My Take: The Silent Night of Bethlehem

Christmas and the carol "Silent Night" are forever linked. The first time I gave voice to the lyrics was at a third-grade chorus recital. Then I was thinking more of me than of the lyrics. I had stage fright. The marvel of the music was lost in the hubbub and anxiety of the moment. It wasn’t until 65 years later — at a time and a place I could never have imagined — did the song make its rightful impact. Here’s the story.

In October 2005, my wife Mary and I climb aboard Israeli Holy Land Tour Bus 6. A delightful young tour guide — Rachael was her name — waves a bright red umbrella and ushers us onto the bus. It turns out she’d immigrated from Chicago and had brought a Cubs baseball cap for our driver. It offers a touch of home far from home.

Forty other tourists shuffle down the crowded aisle fussing about which seats to claim, slamming backpacks into overhead bins, stuffing bags and water bottles under seats, pushing purses, hats, cameras and tour books everywhere else. The babble of voices and language foreign to our ears confirms we’re a virtual United Nations of pilgrims. And Mary and I suddenly become strangers in a strange land.

We settle down. Rachel clicks on her mic and Moses-like adds two Commandments to the other Ten — “Never forget the number of the bus — nor lose sight of the red umbrella.” After an “Amen,” the Cubs’ fan revs up the motor, slams the gears into place and bullies our way into traffic.

The mass of buses slowly grinding its way through Jerusalem’s traffic hints at what’s to come. The ancient, cramped, meandering streets of the Old City snarl traffic. But we push on, eventually leaving the stalled bus and hurrying on to the Via Dolorosa, or “Way of Sorrow” — the assumed alleyway that Jesus followed bearing his cross to Calvary. Today, the narrow, half-mile path twists and turns, squeezes between blocks of pale limestone, dips and rises. Only thin shafts of sunlight reach its floor. A mix of small shops and businesses crowd its route. Stations of the Cross fixed to doorways, walls and columns line the way to the Church of the Holy Sepulcher. The church encompasses Calvary Hill and the Tomb of the Resurrection.

Passengers from cruise ships docked at Haifa create a frightening parade of people pushing through the narrow street. We move shoulder-to-shoulder, toe to heel, barely able to move arms above waist. I have a tight hold of Mary’s hand. To separate is to disappear. God forbid we lose sight of that red umbrella. By the time we make it back to the bus, we’re exhausted. And this is only the first stop. Our pilgrimage begins to morph into a crusade-like marathon.

Where he was, we shall be.

We rest on the ride to Galilee, then hike the Mount of Beatitudes. We walk the shores of the Sea of Galilee; let the waters of the Jordan flow through our fingers. We march through Capernaum, Cana and Nazareth exploring churches, cemeteries, shrines, temples, mosques and digs. We’re on and off the bus at every stop.

Time passes. We’re weary — and easily annoyed by those who dawdle through shops, who show up late for the bus, who push ahead in line, who scramble for a better seat, who talk too loudly. We wonder why they can’t be more like us. Irritations fester; the bus rambles on.

Our greatest challenge lies ahead.

Late in the afternoon we make for the West Bank — and Bethlehem. During the ride, Rachel reminds us the Palestinian state has been under Israeli control since 1967. To protect the country from attacks, Israel continues to build a 400-mile-long multilayered barrier consisting of 30-foot concrete walls, barbed wire fences and anti-vehicle ditches. Over 100 Israeli military checkpoints control all roads crossing the barrier.

As we approach our checkpoint, the bus slows — moving forward in fits and starts. We finally enter a maze and a clamor of warning signs, flashing lights, walls, gates, barbed wire fences, watch towers, police dogs and soldiers with rifles who board the bus, walk down the aisle, look at each of us, then finally leave and pass us through the gate. The Holy Land has become a place of hostility and hardship.

We slowly make our way to Bethlehem. We peer through bus windows; those outside look back. Each wonders about the other. Our driver wrestles our way through ancient roadways, pushing, braking, backing and turning toward the Church of the Nativity. A block from the church we leave the bus and take to the jostle of the street.

The church stands over the traditional birthplace of Jesus. We join the crowd outside — wait — and then finally bow down and squeeze our way through a tiny portal aptly called the Door of Humility. The entrance was intended to prevent the marauders of ancient times from riding their horses into the church. Today it calls for an act of humility from all who enter.

The church offers a subdued, somber, worn interior. Along a side aisle a mass of visitors walking back 2,000 years in time, makes slow progress toward the front. We join the procession — inch forward — stop, wait, start. We’re hot and tired; backs, knees and heads begin to ache. We’re doing penance.

Finally, we descend down a dim, narrow well-worn stone stairway to a small lamp-lit grotto situated under the main alter. Hanging lamps give a golden aura to the chamber. Almost hidden in a shallow marble-clad niche we see a star embedded in the floor. An inscription reads, “Here Jesus Christ was born of the Virgin Mary.”

We pause at this place revered by millions worldwide. Unlike the Magi, we bear no gifts. We have only time for a brief prayer and a bow to honor one who bent so low to be with us. The moment simply offers too much to absorb; there’s no pause for reflection. That would come later at a quiet time.

We move on, climbing back up another set of dark stairs, gripping an iron railing for support. At the top, to avoid the crush of people, Rachel sneaks us into a small, quiet courtyard. It’s evening. A quarter moon casts pale light over a stark landscape; stars glisten above. We gather around Rachel; she waits, then smiles and asks us to join her in singing "Silent Night."

For an instant, I flash back to third grade, nervous and unsure, until the voices in song draw me in. The different languages blend into the common melody. Everyone sings. It’s a moving experience. At the end, there’s quiet applause and murmurs of appreciation. I forget the petty annoyances of the day. I shake hands, smile, nod, and even embrace those who were strangers before. And I have an epiphany. Our disparate group is experiencing a moment of connection and affection. A carol at this special place, in this troubled land, makes us whole.

Today when I hear or sing "Silent Night," my mind takes me back to Bethlehem. The carol reinforces a call for peace on earth. And yet for the people struggling on either side of that bitter barrier for over 50 years, it is but a dream. In that tiny section of the world, where three major religions claim it to be the holiest of places — the violent turmoil of religious and political differences has denied hope for peace.

May the message of the carol eventually transcend ideology, religion, and politics so that we, and the people of the Holy Land, have not only heavenly peace but peace on earth.

— Dick Magee is a resident of Klinger Lake and a frequent columnist for the Journal’s opinion page.

This article originally appeared on Sturgis Journal: My Take: The Silent Night of Bethlehem