By General Allenby’s command, the high forbidding walls of stone that have so long divided the interior and marred its beauty have been taken down. The walls had formerly separated the church into sections claimed by the various faiths. The nave of the church belongs to the Greeks, one transept to the Coptic Christians, the other to the Armenians. The Romanists have built a church and monastery close beside the little church of the Nativity, but worshipers could only reach the grotto to kneel at the manger of stone through a devious, difficult underground path. When the Turks captured Palestine they compelled the Armenians to open a passage through their wall that the Romanists might enter. As we stepped into the church we heard the chanting of their choir, and soon through the door in the Armenian transept came priests and altar boys in the rich robes of the church to say mass. We stood aside until they had passed and only the echo of their voices could be heard floating up from the cave below.
Ever since the coming of the Turks, Christmas and Easter services have been marred by desperate quarreling and bloodshed. At each service Turkish soldiers were on guard and swords and guns punished offenders but were unable to prevent the paying of old scores by Armenian and Romanist, Copt and Greek. The British general was exceedingly anxious that no such quarrels should mar the celebration of the first Christmas and Easter after the return of the holy places into the hands of Christians, to be theirs no matter what their creeds might be. In many languages, he made his appeal to the people. The American Colony of Jerusalem was asked to be present at the services to help quiet any trouble-makers, but they did not wish to assume the responsibility. Therefore certain individual members of the Red Cross Commission answered the General’s appeal, and were present all day at the services, quietly warning any of the rougher element who, as in the past days, attempted to start trouble by taunting words. Not a British soldier was present. The Commission members, wise, alert, and friendly, did their work well and the day passed in dignified impressive worship for the first time since the Turks took the Holy City. The General expressed his gratitude in most cordial notes of thanks to the men who had so successfully endeavored to carry out his wishes.
We waited until the mass was over and then, with our lighted candles, went down into the shadowy grotto. Myth and legend, superstitions weird and fantastic have gathered about all the sacred places. While these things mean little to the modern Christian, he is bound to respect the reverent belief in them held by many of his comrades in the faith. With confidence the guide tells of the hundreds of years the fire in the hidden place has burned, not once going out, just as it has burned in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre at Jerusalem. If, as one kneels and prays, holding his taper close to the opening, it is lighted by the unseen holy fire, rich blessings will come to him and those he loves.
I shall never forget the thin, tired, sorrow-marked face of an Armenian woman whose taper, as she knelt murmuring prayers, suddenly caught the sacred flame. It was transformed. She went up the shadowy steps in a transport of joy. Nor shall I soon forget the face of a Russian woman as she swayed back and forth on her knees in an agony of prayer. When at last she rose she could not stand and a kindly attendant steadied her. He spoke to her in Russian and they talked softly for a moment. She was in Jerusalem on a pilgrimage when the war broke out. Her husband, her son, and a son-in-law were in the Russian army. Of them she had had no word. She had received a month since confirmation of the news of the death of her two daughters in prison. She could not go back to her home in the hot-bed of Bolshevism. She took a taper from the hand of a priest and went toward the place of the holy fire.
Copyright, Underwood & Underwood
“’Twas a humble birthplace, but oh, how much God gave to us that day!”
I was glad when we were in the fresh crisp air again, wandering through the streets of the little village, stopping for a few moments for coffee with a Syrian shopkeeper who wanted to sell us olive-wood beads with a beautiful carved cross as pendant. His son, a boy of twelve, spoke English. The father brought him out proudly. He attended a Quaker school for boys over in Ramallah and was having a holiday. The souvenirs offered for our inspection were poor tawdry things, but the faces of the salesmen were so eager that we could not disappoint them. Visitors had been exceedingly rare during the years of the war and curious friendly eyes followed us hopefully everywhere. There had been great excitement in the village that morning. An Indian prince who was a Christian had visited the church, had left a gift for the priests, had made purchases in all the little shops—his taper had been lighted by the holy fire.
We were just about to go back to our carriage when, turning the corner abruptly, we were face to face with the young Britisher and his friend who had stood on the wall with us in the sunset the night before. He was pointing out over the hills. We smiled our recognition and asked if we too might hear of the coming of the army to Bethlehem.
“There is not much to tell,” he said, in the way of those who have risked all in battle. He told us a little about the difficulty of the fighting in the Judean Hills, the gigantic task of feeding the army and supplying it with water, the intense sufferings of the men in the cold drizzling rain and the chilling wind on the hills. Wrapping our own coats tightly about us, we could understand something of what they must have endured lying out on the bare unprotected hillsides as they did those nights before the city of Jerusalem was captured. After a moment he pointed out to us the hill Beit Jabor two miles northwest of Bethlehem won by the Welsh Division troops and opening the door for the entrance into Bethlehem, showed us the great house just south of Bethlehem where the Turks had seven mountain guns turned upon the road over which the troops must pass. But a thick heavy impenetrable fog settled down and, taking the risk, the heavy guns of the British passed up the road within easy reach of the enemy had they known. “Whenever a fog settled down like that, to our advantage, the boys would say, ‘the Lord sent a great fog,’ or ‘the Lord hath covered the moon with a cloud’; but when rain or moonlight favored the enemy they said nothing.” He smiled. “The war is over,” he said, “yet it seems as if at any moment this silence might be interrupted by the booming of a gun.” “God forbid!” said our guide fervently. “We have had enough of guns.” We echoed his words heartily as we said a warm word of appreciation of what British arms had done and went back to our carriage.
Two miles or more outside the village we looked down upon the place of Rachel’s tomb. There have been few more beautiful stories of devoted service for love than that of Jacob who had “loved Rachel” and laid her there with a breaking heart. The simple, homely record of the joys and sorrows of every-day life written in the Book that is so full of human interest seems very real indeed as one looks into the faces of men and women about him, almost any one of whom might have played the part of hero or heroine without change of costume on a stage with scenery set. A little further down the long hill we stopped while the guide pointed to the place where the shepherds had watched their flocks. It was a plain lying close between the higher hills. Even on a chilly night it would be a sheltered spot and, huddled dose together with the fire blazing near and the watchman at the gate of the fold, shepherds and sheep would be safe and warm. So they lay that night when the dark sky was suddenly flooded with light and voices sang over the awestruck hills of Judea.