Church of the Nativity
nick cobb
Bethlehem's Church of the Nativity fronts a cave
believed to be Jesus' birthplace.
NANCY MUENKER SPECIAL TO THE PIONEER PRESS
Winding through the outskirts of Jerusalem, the road
to
Bethlehem passes modern neighborhoods packed with
concrete apartment buildings and flat-roofed houses.
A
relentless desert sun accentuates their angular
shapes. Gnarly
olive trees, tobacco plants and grapevines grow on
limestone-rimmed terraces climbing from the valley
to nearby
hilltops. Despite the arid climate, they thrive. All
appears tidy,
prosperous, well-maintained -- and safe.
At the border isolating Palestinian Bethlehem from
Israel, the
serene setting surrenders to tension. The tour bus
inches
forward as guards question passengers in the cars
ahead.
Then the driver activates the hydraulic door,
breaking the seal
of our cocoon-like shelter. After a brief exchange,
the guard
waves us through. Apparently, tour buses face mere
formalities. Bethlehem residents who wish to exit
the city,
however, can only do so with an Israeli work permit.
And they
must leave their vehicles at the border.
The first view of Bethlehem's streets clashes with
the idyllic
image I envision when singing the Christmas carol,
``O' Little
Town of Bethlehem.'' Dilapidated buildings line the
entrance to
the city. Crumbling plaster, dangling shutters and
shattered
windows cry for repair.
Before scaling the hills to the town center, our bus
stops at
Good Shepherd's Store. Body-slicing concertina
barbed wire
tops the parking lot's tall cyclone fence. Is this
barrier
designed to keep out thieves or terrorist attacks on
tourists?
Inside, wall-to-wall counters and shelves display
delicately
carved, olive wood nativity scenes and Christmas
ornaments.
Encountering Christian Arab sales clerks takes me by
surprise.
It only makes sense, of course, that Christians sell
Christian
items. But the endless barrage of news reports about
unrest
between Israelis and Palestinians -- generally
categorized as
Jews and Moslems -- has left me numb to the fact
that
Christians also live in this land of Jesus' birth.
In fact, about 20
percent of the area's Arab population is Christian.
Although the store's polished pieces are expensive,
their
Bethlehem origin makes them hard to resist. I
purchase an
exquisite, olive wood angel.
Shopping done, we reboard the motorcoach to see the
city's
main attraction, the nativity site. With each upward
curve of the
serpentine street, the condition of shops and houses
improves.
The route opens onto Manger Square, an asphalt field
throbbing with tour buses, street vendors and
travelers from
throughout the world.
Visitors stream into the dark, cavernous interior of
the Church
of the Nativity. With stone block walls and
crenellated roof, the
huge structure resembles a medieval castle and
comprises
three churches -- Armenian Orthodox, Greek Orthodox
and
Roman Catholic.
The wood ceiling of the Greek Orthodox nave soars to
a point.
Walls bear designs of flowers, pomegranates and
grapes.
Scarcely discernible, faded paintings of the
apostles grace the
pillars. Open, hinged doors framed in the wooden
floor reveal
lovely Constantinian mosaics underneath.
For most visitors, this voluminous nave is merely a
passageway
hastily noted en route to Jesus' birthplace: A cave.
All these
years, I have envisioned Joseph, Mary and baby Jesus
in a
hay-lined, wooden stable filled with lowing cattle.
I can't
remember ever seeing a nativity scene in a rock
setting. In this
land of honeycombed limestone hills, though,
inhabitants for
centuries used grottos for living quarters, storage
and pens.
So, instead of a wooden structure, the stable in
which Jesus
was born was indeed a cave.
As early as the third century, this site was
designated Jesus'
birthplace. Emperor Constantine built a basilica
with its altar
centered over the grotto in the early 4th century.
About 200
years later, Emperor Justinian erected the current
basilica over
the ruins of the earlier one.
Stone steps lead into the nativity site. Shaped like
the Star of
Bethlehem, an opening in the floor marks the site
where Mary
gave birth to Jesus. Visitors cram the entrance.
While some
peer in for a quick glimpse, most of them patiently
wait for a
private moment in the room.
The grotto's ambience shifts from sacred to
touristy,
depending on the individuals inside. One minute, a
smiling
woman poses like a beauty queen in front of the
star-shaped
opening for the photo she'll show folks back home.
The next
minute, a believer prayerfully kneels on the stone
floor and
holds a religious relic over the aperture to be
blessed. Whether
tourist or pilgrim, visitors recognize the
birthplace's historic
significance.
As I approach the nativity site, my religious
upbringing pulses
through my veins, filling me with awe and reverence.
I kneel on
the cold marble slab. As I hold my delicate, olive
wood angel
over the star-shaped opening, I find myself praying
for peace in
this tumultuous world. This solemn moment bathes me
with
hope. Then I rise and squeeze through the crowded
doorway.
A passage leads from the Greek Orthodox nave into
St.
Catherine's, the Roman Catholic section of the
church, where a
priest is conducting a mass. The cream walls and
burnished
pews gleam. On Christmas Eve, hundreds will fill
this sanctuary
to celebrate midnight mass, televised throughout the
world.
Thousands of pilgrims bearing lit candles will
brighten Manger
Square.
A covered, colonnaded walkway that borders a
peaceful
courtyard leads from St. Catherine's sanctuary to a
street exit.
The buzz of activity outside the Church of the
Nativity's
hallowed walls jars me. Postcard and trinket vendors
swarm
over tourists as they pour in and out of
exhaust-spewing buses.
Loud speakers blare chants from the Mosque of Omar.
Wearing
bright red berets, armed Palestinian soldiers patrol
the plaza.
As the motorcoach crosses the border into Jerusalem,
I glance
backward at the hilltop city studded with Moslem
minarets and
Christian steeples. From this distance, the view of
Bethlehem
belies reality: ``O' little town of Bethlehem, how
still we see thee
lie.``