Patriarch of Jerusalem (the highest-ranking Vatican official in the Holy Land), is not only a serious contender to succeed Pope Francis — but also a fascinating figure.

In October 2023, just days after the October 7th attack and the abduction of Israeli children to Gaza, Pizzaballa was asked at a press conference whether he would be willing to exchange himself for the hostages. His response was unequivocal: “I am ready to exchange myself. Anything that brings freedom — no problem.” He added that his heart is with all those who suffer — not only in Israel but also in Gaza — and that he prays for peace, for life, and for an end to violence on both sides.

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This was not merely a “moral” statement — but a Christian one. It embodied a fundamental principle of the faith: the willingness to suffer voluntarily, out of love for others and in hope of redemption — just as Jesus bore the cross for the sins of the world.

To understand the deep roots of such a gesture, one should descend beneath the site of the crucifixion in the Church of the Holy Sepulcher. Pizzaballa, even before becoming patriarch, served for many years as the Custos — the Vatican’s guardian of the Holy Land and overseer of Christian holy sites in the region, including the Church of the Holy Sepulcher itself.

The atmosphere in the church is steeped in incense, icons, and a host of Christian denominations — but also confusion. A right turn at the entrance leads to a steep staircase ascending Golgotha — the rock on which, according to Christian tradition, Jesus was crucified.

That summit is divided: the Chapel of the Nailing to the Cross, belonging to the Franciscans — representatives of the Latin Church (i.e., the Catholics), and next to it, the actual site of the crucifixion, under Greek Orthodox custody. Beneath the crucifixion site, in a modest, vaulted stone chamber called the Chapel of Adam, lies exposed the rock base of Golgotha. Seemingly, this is a local version of the Foundation Stone from which the world was established. Yet the rock is also a hard limestone from an ancient geological period — about 99 million years ago — when shallow seas covered the area and deposited layer upon layer of marine sediment. This is not a rock created by a primal divine act but one formed through slow geological processes. Theology may regard it as the foundation of the world — but geology tells a different story: a rock formed with the world, not beneath it.

A deep crack runs through the ceiling of the chapel — a fissure that, according to the Gospel of Matthew, appeared during the earthquake at the moment of Jesus’s death. But even this tradition lacks geological support. The crack does not resemble a sudden seismic fault but rather an ancient fracture formed by slow tectonic processes — far removed in time from the crucifixion.

A later Christian tradition adds: the crack extends downward to the tomb of Adam, who, according to legend, is buried directly beneath the stone. Thus, the blood of Jesus — the “new Adam” — trickled through the fissure onto the bones of the first man. The sacrifice meets the sin. In Christian theology, this moment is the turning point: the original sin of Adam — his fall and exile — is redeemed through the sacrifice of Jesus, the Son of God crucified for humanity. This is very different from Judaism, which generally places moral responsibility on the individual and the community — not on a one-time act of redemption. Sin and failure are addressed not through sacrifice, but through repentance, action, and ongoing responsibility.

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In the Christian view, the believer is not merely a witness to redemption — but a participant in it. He is called to bear the cross in his life, to choose compassion, self-sacrifice, and love in moments of trial. Pizzaballa, in his offer, was not merely expressing moral sentiment — he was embodying this calling almost literally.

In this modest chapel, the tension between its attributed beliefs and the geological reality resonates with a deeper question about Pizzaballa’s potential rise as a scapegoat figure. Does deep faith require a miraculous creation — a rock on which the world was built and which cracked in a moment of divine drama, mixing blood with blood? Or does such dramatization distance it from life itself — the kind of life that seemingly builds rocks over eons?

This theological difference reflects a deep cultural divide. For the secular Israeli (including yours truly), gestures like Pizzaballa’s — however moving — feel foreign. The language of sacrifice, blood, and atonement is alien to secular Israeli consciousness, which is oriented toward sovereignty, security, and practical humanism. Moshe Dayan once said, “What do we need with all this Vatican?” — referring to the Old City of Jerusalem. It wasn’t just a rejection of sacred structures — but a rejection of the ideas embedded in them.

For many Jews, the idea of voluntary self-sacrifice may seem remote. Events like Masada or the 1096 massacres have indeed become collective symbols, but they are remembered with sorrow — not as worthy models. These are tragedies, not ideals. At the heart of Judaism lies the choice of life — “and you shall choose life” — and a turning toward this world, not a willing renunciation of the body, even for a lofty ideal.

This contrast was evident in the response of Israel’s rabbinic leadership after October 7. While Pizzaballa offered himself in the name of a universal ethic of sacrifice, most prominent rabbis — across denominations — emphasized the need for strength, deterrence, and defense as sacred duties.

This gap invites an honest question: is there still room for compassion? Is there space for declarations like Pizzaballa’s: naive, simplistic — but holding within it a truth? Perhaps the question is not who is willing to sacrifice himself — but whether we still possess a moral framework that can understand such a gesture without cynicism or rejection.

Perhaps Pizzaballa bears not only the cross — but also the chasm between ancient ideals and a world that recoils from all transcendence. If he is elected pope, it would not be merely a personal appointment — but a choice of place. Jerusalem would bear not only the title of “the holy city” but the identity of one who rose from the fracture — not with consent, but from the crack.

And perhaps it is precisely from that fissure — between beliefs and values — that the possibility arises to listen sincerely, even without agreement, to those who speak in a different language, about the same human lives.

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