Pilgrimage to the Church of Mary
We are not the kind of people who go and find a tour guide. Not only are we cheap travellers, we also prefer to explore at our own pace. We enjoy taking the time to feel the ‘spirit of place’, make offerings and meditate. I love to imagine how historic places would have been, what feet might have touched the earth and what their story may have been. No tour guide wants to hang around waiting for hours while we go on a journey into the liminal realms of imagination.
We take a dolmuç (minibus) from Kusadasi and walk 800m to the ancient city. The sacred landscape, the hills and valleys, more ancient than the the site of Ephesus itself, meets us with excited expectation.
Wild carrot, poppies and unknown spiky plants mark the sides of the path. The sound of birdsong is much louder here, butterflies and humming bees flit among the flowers. The midday sun dances in and out of the clouds, a silver lining at every turn.
As it turns out, we arrive at the exit rather than the entrance to Ephesus. Still, tickets can be bought here to enter the site. The cost bites into our tight budget, but we know its going to be worth €40 each. Friends have told us this part of the trip is unmissable and we trust they speak the truth.
The end of the tourist route is the beginning for us and we will explore it in reverse. This is a familiar feeling since we tend to follow unconventional ways.
A huge number of cats greet us at the exit, like guardians of the place peacefully lounging in the warmth. I wonder which of them might be the emperor cat of Ephesus. A larger number of tourists gather to photograph them and they love the attention.
We leave the crowds, take a right turn and see the ruins of the Church of Mary empty in the distance. This church is also known as the Council Church, an important early Christian site in Ephesus. It holds deep historical and religious significance for its role in early Christian theology and church history.
Built in the 5th century A.D., this place is best known as the location of the Third Ecumenical Council, held in A.D. 431. It was one of the most important events in Christian history. The council confirmed the title of the Virgin Mary as Theotokos, Mother of God. Opposing the teachings of Nestorius, who had argued she should be called Christotokos (Christ-bearer) instead.
This was certainly a world-shifting moment as voices raised, not in conflict, but in yearning to understand the sacred. Their decision was central to the development of Catholic doctrine, reinforcing belief in the dual nature of Christ.
The church went through multiple reconstructions during the late Byzantine period, reflecting its religious significance, but by the 7th century, the bishop’s seat was moved to St. John's Basilica, a newer and more prominent site on Ayasuluk Hill in nearby Selçuk. Still, the Church of Mary endured, becoming a cemetery church and remaining active into the Middle Ages. As I stand here now, I cannot deny the importance of this place.
We walk between the ancient columns like pilgrims of old, knowing we are on the path of something sacred. The echo of that moment, when such a vital decision was made on the nature of her being can be felt here. The stones are rich with memory. In the ruins of the nave the whispers of long-robed bishops and barefoot pilgrims stir just beyond our hearing.
I leave an offering of three river pearls before I step carefully into the baptismal pool. Bathed in the warmth of sun and stone, I close my eyes, letting the spirit of the place speak to me. The shiver of cold water, the rising incense, the prayers of saints and seekers.
This place is not a relic, it is a relic-keeper, and it's not difficult to experience the reverence of this liminal place. The land remembers. They are still here, beneath the arches, in the dust, in nature and in the stone.
There is a divine spirit here, old, watchful and kind. The skeleton of this great church still resounds with the stories of saints and stonecutters, priests, mothers and mystics.
I imagine I hear the songs of initiation, the splashing of holy water. This is not just my imagination, this is memory, where the definition of sacred feminine lingers and gentle compassion remains.
I am not here seeking history. I'm here to feel the earth beneath my feet, to listen and tune in to the sacred nature of this ancient city and the people who came here. As this ruin stands weathered, open and holy, I can feel the echo of debate and the reverent stillness that follows when something vast is spoken. A magnificent world changing event. I wonder if they knew then the future impact of this ruling.
The sunlight cuts through broken arches. The ground hums beneath my feet.
They say that when the bishop’s seat moved to St. John’s long ago, this place fell into disuse. But I believe that sacredness doesn't fade with time. It deepens. This place still holds a memory of her, earth mother, star queen, sorrow holder, bringer of divine love.
And so I offer this blessing, from the bard to those who care to listen;
May you walk where the Mother walks. May the earth beneath you rise with her breath. May the old stones sing your name as you remember, deep in your bones, that you are never alone.