Bethlehem Hope
Stories
Lectionary Tales For The Pulpit
Series IV Cycle C
Bethlehem in December, 1995, was a far cry from Bethlehem of 4 B.C., or even the Bethlehem of 2003.
For the first time in its history, the little village of Judea was on the verge of self-rule. Now it was the Israelis. Before them, the Jordanians. Before them, the British. Before them, the Ottoman Turks. Before them, various Islamic caliphates. Before them, various political powers. Before them, the Romans. Now, as a part of the newly-emerging Palestinian National Authority, it was joining other cities on the West Bank that were being systematically turned over to the PNA by the Israelis under the terms of the Oslo accords. Jenin to the north had been relinquished as had other towns. Bethlehem's political status for a while awaited the completion of a bypass highway that would make it possible for Israelis traveling from the south to Jerusalem to avoid Bethlehem and drive straight to the city.
The bypass was completed about a week before Christmas. On Christmas Eve day, the city was formally turned over to the PNA. Chairman Arafat was in attendance. An enormous banner of his likeness hung over the walls of Manger Square. Mobs of jubilant Bethlehemites jostled shoulder-to-shoulder in the square and adjoining streets. The mood was wildly enthusiastic and hopeful.
I know. I was there.
A friend of mine grabbed a sheet of paper and made for the Post Office. There she bought three newly-printed Palestinian National Authority stamps, pasted them on the paper, and had the clerk postmark them all: "Palestinian National Authority, December 24, 1995."
That night, my family and I attended Redeemer Lutheran Church in Bethlehem. It is recognizable in pictures of Bethlehem by its cone-shaped tower that looks like an inverted ice cream cone. Its pastor was a Palestinian Christian. Dignitaries from the Lutheran church in Jordan were present. The service was conducted in English, German, and Arabic. Arafat's wife, Suha, was present. Joy flooded the small sanctuary as the readings, the hymns, the sermon, the greetings all anticipated a new era for the people of Bethlehem, this little village that had been the birthplace of Jesus.
The highlight of the service for me, however, came when the soloist delivered her rendition of a familiar Christmas carol. She was the pastor's wife. Her voice, quite honestly, lacked the formal training of gifted soloists. The tone was shallow, the breathing all wrong, and her projection was timid. But there was not a dry eye in the church when she began to sing:
O little town of Bethlehem, how still we see thee lie.
Above thy deep and dreamless sleep, the silent stars go by.
Yet in thy dark streets shineth the everlasting light;
The hopes and fears of all the years are met in thee tonight.
The hopes and fears ... Now, a few years later, the tanks have roared through the streets of Bethlehem again. The Church of the Nativity has been occupied by militant Palestinians during the recent intifada. Israel has resumed a hard-line stance, and hopes for a Palestinian state seem so far removed from the hope and the joy felt in that little church on Christmas Eve, 1995.
For the first time in its history, the little village of Judea was on the verge of self-rule. Now it was the Israelis. Before them, the Jordanians. Before them, the British. Before them, the Ottoman Turks. Before them, various Islamic caliphates. Before them, various political powers. Before them, the Romans. Now, as a part of the newly-emerging Palestinian National Authority, it was joining other cities on the West Bank that were being systematically turned over to the PNA by the Israelis under the terms of the Oslo accords. Jenin to the north had been relinquished as had other towns. Bethlehem's political status for a while awaited the completion of a bypass highway that would make it possible for Israelis traveling from the south to Jerusalem to avoid Bethlehem and drive straight to the city.
The bypass was completed about a week before Christmas. On Christmas Eve day, the city was formally turned over to the PNA. Chairman Arafat was in attendance. An enormous banner of his likeness hung over the walls of Manger Square. Mobs of jubilant Bethlehemites jostled shoulder-to-shoulder in the square and adjoining streets. The mood was wildly enthusiastic and hopeful.
I know. I was there.
A friend of mine grabbed a sheet of paper and made for the Post Office. There she bought three newly-printed Palestinian National Authority stamps, pasted them on the paper, and had the clerk postmark them all: "Palestinian National Authority, December 24, 1995."
That night, my family and I attended Redeemer Lutheran Church in Bethlehem. It is recognizable in pictures of Bethlehem by its cone-shaped tower that looks like an inverted ice cream cone. Its pastor was a Palestinian Christian. Dignitaries from the Lutheran church in Jordan were present. The service was conducted in English, German, and Arabic. Arafat's wife, Suha, was present. Joy flooded the small sanctuary as the readings, the hymns, the sermon, the greetings all anticipated a new era for the people of Bethlehem, this little village that had been the birthplace of Jesus.
The highlight of the service for me, however, came when the soloist delivered her rendition of a familiar Christmas carol. She was the pastor's wife. Her voice, quite honestly, lacked the formal training of gifted soloists. The tone was shallow, the breathing all wrong, and her projection was timid. But there was not a dry eye in the church when she began to sing:
O little town of Bethlehem, how still we see thee lie.
Above thy deep and dreamless sleep, the silent stars go by.
Yet in thy dark streets shineth the everlasting light;
The hopes and fears of all the years are met in thee tonight.
The hopes and fears ... Now, a few years later, the tanks have roared through the streets of Bethlehem again. The Church of the Nativity has been occupied by militant Palestinians during the recent intifada. Israel has resumed a hard-line stance, and hopes for a Palestinian state seem so far removed from the hope and the joy felt in that little church on Christmas Eve, 1995.
