Why is there a disconnect between Christians in the West and the birthplace of Christ?
While Muslims everywhere know where Mecca is, many Christians are at a loss to describe Bethlehem as a city in Palestine, let alone one under siege. Many Palestinian Christians feel abandoned by their Western brethren. There is often a jarring dissociation between the place and the biblical ideal—both real and mythic, actual and imagined.
Bethlehem is in the West Bank, almost surrounded by an Israeli wall built in the early 2000s, and like the rest of the West Bank it is still under occupation. Today residents of the birthplace of Christ must pass through metal cages and past Israeli checkpoints en route to and from their menial jobs in Jerusalem, Bethlehem’s sister city only 10 km away. The wall has choked the town—highly dependent on seasonal tourism—economically; tourist access to it is effectively controlled by the Israeli tourist operators granted the licenses necessary to bring people in. Residents of Bethlehem live amid three refugee camps and 37 Jewish settlements; living space is further constricted by two bypass roads for Israeli settlers that surround the area. The town’s outlook remains bleak. In 1868, when Episcopal priest the Rev. Phillips Brooks penned “O Little Town of Bethlehem,” it was almost entirely Christian; today due to ongoing political and economic pressures, its Christian population was about ten per cent as of 2017.
The Church of the Nativity—the site of an Israeli siege in 2002—still welcomes the faithful, but since the genocide in Gaza began two years ago, and as emboldened Israeli settlers continue to colonize the West Bank and forcibly displace Palestinians, Christmas has been a rather subdued affair. The giant Christmas tree in Manger Square has remained unlit. In 2023 Lutheran pastor the Rev. Munther Isaac created a nativity scene in his Bethlehem church with the baby Jesus figure lying in rubble.
As I write this in anticipation of Advent, a fragile ceasefire has taken hold, but with ongoing Israel Defense Forces bombing in Gaza and worsening conditions for Palestinians in the West Bank, most Bethlehemites are pessimistic at best.
Sami Awad is the Christian Palestinian executive director of the Holy Land Trust, a non-profit Palestinian peace organization. He hosts a biannual conference called “Christ at the Checkpoint” that asks the question “What would Jesus do?” in the face of ongoing occupation.
He told me, “I would describe the situation today in Bethlehem for both Christians and Muslims as ‘tensely calm.’ We hear the statements of Israeli politicians when it comes to the West Bank, we see and experience the violence and hatred of the settlers, we see how Israeli soldiers continue to demonize people at checkpoints, and our fear is that it is a matter of time before Israel begins massive incursions and attacks in Bethlehem. Even if not, there is no future we see on the horizon for any just end to the occupation so that we can truly begin to live in peace.”
But in spite of everything, or perhaps because it’s able to contain both the sacred and the sadness of war and occupation, Bethlehem really is a magical place.
On assignment for a CBC Radio documentary on Christians in the Holy Land in 2005/6, I remember spending a gloomy seasonal time in a grotto-like bed and breakfast owned by a once-wealthy hotelier who was slowly going broke, redeemed only by the incredibly moving experience of visiting the Church of St Catherine on Jan. 1, the Solemnity of Mary feast day in the Roman Catholic church.
As I recorded bits of the Mass, something unexpected happened. I was attending as a journalist, but suddenly, was moved to tears. I wasn’t sure what it was exactly that made me cry—whether it was the plight of Bethlehem and her people or the sacred nature of the place. My epiphany proved rather impractical as I had to keep switching the recorder off and on due to uncontrollable sobbing.
I made a silent intercession to Mary for peace and ended up at the nearby Milk Grotto—where, according to legend, Mary stopped to nurse the baby Jesus as the holy family fled Herod’s murderous rage. I was soon spotted by a friendly American Franciscan who gave me a glass of water and a package of special limestone powder from the grotto—a talisman thought to bestow fertility. Apparently, the Milk Grotto—a site that according to archaeologists was once, like the Church of the Nativity, a Canaanite fertility shrine—was now also, in the 21st century, a pilgrimage site for the childless.
That bag of limestone sustained me through my journey, which included an intoxicating Orthodox Christmas at the Church of the Nativity; here I watched Ethiopians, Russians, Palestinians, and Christians from all corners of the earth praying and speaking in tongues. A few hours later, on my way home, I was strip-searched at Ben Gurion Airport. Happily, a well-timed appearance by the bishop of Kent resulted in the soldier reluctantly letting me go.
This Advent, I pray for the same release for a captive town that has been sending a message of hope to the world for over 2,000 years.
May the birthplace of Christ be free.
