Our tour bus pulled into the “modern day†city of Bethlehem, just six miles southwest of Jerusalem. After years of mental images associating this small town with Christmas, Magi, and angels, the reality is a disappointment. Bethlehem today is a small Arab town at the outskirts of the major centers and tourist attractions in the area. If it had a twin sister city in my state we’d call it a “hole in a wall†kind of place. Aside from the tourist-trap shops and the unlikely ubiquitous presence of obnoxious street vendors, there is no hint that anything interesting exists in this dusty little town.
Even the center of attraction, the Church of the Nativity, isn’t much to look at. At least not by the standards of the typical western tourist who is used to being entertained and “wowed†by the usual vacation attractions. Bethlehem is no theme park! No amusement rides here, no attractions, no courtesy stations, no Starbucks, and no telling when most of the grayish buildings last had a good paint job.
My dad and I had caught a ride with a tourist group to visit Bethlehem on our tour of the Middle East. A few words with the sympathetic tour guide and a few dollars to the driver got us a seat on the bus. We were ushered into the Church of the Nativity like so many cattle. “Stay together!†yells the tour guide, squelching any arising feeling of devotion the more pious among us may have mustered. By this time I’m wishing I were back in the City of David—at least there one can gape at the majesty of the Dome of the Rock, one of the most beautiful buildings in the world.
We mill around the church, staring with little interest at nameless icons and buying candles to be lit by the local priest for a blessing. We’re waiting for another tour group to vacate the lower section of the church, where the “real attraction†is.
I turn from examining an ancient icon of the Madonna and Child to see my dad in friendly conversation with the priest. I laugh to myself at the sight of my seventy-five-year-old father, who speaks only broken English, talking with a Russian Orthodox priest.
“What on earth can they be talking about?†I wonder. “How can they possibly be talking about anything?â€
But they laugh together, pull at each other’s beards, and hug each other. One of our group snaps their picture: two bearded, rotund, jolly men, a glint of mischief in their eyes, hamming it up for the camera—both looking like candidates for the J.C. Penney Santa Claus kiddy stand. What a sight!
We’re finally ushered down the ancient stone stairs and we form a half-circle around the tour guide who, in practiced reverential tones, recounts the significance of this site: before us stands the traditional manger where the Christ Child was born. Off to the side, on the floor, burns an eternal flame within a silver plate in the shape of the Star of Bethlehem. This marks “the exact spot where the Savior was born,†intones the guide.
My response is less than spiritual. “Oh, yeah?†I muttered to myself. “How do you know this is the “exact†spot?†I’m surprised by my own cynicism in this holy place. Aching feet and a parched throat from thirst and dust are not conducive to being spiritually receptive, I conclude.
Some from our group go upstairs to the gift shop and the crowd thins. I find myself before the silver star, staring into the flame. I forget my aching feet and, wondering timidly, “Could this really be the place where he was born?†I am overcome with awe at the mystery of Spirit turned to flesh in the body of an adolescent girl. My mind gropes to understand how the Ultimate can be contained in an embryo of tissue and bone and blood. I am moved to tears to think of Infinite Love giving movement and breath to the soft body of a baby—warm, innocent, fragile, finite. I am overwhelmed with the sudden realization of the meaning of Advent: waiting in hope for the Divine to enter our lives.
All of a sudden it doesn’t matter whether this is really the spot. It doesn’t matter that this isn’t the original silver Star of Bethlehem (the church has been looted three times, the silver stolen from its marker, which may explain the bolts and welding diminishing the aesthetic of the star). None of it matters in the presence of such Truth: God has come in the flesh, Emmanuel! God has become flesh with us that we might become spirit with God.
The miracle is still here in this holy place: in pilgrims who come to celebrate the mystery; in the faith that can believe despite disappointment; in the divine love that dwells in our imperfect hearts. And in two old men—strangers from halfway around the world—who meet on holy ground, embrace like brothers and laugh in unrestrained joy.
