Bethlehem

I’d wondered if Bethlehem was going to be a spiritual experience for me, just like the Wailing Wall is for Jews and Mecca is for Muslims. I certainly don’t believe that one particular place on earth can elevate a man nearer to the face of God, that one mountain or temple or city can bring his ear closer to my lips. Still, this was the city that God picked as the birthplace of Jesus, and that was cool.

I did have a spiritual experience, but not the one shared by most pilgrims. What I felt was sadness. Or more than that, maybe. It felt like heartbreak.

Our entrance to the Church of the Nativity was through a four-foot stone door called the Door of Humility; every visitor through this door is forced to bow as they enter the oldest continuously operating church in the world, theoretically paying respect to God as they pass through. But, as Simon commented, “there’s not a lot of humility on the other side.”

The church is a large dusky room of thick stone pillars and a dark wood ceiling, with Byzantine murals high up on the walls, faded gold lanterns strung from gold chains in the ceiling, and a long line of Westerners packed down one side of the altar. They were waiting to see where Jesus was born.

We had a Palestinian with us, so we got to skip past the guards at the exit of the grotto and meet the line as it funneled out.

Inside the small, hot, richly decorated grotto the tourists took their 15 seconds each with the spot on the floor designated as Jesus’ birthplace. Hundreds of thousands of kisses have worn the silver and stone around the site. Some visitors bent into the hearth-like shrine and performed the ritual good-naturedly for a camera behind them. Other picture seekers knelt and gave two thumbs up with a big smile. Most people just glanced and moved down the line.

I felt constricted all of a sudden, burdened, like dozens of thick blankets had been piled on top of me. I wanted to get out of the gold and candles and marble and paintings and red fabric and wood. I needed to stand under the perfect Bethlehem sky and send a prayer to God that wouldn’t be obstructed by all of the religious trappings.

Outside I found the sky, but every direction toward the horizon was obstructed by someone’s holy castle. At this religious crossroads everyone wants their tower to be taller, their symbol to be seen from farther away. But who is lifted up when a cross or a crescent moon is placed on a tower? Does God need stones to raise him higher?

No. It’s pride that is exalted. Pride is the religion of Bethlehem. It’s ironic that the sight of the most humble act in history, the birth of the God-man into a barn, is now the sight of so much banner waving, so much picture taking, so much façade and pomp in the name of religion and at the expense of worship. From what I’ve read, there’s no place in Christianity for veneration of artifacts, holy sites, or sanctified idols. The Book says that God’s earthly temple is the human heart, and the only sanctification happens in a soul that’s been forgiven. Millions of people across the world have become a mobile monument set on Christ, not on soil.

My first trip to Bethlehem has answered one of the questions I had before I left the States: the lack of humility in American Christianity is only partly a problem of culture. Mostly, I think that every human heart wants to honor itself. My struggle now is to take this broadening of vision and apply it to my own heart: to let my friendship be free and my love for Jesus grow.

I even realize that my opinions of Bethlehem are sweeping generalizations from someone who grew up thousands of miles away and has only been to the city for a few hours. That sounds pretty prideful. I guess I’m human, too. Allah akbar.