Bethlehem Christmas Unforgettable

There was a moment near the end of my El Al flight from New York City when the captain announced: “Ladies and gentlemen, we are near Israel . . . in a few minutes we will cross the coastline.”

Then strains of music came from the plane’s speakers and hushed the cabin like a lullaby. Softly, as if rehearsed, most of the passengers joined in singing Hebrew words that I did not understand but somehow felt in my bones.

“What was that?” I asked my companion as the song faded. “What were you singing?”

“It is ‘Havenu Shalom Aleichem,’ ” she said, as if I should have known. “We always sing it. It means ‘We Bring Peace Among You.’ ”

I heard “Havenu Shalom Aleichem” for the first time last year when I went to Israel for Christmas.

Standing in front of a TV camera in rainy Bethlehem on Christmas Eve, a U.S. network TV reporter says what is always said in Manger Square on Dec. 24: “For a few hours each year, this small town and its Church of the Nativity becomes the center of the Christian world.”

But I have also heard the muzzein calling Muslims to prayer on this day, and have seen Jews holding Bar Mitzvahs at the Western Wall.

Religious tolerance . . . peace on Earth. That’s what Christmas is supposed to bring to the world. And tension or not, Bethlehem is where Christmas begins.

This is what it was like to be there last year--and to understand anew that we travel not to places, but to illusions.

I made my first trip to Bethlehem from Jerusalem on the afternoon of Dec. 23, 1987. I wanted to see the Church of the Nativity and the crypt where Jesus was born before the next day’s Christmas Eve crowds made that impossible. I left Israel’s capital city in a cold rain, driving south on the road that has been there since the Romans. I was with Raphael and Avraham, a Jew and an Arab.

Bethlehem was only a few miles away, but progress was slow. We were stopped at several military checkpoints, where Israeli soldiers in wet ponchos shone flashlight beams at our faces and then waved us along.

With unrest among West Bank Arabs, there was concern that terrorists would try to disrupt the traditional Bethlehem procession and the next day’s Midnight Mass.

We found a place to park the car and then ducked through a small, low door that is the entrance to the dark Byzantine church on the site where Christ was born. We followed stone stairs down to the Grotto of the Nativity.

The small niche in the craggy stone wall reminded me of a fireplace with a marble hearth. Seventeen polished lanterns hung, some lighted with candles. A silver star was attached to the floor. Pilgrims knelt to kiss its shining metal. Candle smoke scented the air, and we heard the murmur of prayers.

The crypt--a limestone cave--is a close, cluttered space with many lights, stars, mosaics, lanterns, canopies and other ornaments hanging from the soot-blackened ceiling. It does not bear any resemblance, I noted, to the barnyard-style mangers we build on church lawns at home.

In St. Catherine’s basilica, connected to the older Church of the Nativity, TV cameras, lights and cables were already in place for worldwide broadcast of the Mass.

We drove back to Jerusalem in the rain. There were more soldiers along the route. They huddled in doorways, all armed with assault rifles.

I awakened on the morning of Christmas Eve to heavy fog and more rain. We would do some sightseeing early, then go back to Bethlehem about 7 p.m.

Impatient, prickly Raphael didn’t think much of the idea in weather like this. “We’ll take a quick look,” he said. “You’ll see. It is the same every year. A sideshow.”

Some of Bethlehem’s main streets were decorated with strings of Christmas lights--red, white and yellow. Random spurts of fireworks etched colored arcs across the rain-streaked sky.

We were finally forced to park and walk the rest of the way uphill toward Manger Square. A sign over a Mexican restaurant read, “We have tacos and hamburgers.” The smell of frying meat drifted with the rain. Nasser’s Market was brightly lighted, and the Classy Lady beauty parlor was doing a big business.

Israeli soldiers lined the streets; they looked bundled and over-inflated in shiny, wet foul-weather uniforms. They carried full combat gear: helmets, radios, live ammunition, many types of weapons.

Military vehicles parked with their engines running. As we approached the square, I heard English Christmas carols coming from a public-address system. “We three kings of Orient are.”

A final security checkpoint just off the square looked like a collection of plywood boxes with doors.

Finally I walked into Manger Square. It was a gently tilted, black-topped rectangle about 200 by 300 feet. It was brightly lighted by many lines of colored bulbs strung from a tall pole at the square’s center.

Strings of plastic pennants also radiated from the pole. With all the lights and flags, it could have been a Los Angeles used-car lot on a rainy night.

“The first noel, the angels did say, was to certain poor shepherds in fields as they lay.”

Raffie and Avraham found shelter, friends and hot coffee in the tourist office at the top of the square.

Arcade Provides Shelter

At one side of the square is a long arcade where there are several souvenir shops, a Barclay’s bank (“open until midnight”) and some places to eat and drink at sidewalk tables. That area gave shelter and attracted most of the people in the square on that wet night.

The Christmas Tree Cafe was a busy, brightly lighted eatery enveloped in swirling clouds of pungent blue smoke; it cooks and serves felafel, hummus, kebabs and fish.

“Deck the halls with boughs of holly. ‘Tis the season to be jolly.”

Souvenir shops displayed the full array of credit-card decals. The Holy Lands Art Museum, for one, sold manger scenes carved from olive wood, also the Last Supper in mother-of-pearl and figures of Christ on the cross installed in bottles of “holy water” from the Jordan River. Business was slow; most people went into the stores just to get warm.

Singers and instrumental groups from all over the world were invited to perform in the square from 8 p.m. until midnight.

An outdoor stage was set up, but the 15-minute performances were done in the shelter of the arcade. One group of young American Baptists held an impromptu sing-along while waiting: “Jesus is coming, sing hallelujah!” At first they had only three guitars to accompany the voices, then trombones and trumpets arrived.

“We’re just a bunch of believers here to sing for the Prince of Peace,” one young man said.

Most of the Israeli soldiers looked very young and very bored with their evening’s duty.

Crowds in Manger Square

By 10 p.m., the square was beginning to fill with larger crowds. (Raffie said the total reached 10,000 in earlier years.)

I watched a Franciscan heading for the church in the rain, a black silhouette against the shining pavement. TV crews worked in yellow foul-weather suits, their equipment sheltered in plastic.

Some military sharpshooters were positioned on roofs around the square; light from below illuminated their faces. A police bomb-disposal truck was parked just off the square on a side street.

After 10, I decided to check on Raffie. He was warm and dry in the tourist office, but was upset with me. “Haven’t you seen enough?” he asked. “Two hours!” I told him Christmas arrives at midnight, and then I went out again to watch the show.

A growing number of characters floated around the square in bizarre costumes as the night went on.

“Don we now our gay apparel. Troll the ancient Yuletide carol.”

By 10:30 p.m. the candy-bar kids were mostly sold out.

“Joy to the world! The Lord is come.”

Music from the visiting choirs, which was nearly continuous, was being drowned out now.

Church of the Nativity

In front of the Church of the Nativity, at the low end of the square, long lines of ticket holders were forming. They had reserved for the Midnight Mass months, even a year, before. They would pass through several checkpoints before they got in.

“Go tell it on the mountain.”

I returned to the post office to get warm. An adjacent room had six telephone booths. A sign on the wall said it was possible to make collect and credit-card calls, as well as direct dial.

Two ambulances were stationed at the upper end of the square. One went out on a call, inching its way through the crowds with its rotating dome light washing the surrounding faces in a pulsing red glow. A man had cut his hand on a bottle.

Visiting choirs assembled in the square before being introduced to sing. A group from the Forest Hills Presbyterian Church of Charlotte, N.C., wore beige robes with red outer vestments. They huddled under umbrellas until called.

A choir from Reykjavik, Iceland, marched into the square wearing long, sky-blue robes. Their angular Nordic faces and blond hair seemed out of place.

They were followed by a Swedish choir dressed in black, the women wearing long skirts with vividly colored stripes. Each carried a lighted candle in one hand, sheltering the flame with the other.

Suddenly, as the Swedes finished singing, the first chanted phrases of the Latin Mass--clear, pure and strong--took possession of the square. A new image flickered on the TV screen. Catholic prelates in white lace and scarlet silks replaced the Arizona cowboys. The crowd was silenced, at least momentarily.

Smoke swirling from barbecues still sweetened the air, but the milling of people slowed. All turned toward the new pictures on the police station wall as if drawn by the sight of a Messiah.

Choir voices from within the basilica accompanied the picture. The Swedes’ candles disappeared one by one as the voice of a priest swelled from many outdoor speakers like the word of God.

“ in excelcis Deo “

I looked at the time. It was midnight. It was Christmas again.