FINDING A SENSE OF THE HOLY IN THE (NOT SO) LITTLE TOWN

All my life I’ve had a romantic idea of the “Little Town of Bethlehem.” There it was, quiet, peaceful, always in a state of expectancy, always waiting for the birth of Jesus.

In reality, there’s a huge gap between the Bethlehem of my childhood imagination – the Christmas card and carol version – and the one I visited last summer. Today’s Bethlehem – though it is still in the same place it was 2,000 years ago – is fraught with political tension. Faded posters of Yasser Arafat cover shop walls. Being there makes it more work to imagine it as the place where Jesus was born than does reading the second chapter of Luke.

And yet it is possible.

When my husband and I were planning our trip to Israel and Jordan, our Frommer’s guidebook warned us against going to Bethlehem. It wasn’t even listed as an attraction. But once we were in Jerusalem, we discovered how easy it was to hop on a bus, ride for an hour to the outskirts of Bethlehem (Arab buses are not allowed to go past a certain point) and take a taxi into the city. In fact it was the Anglican bishop of Jerusalem, the Right Rev. Suhail Dawani, who encouraged us to go. The Episcopal Church in the region ministers primarily among Palestinian Christians; much of the work involves providing hospitals, schools and housing for displaced or low-income people.

“I take you to shepherds’ field,” our taxi driver announced to us. We declined, opting for a view from the street above. It didn’t seem worth the extra shekels to see an empty field, no shepherds or sheep. He was pretty insistent, but we were equally sure that the only place we wanted to go was the Church of the Nativity.

Tradition has it that the church was built on the very spot where Mary gave birth to Jesus. How they know that, I’m not sure, but one source asserts the cave beneath the church was identified early on. According to White Star Guides’ The Holy Land, the mother of the Emperor Constantine, Queen Helena, who travelled widely in the region, built a basilica over the cave in 325.

The book claims that the current Church of the Nativity, built in 590 by Justinian, is one of the oldest surviving churches in the world. Even during a Persian invasion of the Holy Land in 614, when so many sacred places were destroyed, invaders “spared the basilica because the Magi on the façade were wearing Persian clothes.” Having visited many ancient churches that were destroyed and rebuilt numerous times over the centuries, I can’t help but think it survived not as a fluke of history but because God meant it to be spared.

Set in Manger Square, now lined with shops selling olivewood carvings and ceramics, the entrance to the Church of the Nativity is unusual: it is only four feet high, meaning everyone except small children has to stoop to enter. There is evidence of a larger opening from years past, but it was closed in, likely to prevent marauders from storming in on horseback.

So you have to humble yourself to get in the door. And you have to humble yourself once again to descend a small flight of stone steps to the Cave of the Nativity, the place believed to be the very spot where Mary laboured – for who knows how long – before delivering the One Perfect and Holy Child. Fitting, isn’t it? That we should stoop to enter the very place where God humbled himself to be born as a baby?

But it seems surreal: is this really the spot where Mary lay with her baby, exhausted from that gruelling trip through the mountains down from Nazareth, the panic of not finding a place to stay, the pain of labour? Is this really where it happened? Is that brass star fixed to the marble floor really the spot upon which the star shone down? Millions of Christians have said it is so.

On the day we were there, despite travel warnings that Bethlehem was a no-go, a steady stream of pilgrims passed quietly through the cave, stopping to contemplate, to pray, and of course, to take pictures of each other. There is a fine line between pilgrims and tourists, after all.

If you can shut out the extras – the flashing cameras, the self-appointed tour guides, your own inner distractions – you can stop long enough to contemplate the possibility that you are indeed standing on holy ground.

On the afternoon we were there it was made more holy by a procession of Franciscan monks who made their way from an adjoining chapel down into the grotto, singing in Latin and holding a mass in that holiest of places. We watched from a perch on the stone steps, peering down into the cave, listening to the chants and smelling the incense waft over us. 

Outside the church, we walked up the street that leads to the “Milk Grotto Church,” a place where some believe Mary nursed her baby before the family fled to Egypt. The narrow street was actually quite quiet, perhaps due to the decline in tourism. That made us all the more popular. “Come visit my cousin’s shop just over there,” one invited. “We have ceramics, olivewood carvings, special price,” another announced.

At the end of the street was an olivewood carving factory. “Why don’t you go upstairs for a view from the roof?” the owner suggested. So we did, gazing around us at the top of the Church of the Nativity, gaining a panorama of a town that seemed from that perspective so unassuming, so nonchalant about its place in history and in the world. It was quiet up there, removed from the noise of the factory and the shopkeepers longing for a few tourist dollars.

After several moments we descended to the street, purchased a few ceramic pieces and some small carvings, and went in search of a taxi to take us back to the bus stop.

Yes, Jesus was born here. But you have to humble yourself to find Him.

 

 

Debra Fieguth is

a freelance writer in Kingston and social action ministry coordinator for the Diocese of Ontario. She is married to the Rev. Dr. Ian Ritchie,

a priest in the diocese.