the day I went to Bethlehem

This Christmas feels different to me. After visiting Israel for the first time this past May, the sights and sounds have become clearer for me. As the sound of Christmas music streams from my girls’ bedrooms, I keep thinking back to the day I spent in Bethlehem.

The logistics of the day were not simple.  The birthplace of Jesus lies in the Palestinian Territory. Therefore, from Jerusalem (where I was staying just 6 miles away) it involves crossing a series of checkpoints, gates, and walls. Some discourage traveling into the area, but I couldn’t imagine a trip to Israel without walking the streets where Mary and Joseph looked for a hotel in vain so long ago. So I booked a guided day tour for the West Bank including visits to Ramallah, Jericho, the Jordan River, and of course Bethlehem.

The city itself seemed very normal at first. We parked in a typical mall style parking garage, met our Christian English-speaking guide, and took about a 10-minute walk down a normal street towards the Church of the Nativity. That’s where the ancient mystic of the city set in. Dating from the 4th century, it’s the oldest major church in the holy land. The grotto remembered as the actual location of the birth remains the oldest site continuously used as a place of Christian worship. You have to take a few stairs down from the sanctuary to get there, and a line often forms as people kneel and soak in their specific moment there. To be there, to breathe the air and soak in the room, words prove illusive. Does it look different than it once did? Of course. Can we prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that this is the spot? We can’t. And yet, to be there, the power of the story’s reality hit me.

In graduate school, I had a professor who used this line more than once. “Christians like maps. We’re a people of maps.  Most bibles have maps in them. Why? Because the things we talk about really happened.” That day, I stepped into the map, and the moment changed me. As I physically entered into the map, I felt myself entering into the truth.

I think back to a scene from Star Wars Episode 7 – The Force Awakens. The newcomer Rey experiences a surprise encounter with Han Solo.  She asks him if the Jedi are real, and Solo responds, “I used to wonder about that myself. Thought it was a bunch of mumbo-jumbo. A magical power holding together good and evil... the dark side and the light. Crazy thing is... it's true. The Force. The Jedi. All of it. It's all true.” As I walked in Bethlehem that day, I felt myself meditating, “I used to wonder myself, but now I see it’s true. All of it.”  It’s moving just to write about it.

As powerful as that moment was though, I must admit that not all my experiences offered the same encouragement. In fact, some brought down right discouragement. Like all the holy sites, as you entered and later left, gift shops dotted the landscape. Admittedly, I bought a nativity carved from olive wood. Still, at some point, the money of religious tourism presents an odd feeling. The line between devout religious pilgrim and wealthy, gawking tourist remains thin. At moments on my trip, I wondered at what point devotion and piety become entertainment and consumerism. In those moments, Jesus cleansing the temple made more sense to me than ever before.

In addition, the socio-political turmoil of my day in the West Bank cannot be glossed over.  Certainly, the historical realities cannot be easily summarized, nor will I try. Let me just say the day felt very heavy. The people I encountered (Jews, Muslims, and Christians) had experienced more discord and violence than I can imagine. I just couldn’t let go of this irony. The land where the angels cried, “Glory to God in the highest heaven, and on earth peace to those on whom his favor rests” has long been one of the least peaceful areas of the world, a fragile peace on its best days.  

It reminds me of a conversation I had with a rabbi friend. To prepare for my trip, I interacted with a number of Jews, and on the trip, I had a variety of honest conversations with Jews, Muslims, and Christians. In one conversation where trust had developed, I asked a Jewish rabbi what he thought of Jesus. He told me how much he respected much of Jesus’ teachings. So, feeling a little bold but covered with gentleness and respect, I asked him, “Out of curiosity, why do you think that respect falls short of believing he is the Messiah?”  I’ll never forget his reaction. “Well, we believe the Messiah will bring peace, and peace did not result from Jesus.  We’re still longing for peace.”  Whew, deep breath. It’s tempting to get defensive at that. It’s tempting to point the finger. But at that moment, I felt challenged and humbled. I got introspective. Has my life of following Jesus led to peace? Can I point to things in my life and the lives of those around me and say, “Jesus has brought peace.”  Of course, I believe Jesus is the Messiah, and I don’t blame Jesus for the lack of peace. I blame myself. I blame us. I blame humans. And it’s sad.

That evening, back at my hotel in the Old City of Jerusalem, once again only six miles away from Bethlehem, I went up on the roof. I could see the Mount of Olives. I could see the Temple Mount. The sadness mounted, and I wept. And then I got it. That’s why Jesus wept over Jerusalem. He wept that they wanted peace and yet couldn’t see the path to peace. “Would that you, even you, had known on this day the things that make for peace! But now they are hidden from your eyes.” 

They missed it. We miss it. And in that way, the Bethlehem of today differs little from the Bethlehem of Mary and Joseph. The Roman Empire offered the famous Pax Romana, but beneath the veneer, it was a fragile peace. The threat of violence hung in the air. Mary and Joseph didn’t go on vacation to Bethlehem. The Empire forced them there for the census to flex the muscles of Rome, a way to insure the most taxes imaginable came to Caesar. Mary and Joseph visited Bethlehem surrounded by poverty and oppression. And as the prince of peace entered earth through Mary, most didn’t realize what was happening. They continued to live under the hopelessness of violence and oppression.

It was not how life was meant to be. And yet Jesus came. God entered earth in human skin amidst these circumstances, which still surround us. If they could hope in Immanuel then, we can put our trust in Immanuel now. God is with us. Peace has come. Perfect peace will someday come.

This Christmas, I will sit in front of the fireplace and hold my olive wood nativity in my hands. I will close my eyes, and the sights and sounds of Bethlehem will come back to me. It’s true. All of it. And the truth changes us. The truth changes reality. It may not seem like it, but peace has come. Because of Jesus, I am at peace with God, and I desire to be at peace with others. Do we believe this? Will we live into it? The words of the psalmist express what I feel this Christmas, what I felt that day in Bethlehem, and likely what Mary thought long ago, “Weeping may tarry for the night, but joy cometh in the morning.”