Walking to the Cross

There is a sweetness to our thoughts of  "the old rugged cross" which stood "on a green hill, far away". But come to Israel and walk the Via Dolorosa, find each of the XIV (fourteen) stations, mourn as the women of Jerusalem did, put your hand where His went as He fell, then go into the Church of the Holy Sepulchre and see the white limestone rock where the cross truly stood - Golgotha is there - and your vision is changed. The cross becomes imminent, dangerous, sinister.

Crown of thorns weighs overhead

See the pain, the humiliation and sufferings represented by the massive crown of thorns etched into the ceiling of the Church of the Flagellations - highlighted only by the relief of stained glass flowers glimmering through the thorns, and you have the beginning of a sense of what He endured. No wonder tradition says Veronica wept. We weep too, as we walk the way of the cross.

It's a wondrous sight, watching local teenage boys, 17 years old or so, running along the Via Dolorosa, so familiar with the place that they're not hesitantly looking at maps and street signs, as we tend to be. When they get to the place where He is said to have paused to console the daughters of Jerusalem ("weep not for me ..."), the boys halt in their dash for an iota of a second, kiss their fingers, touch the stone cross in the wall, kiss their fingers again, touch their hearts, and run on. I love it!  The sense that these youth care, remember, and have visible reminders and actions to say "thank You, I love You." The wall is worn away by their touch; a stigmata-shaped hole pierces the stone through their kisses of the ages. It has always been so, kisses and piercing: and love triumphs over loss.

Check the size of the guns!

We nearly got lost along the Via Dolorosa. It's not the open street that perhaps it used to be in Jesus' time. Shops crowd on every side. Soldiers loiter with intent. Passersby jostle without looking. Children run and shriek with laughter, riding toy cars down bumpy stone ramps. Pilate's court now has a school playground on it. Yet maybe it's not that different. Jerusalem was a bustling place in His day too. There were soldiers and moneymakers and children.

Original flagstones - now underground

But as we walk, it's the worn stones underfoot that give a sense of the reality. Even though they couldn't be the original flagstones (at least not until you get to underground caverns, where you can even see markings of a 1st century "crown of thorns game" carved in the stone), yet these rocks and stones under our feet still cry out, calling us to Himself, praising Him, just as He said they would. And so we follow them, down the markers of the Via Dolorosa, to the cross.

Dome of the Church

When we arrive it's to the courtyard of a huge, domed building: the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, where the site of both cross and tomb are located and reverered. It's believed by historians to be the real place of His burial ("sepulchre" means "tomb"). Early Christians worshipped there till AD 66, at His grave's quarry. To eradicate their faith Emperor Hadrian erected a pagan temple to Venus on that spot, in AD 135. Later, having done his research and confirmed that it was really the holy site, Christian Emperor Constantine tore Hadrian's temple down and built an enormous church over it in the 300's. Eusebius, eye-witness historian, tells us so. The Persians burned that church severely in the 600's but it was restored, along with "the true cross," by Greek Emperor Heraclius three decades later. Muslims conquered the land within 8 years, but amazingly, the early Islamic leaders, starting with Omar, protected the church for nearly 400 years until the turn of the century, in 1009, when "mad" caliph Fatim went to work and destroyed half of it. The recent (AD) history of the land is in the story of this church.

Looking up inside the great dome

Soaring architectural style

Forty years into the second millennium another Emperor Constantine partially restored the building, and in 1099 the Crusaders monks sang praise to God here when they captured Jerusalem from the Muslims.Their leader, Godfrey, who became first king of Jerusalem, proclaimed himself "Protector of the Sepulchre". Slow renovations to the church continued, with a big push by the Franciscans in the 1500's. This was offset by a debilitating fire in the 1800's, followed by an earthquake in 1927, and ongoing disagreement by the three major churches: Greek Orthodox, Roman Catholic and Armenian, who had been given care of the church by the Crusaders long before. They remain the caretakers to this day. Add in the Syrian, Ethiopian and Coptic churches all laying a claim, and you've now got, in one building, an incredible "board of elders"! Try finding agreement there! (They can't even agree to move a ladder peaceably, so it's stood there, on a balcony, since the 1800's!) The church is an unusual mish-mash of religious styles as a result, and yet ... it stands.  

No conflict so great, no effort so prolonged would have endured the ages had the heart of the church only been a grave.... Some people, instead of calling it "Church of the Holy Sepulchre" call it "Resurrection Church"!  That makes all the difference. That is what C.S. Lewis would call a "deeper magic".

We went inside, and stood in line to get to Golgotha. The boys, who had been great sports on all the sightseeing trips, were getting restless, but we waited, with many others, till at last, there inside the church, below the glass at our feet, was the stone of the hill. Not green and grassy but white, limestone.

Candles light the arches

Kneeling at Golgotha

Above us, candles glowed and brass icons gleamed. Around us, people budged, tour groups talked. But when we got there, it was one by one that we approached the place. Narrow and low, we could only come kneeling. Down below an altar, at the foot of where the cross had stood, we knelt, privately. A brass plate under the altar covered Golgotha. In the middle of the brass was a hole. We reached down through the hole, and touched the rock. I, Protestant from birth, had not expected to feel the grace of submission to a place, but there it was. And as I stepped back and watched my two young men kneel, pressing their faces unasked to the brass and then putting their hands in to touch the rock, followed by their father, it was a unifying experience of faith and trust in the One who once hung, bleeding there for us.

One by one we got up and slowly made our way out, past the young Orthodox priest who sat tending the candles, who unexpectedly smiled up into our faces with great kindness. I walked, as in a dream, down the stairs towards the tomb. I walked too slowly. An old, black-garbed woman poked me in the back and brushed past me in a great hurry. Immediately I felt a stab of irritation, and realized how much in need of salvation I am.

Golgotha below, Altar left, Jesus above

Sunday in the Holy City

You'd imagine that catching the bus first thing on a Sunday morning would be a quiet event, but the bus from the checkpoint to Jerusalem was full, before 9 am! Freshly-washed men with lavish hair-oil scenting every whiff of air, were on their way to work. The weekend is Friday and Saturday for Arabs and Jews, who make up the majority here, and it was over.  We went to the back of the bus and took our seats in the sunshine, looking at all that black, gleaming hair. There was perhaps one woman on board but it seems they do not make up a large part of the employed in these parts. Her head was covered.

Jaffa's orange oranges!

It's a short ride from Tantur to the old city of Jerusalem. We rang the bus bell and jumped out at the Jaffa gate like old pros. (Thank goodness Paul knows his way around here!) The "Jaffa Gate" is a four-sided castle archway in the city wall. Its name indicates that this is the exit from the city leading to Jaffa, or Joppa - Jonah's departure port, in one of the oldest books of the Bible. What adventures these storied roads could tell! And who knew Jaffa oranges came from the stowaway's hideout?

Welcome to Christ Church!

We were going into the city, though, not leaving it, and hurried through the wide arches. We soon reached our destination: Christ Church, the oldest Protestant church in the Middle East, founded in the 1840's by a local Rabbi who became a Christian and wanted a place where Jews could discover Christ as the fulfillment of their faith. After training in England, Bishop Michael Solomon Alexander returned. In three years he had established a church and translated both the New Testament and the Book of Common Prayer into Hebrew! He also laid the foundation stone for the building we were heading to, where the service began at 9:30 am. To get there we passed through a nice restaurant filled with breakfasting ex-pats, wandered into the quiet courtyard where violets and cyclamen grew in rock gardens - reminiscent of old England, and at last found our way inside. 

Just like Jesus!

Arches, soaring in sunlight, radiant stained glass, discreet white speakers blending into clean stone walls: welcome was palpable in the air, and we took a seat. A priest who looked like Jesus was conducting a mic check! This really must be the Holy City! As the service began he was joined by another priest, this one older, burlier, darker, a take-charge kind of guy. He reminded us of the disciple Peter! Turned out "Peter" was the preacher, "Jesus" the assistant!  The service lived up well to Bishop Michael's centuries-old wish and contained an interesting blend of Christian and Jewish elements, reading from the Torah as well as from the Gospels, with a cross and menorah on the altar. It was a great starting place for family discussion.

Cross and Menorah on Altar

As we sang "There is a Redeemer," led by Peter's mini-me son on a guitar, a cat ran through the open door and under our chairs toward the front, right at home. Glancing up high, silhouetted in a carved stone window, two white doves cooed and kissed, fitting right in with the day's message of Jesus' presentation at the Temple as a baby, with two turtledoves as sacrifice. Serendipity happens here!

We went forward quietly for holy communion but as I turned to go to back to my seat, there was a burst of cheers and applause, from the front row of blonde American women! I was sure I hadn't suddenly grown a halo or wings, so I continued demurely on, and soon learned that a local man with deft hands had run forward, caught the cat, and borne him out triumphantly! ... He promptly slipped back in before the end of the service! Cats, we were to learn, are everywhere in this land!

After church we left the quiet courtyard, and were plunged into deep, fascinating history. There was the Tower of David, with palm trees waving beside the ramparts. A few steps further: dive into endless narrow streets lined with shops selling rugs, hangings, pottery, jewels, spices, hardware, toys, clothing ... almost anything you could think of! And for you: 30% off! But we weren't stopping. We'd seen the walled city from a distance and could hardly wait to explore it up close!

The Wailing Wall - men on the left, women on the right

We went straight to the Western Wall, also known as "the Wailing Wall". It's the only place where original stones remain standing from the magnificent Jewish temple of Herod the Great, built around 19 BC, and destroyed,  to squash a Jewish rebellion, in 66 AD by Emperor Titus of Rome. This wall used to support the enormous temple platform:  the same temple where Jesus was presented as a baby, and later taught. Now it's a footnote to remembered glory.

Women at the wall

Jews come to the Wall to pray - and pray they do, men on one (large) side of a partition, women on the other. Rocking heel to toe, mostly dressed in black, reading Scriptures, sometimes weeping, they come and pray. I sat quietly on the women's side and prayed too. For peace, for healing, for new life, for hope. It moved my soul to be there, and as I backed away (because people don't turn their backs to the wall), I felt a unity with the longing of the ages for God's kingdom to come on earth, as it is in heaven.

By the wall

I met my smiling guys out in the courtyard where they'd emerged from the men's side, having returned the white kippah hats they'd been loaned for the occasion. There we were in the shining sun of Israel, with flags fluttering and Orthodox families bustling, a small group of pilgrims, not seeking what we hadn't found, but very glad to be here and to connect on many levels, by faith, with the roots of it.

Orthodox Jewish family

(The building at the back is a Jewish learning centre built by "The Dan Family of Canada"!)

Frasier suitably in black!

Joy Ride!

Eat and enjoy!

Eating in the dining hall at Tantur for our first few days was a gift! Tantur is a study centre for visiting scholars. Those who come without families, or for a short time, stay in rooms, not apartments or cottages, and for them there is a large dining hall, bright with high-ceilings, where sunlight streams through the windows onto neat rows of tables. The food is hearty, plentiful and a fascinating blend of local and western cuisines. If you don’t like cumin-flavoured coleslaw with pita and humus, don’t worry; there’s bound to be cake for dessert! (I like the coleslaw, myself!)

One day, after a delicious lunch, Father Tim (Tantur's director) asked if we’d like to join him on an errand into Jerusalem so he could show us the bigger stores – bigger than in Bethlehem. I prepared a grocery list, realizing, with sinking heart, that my cooking-free days were almost over. We piled into the Tantur van and off we drove, down through the castle-like gate, and up the hill.

Today the streets seemed strangely empty. Where were the crazy cars, backing out into oncoming traffic? Where were the shouting drivers? Oh look, there were actually lines painted on the streets, designating lanes! There appeared to be an intended order beneath the wild reality we’d experienced so far! Who knew?! Was this just Jerusalem compared to Bethlehem? No – we’d driven through the city before, on our way to Tantur. What was going on?

Sabbath street

Father Tim pointed out the salient sights as we silently whirled along. There were the malls, the pharmacies, the produce stores – all blank shuttered. There was the grocery store – locked up (so this wasn’t a hint to get us cooking immediately! Phew!!). The only people in sight were orthodox Jewish families, out for a stroll. Finally it dawned on me: this was Shabbat! It was Saturday, day of rest, and the people of Jerusalem lived it to the full.

Father Tim was looking for Ephratha Street – a name straight out of Isaiah’s Christmas prophecy. We found it, slumbering in the Sabbath sun, with honeysuckle and hibiscus bushes growing along iron railings, the white stone glowing warm and sleepy.  Houses were numbered as in Canada; even on one side, odd on the other. We were looking for #38, and found it with a full row of cars parked at an angle in front, as neat as a child's Matchbox car park.  No one was going anywhere! We waited while Father Tim dropped off his package.

“This is what Canada used to be like on Sundays,” I told the boys, looking out at the quiet street. “Everyone was together at home; no-one shopped, no-one was busy. It was a day of rest and renewal.” I could hardly imagine how fast that has changed.

As we waited we took in the scene. Sun shining on drowsy windows set in high, glowing white stone buildings – white limestone, Father Tim told us later, adding that part of the British Mandate, as they left Israel in 1947, was that all buildings in Jerusalem be built or at least faced with local stone. It has made for a surprisingly beautiful, tranquil scene wherever you look. No garish colours, no shoddy paintjobs, just rock that looks as though the sun warmly kisses it daily, which it does. Apparently a few settlers in 1967 moved in and built ugly buildings, but that was soon abolished again, and Jerusalem is a coherent, lovely work of glory!

The Promenade

Father Tim got back in the car and said we were in for a treat. We drove off and soon pulled up at a viewpoint, the Haas Promenade. Directly below us were landscaped gardens and a winding white path – as compelling as any yellow brick road! But then we lifted our eyes, and beheld what we had travelled the world to see: Jerusalem, the holy city, city set on a hill. Glorious in splendour, majestic in beauty, walled within and without, clothed all in white local stone, it displayed its wonder at a glance and beckoned us to explore its secrets in depth. We could hardly wait!

The centre of the Old City of Jerusalem

With the Mount of Olives a friendly neighbour, just a stone's throw away to the East of it, the Old City of Jerusalem captivated our gaze across hills and valleys. At this distance our view was dominated by the Dome of the Rock, which, as the sun came out, turned from dull brass to burning, burnished gold. What a sight!  To match it, the song of muezzins calling faithful Arab Muslims to prayer sounded from minarets dotting the landscape. Their calls are not synchronized, so layers and layers of sound echo across the valleys. I guess there is no standardized GMT in Israel! (Definitely the kind of place I'd like!)

After the prayer calls died out, Father Tim pointed out the Christian side: the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, a black-domed building, large but much less imposing and visible than the Dome of the Rock, not too far west of it. Further along the horizon was the tall Jewish Synagogue. Three religions crowded together, all believing this is holy ground, and all claiming a part of it.

Mount of Olives (place of prayer, betrayal and ascension)

Topping the Mount of Olives was the Church of the Ascension, built on the spot where Jesus stood just before He returned from earth to His Father. Behind it, on a hill in the far distance, was the huge white stone campus of the Hebrew University. In front of it was the Kidron Valley, and other valley settlements, poor neighbourhoods, with houses higgledy piggledy all over the place, and barrels on the roofs to collect rainwater. The grand and the humble mingled, as they did in Jesus’ day.

Then the bells of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre began to ring. Across the valley they rang, singing to us that Christ truly was there; had been there 2000 years ago, and was there today, on this Sabbath day of life renewal. We took it all in with full hearts, then slowly we got back into the car, and we drove away. We were all quiet. Somehow the order of the Sabbath and the order of the white stone fit together in harmony not to be broken.

We’ll be back on our own – it’s only a 5 shekel bus ride away from where we live! The first church we plan to visit is nearby. That trip should be interesting in a whole different way, as Sunday is a full-on business day, first day of the working week, and so the city will be teeming with people and cars and noise and hurly-burly.

But for this day, Shabbat, we saw the Beauty of the Lord in Sabbath rest, and we were restored.

Frasier came along for the ride!

Overlooking tranquil gardens

Christmas Eve in Bethlehem – Jan 6th!

The grocery store is right next door to Adnan’s olive-wood shop. Elizabeth the grocer said to come back to Bethlehem on Christmas Eve. “Be here by 11 o’clock,” she said. So there we were, on the morning of Orthodox Christmas Eve, January 6th, hurrying down the sheep path, past the checkpoint and into town. We were greeted by a group of Arab men, tall and short, all asking if we needed a ride, but not a taxi in sight!

“Manger Square? This way! You come with me!” We went. Through a rusty door in the wall, down a dusty, winding road, up a little hill, round a sharp corner, and there they were! All the black and yellow taxis in Bethlehem, parked on the sidewalks and filling the street of a residential road.

Arja the thug driver

Along the way we'd been handed off from one taxi driver to another until we’d ended up with Arga Al Mahoumed – ”Arja”. From the back Arja looked like a short, hefty thug in khaki, with a red checked Arab scarf slung around his neck, and a swagger that looked like he was packing big guns on each hip, but from the front his eyes smiled under silvering hair. What's more, his taxi was at the front of the line, so we got into it, dutifully and with faith. Perhaps Arja was a Christmas angel leading us to Jesus' birthplace.

“Why taxis here?” Paul asked. Arja responded with a broad shrug and expansive wave of his hands: “Chrrristmas! Merrry Chrrristmas!” he said, smiling. I remembered Elizabeth had told me her store would be open for Christmas Eve, to welcome the Archbishop from Jerusalem who was coming to Bethlehem and would be driving through the streets. I guess taxis had to make way for his arrival too.

But as we ascended toward Manger Square I wondered why many shops were shuttered and closed, until I realized that this was another kind of holy day as well: it was Friday, the Muslim day of rest. Muslim-owned shops would be closed, Christians would be open. It was another example of Palestine: you can’t go an inch without thinking about religion.

Arja's good side!

As Arja got us closer to the heart of Bethlehem we began to feel like Mary and Joseph. All the roads leading to Manger Square had been closed, with a police officer posted at the foot of each to ward away traffic. Security is always an issue in these parts. Arja would drive up and say, “Manger Square?” with his disarming smile and they would brusquely reply, “No Entry!” and we’d be turned away. He tried again and again, with the same result: “No Entry”. We began to think we’d have to walk up the hill to get there, but Arja said, no he’d try another way. We drove around to a smaller road that wound steeply up past small houses. “Manger Square?” asked Arja. The intelligent police officer at that checkpoint looked into the back of the car and, seeing our kids, realized this was no ordinary gang of tourists. He nodded and waved us on, to choruses of thanks and appreciation. This was the kind innkeeper who found us a back way in.

Back way indeed! Narrow, winding, and definitely the steepest hill I’ve ever climbed in a car like that. “Mercedes!” Arja said proudly when Paul asked what kind of car it was. “…But old.” I guessed that the car was like Arja himself, aging, but able to pack a good punch or two when necessary!

Pretty people!

Happy priests!

Throngs of people were gathered in Manger Square: black-robed priests holding cameras; frivolous teenage girls navigating cobbled streets in high-heeled suede boots (no, I didn’t join them!); a kid in a sparkling Santa hat; a quiet, smiling nun carrying a single pink carnation. 

We rounded the corner as a brass band marched down the centre street, and a trumpet blared the invitation: “Come to Bethlehem and see Him whose birth the angels sing; Come adore, on bended knee, Christ the Lord the newborn King. Glo-ri-a! In Excelsius, Deo!”  Gloria! We were there, in Bethlehem, on Christmas Eve!

The Bethlehem Bagpipers

Band after band passed us. My favourite had to be the Bethlehem Bagpipers – quite an unexpected instrument here, but hey, this part of the world is full of anomalies! These were all Scout bands that had gathered from all over the West Bank to be present for the occasion. Christmas Eve is, of course, Bethlehem’s highlight day, and the bands were joined by TV cameras, international news reporters, and Orthodox church leaders: the Greek Patriarch from Jerusalem, the Russian Patriarch, the Syrian Archbishop, the Ethiopian Archbishop, the Coptic Archbishop, with national and local politicians, as well as the faithful, the families, and all those who had just come out for fun! On they paraded, bright, loud, joyful.

Wondered where Tolkein got his inspiration?

Finally the tide turned. The bands marched out of the scene in glorious parade, and then the church leaders, more splendid and more colourful than any of them, reversed the direction and came out to meet the head of their church, the tiny, old Patriarch who had been driven through the town and arrived at that moment in Manger Square. Majestic, full of anticipation, with red and gold banners flying, they went out to meet him. There was a greeting. There was a speech. Then a pause.

And then, from the tall minaret opposite the church, a muezzin began to sing into the shimmering silence, earnestly, beautifully calling the faithful to prayer. Elliot looked at me. “I thought that was for Muslims!” he said. “Why's it part of Christmas?” Good question! The only answer was, “This is Bethlehem” -  where many people worship – not together – but in very close proximity. This call to prayer was not part of the service; it was just a regular, daily call, but it landed up smack-dab in the middle of Christmas Eve!

Then the elderly Patriarch, surrounded by heavy incense and stately churchmen, moved eagerly towards the Church of the Nativity, where simple people, bearing wreaths of fresh flowers, waited. Once again, wise men and shepherds had convened at Bethlehem to celebrate Christ's birth. Children, dancing like little angels in the streets outside were joined by red-necked Arab taxi drivers and ordinary Canadians. And so Christmas arrived.

The balloon seller

A red balloon with the words “I love you” floated up into heaven, and was soon joined by another, shaped like a zebra, lost by some little child.  In Bethlehem, paradox and puzzles mix together, but because of the holy Baby who was born on that very spot, all will be well.

Inside the church - note the red balls on the candelabra! Photo by D. Lynch 

Going to Bethlehem

 

The wall, close-up; graffiti as high as stepladders can reach.

Looking out of the windows of Tantur you see this incredibly long, winding grey wall in the distance. It's about 18 feet high and many kilometres long. The wall was erected 10 years ago, built by Israel to provide a safeguard against people in Palestine (over there) sneaking out with suicide bombs into Israeli territory (over here). There was a reason for that.
So now every person leaving Palestine has to stop at set checkpoints in the wall and show their papers; in addition, locals have their fingerprints scanned electronically while the guards study the results intently.  It can be a slow process. There is a checkpoint at the entrance to Bethlehem, and it’s Bethlehem you see beyond the wall, in Palestine, from Tantur’s windows.



Path to Bethlehem

Walking to Bethlehem from Tantur takes about 15 minutes. For a person who drives around the Superstore parking lot looking for immediate access parking, the thought of walking 15 minutes to the closest grocery store was unusual, but no-one else seemed surprised when our hosts mentioned it at dinner time, so I kept my thoughts to myself. Besides, Bethlehem means more than groceries, especially at Christmas time! That afternoon we slipped through a little gate set into the Tantur stone wall, strolled down a sheep path, made it through the checkpoint, and we were there.

We were greeted at once by a man called Joseph, friendly and warm, welcoming us to Bethlehem. "You are welcome, brother Paul, you are welcome!" he said, once he found out Paul's name, and promised us a cup of hospitality coffee. Of course the coffee was served in a shop owned by his good friend, Adnan, who wanted to sell us first-quality olive-wood carvings, but still, they became our friends, and after our tiny, cardamon-scented coffees, with a few stories shared, and with promises to return during our five month stay, we moved on to the town of Bethlehem proper.

Well, almost. We first had to hire a taxi to ascend the steep hill to Manger Square. We agreed on 10 shekels (yes, that’s the currency here. Sounds Biblical – go figure!!) Our Muslim driver had his radio on and, as we left, the call to prayer sounded on it. He became extremely unchatty. At every pause in the call, he pulled on the button that topped his hat, raising it off his head, murmuring. Then he faithfully lifted both hands off the steering wheel and pointed them heavenward. Several times! Did I mention that the road was winding?? And you might have heard something about traffic in these parts! Somehow we made it; the cost a mere 20 shekels and a few prayers!! 

 

Bow to enter the birthplace


 The heart of Bethlehem is wonderful! We went straight to the place where Jesus was  born, which was a cave just outside Bethlehem, according to Justin Martyr and Origen, writing in the 2nd & 3rd centuries. It doesn’t look very cave-like now!  Yes, you bend low to get through the tiny door (built small so looters couldn't escape easily); but then you open up in awe at the expansive ceilings, towering old smooth stone pillars, glowing chandeliers and gleaming candles. The style is very 6th century basilica, if you know what I mean! And the floor is cut open in places to see even more ancient mosaic floors below.  A service was just starting.

 


Church of the Nativity Altar, at Evensong

 

My first glimpse was of a man on a ladder, diligently adding bright red and green Christmas balls to the antique silver candelabra hanging down in the centre, perhaps hoping no-one would notice him working through church.  Near him, another man stood at the front, bellowing "Silence" at the masses of meek pilgrims lining up to pray. Brief silences were attempted. 

 

The inconspicuous ladder



Through it all, a pair of black-clad Orthodox priests sang their evensong prayers for God, moving before the ornate, gleaming altar, waving incense. The sweet smell pervaded the church and renewed our senses, distracting us from the visible so we could experience the holy unseen. We watched, and wondered, and the midst of it all, we worshipped. 

The crowds waiting to descend below the church into the nativity cave itself had grown enormously through the service, so we went outside instead, and were greeted by a life-size Walmart-style nativity scene!  But beyond it were white arched courtyards and orange trees hanging with fruit.... Fresh Christmas oranges!



St. Catherine the Martyr's church was next door, and down the road was the Grotto of Milk - honouring Mary's care of her Baby! That truly felt like a cave, but beautiful, with lovely pillars and a low rough ceiling. A good place to pray for parents. What a mix there is around Manger Square! Just across the way, past the massive, sparkling Christmas tree, is a mosque. It’s just Palestine in a (mixed-nuts) nutshell.

Having missed out on the coffee at the start, the boys bought cokes for 2 shekels each, and laughed as the look of the word "Coke" in Arabic almost looks like "Jesus" in English! Very appropriate for this part of the world.

 But as we left through the checkpoint, I thought back to our friend, the olive-wood store owner, Adnan, who is confined within the walls of Bethlehem because when he was 14 years old he was late getting home from school and was caught out in Israel past curfew time. He was thrown into jail for five months, and given a criminal conviction. Now his papers never allow him to pass the security check.

 "What do you hope for your children?" I’d asked Adnan as we left his shop, where his younger son sat behind the counter, playing computer games. Adnan didn't hesitate: "Peace, education and freedom," he replied. "I never want my son to go to prison like me."



Seems a simple hope when you're wandering around Bethlehem, holy place of peace and  goodwill to all. But in reality it's very tricky. 

The complicated mosaic under the surface