As you enter the
little town of Bethlehem, as I have done on three
occasions spread over a period of forty years, you’re
greeted by a large banner across the road which
reads, in Hebrew, ‘Blessed is he who comes’ and
underneath it, in Arabic, ‘My tent is yours.’
It’s a great joy to
be welcomed so gracefully to one’s ancestral home.
Because coming to Bethlehem as a Christian, you have the
feeling of going back to your roots.
The great basilica
of the Nativity, as it is called, stands in the centre
of the town. It was built more than 1,600 years ago over
the cave which the early Christians venerated as the
place here Jesus was born. The roofing that you see over
you as you go in is, they say, English oak, donated by
King Edward III at a time when the church was in need of
restoration. The Crusaders who rescued the church from
the Saracens walled up the doors to stop soldiers riding
in on horseback, and for centuries the only entrance to
the vast interior has been a tiny little postern gate,
where you have to bend almost double to avoid banging
your head.
At the far end of
the church some steps are cut into the rock going down
into the cave, and here too you have to stoop quite low
until you stand in the cave and are able to look down at
the silver star cut into the ground and read the
inscription: ‘Here, of the Virgin Mary, was born Jesus
Christ’.
It’s a sort of
parable, I’ve always thought, each time I’ve visited
Bethlehem, that no-one can come and see the place where
Jesus was born without making this act of humility and
obeisance. It’s as if the very stones are saying to you:
‘You’ve got to stoop here, pilgrim, this place where God
has stooped so low for you.’
Indeed it’s a very
strange thing that we have to reach to the world those
of us who believe in Christ: that God is no longer to be
looked for where people do look for him, up there, out
yonder, up in the heavens. He is only here in something
as utterly human as the birth of a child. ‘But that
doesn’t look like my idea of God’ we say; and the reply
is, ‘Very likely; it’s your idea of God which has to
go.’
The birth of
Christ, for those who believe in him, means that from
this moment on, the indescribable mystery which we call
God can only be found in someone entirely like you and
me. What the Christian is really trying to say at
Christmas is ‘I believe in Man.’
The first people
who heard this strange teaching called it atheism.
‘This,’ they said. ‘is emptying the heavens and getting
rid of the gods. Away with these godless people.’ It
could be that those first persecutions have given us
Christians a sort of subconscious phobia, so that we’ve
been scared ever since to say openly what our origins in
Bethlehem proclaim: we believe in Man. At
Christmas we celebrate God’s nearness to his world; but
if we are to avoid mere sentimentality, we have to
remember that with his presence there is also his
absence, and that with his coming to us there is also
his going away from us. Presence and absence, nearness
and distance, the Word and the silence: all there are
elements of the Incarnation, all are part of an
experience of God.
Furthermore, it’s
only after he has gone from us, so he assures us, that
we shall be empowered to do the things which he has
done, and even greater things, because of his going to
the Father. His departure is the means of a greater
power; bereaved of his nearness, we gain access to a
deeper strength