It’s raining in Bethlehem. It started this morning in Jerusalem, and the Wall—which usually keeps everything else at bay—can’t stop this. The gutters are already clogged, and water rushes down the sloping streets in streams, whipped into waves by strong gusts of wind. Pilgrims cling to their umbrellas, walking on the water as they make their way from the bus garage up to the Church of the Nativity. To enter the huge ancient basilica, you have to bow deeply at its tiny stone gate. Inside, it’s still quiet—two hours before midnight, only a few sit before the iconostasis. But in the crypt beneath it, the air is stifling: Chinese, Malay, and Filipino pilgrims crowd together in devotion, singing strange melodies, kissing the octagonal silver star through whose glass window you can glimpse the cave below. In front of the star, an aggressive nun scolds anyone descending the upward stairs in multiple languages, instead of simply labeling them upstairs. At the Armenian altar above, an Arab policewoman prays, kindly lifting the barrier so I can take photos up close. In the Catholic church next to the Greek basilica, people are already gathering for midnight mass. We go through the security ritual, hand over my umbrella, and get it back on the way out. In the cloister, young Franciscans block my path; we look for a common language and settle on Spanish. They ask for a ticket. No ticket. It could have been bought online since September, but it’s long sold out. Behind me, a crowd gathers, also unaware. The young Franciscans are at a loss, asking for a minute’s patience every five minutes. After half an hour, a huge Arab scout leader appears, yelling to eject every uninvited visitor from the cave of the little Jesus. As I leave, I search for my umbrella—it’s already gone. The guards grin; they don’t really care. As I try to negotiate, someone hands me another umbrella, I accept it; I can’t go out into the pouring rain without one. The expelled stand cluelessly outside the church. I return to the basilica, having noticed that a secret passage with a large iron gate connects the two churches so you can reach the cave from the Catholic side. From there, you can watch the Latin mass while standing in the Greek church. I stay by the gate wing; slowly others arrive, and the vaulted entrance fills. The Latin patriarch and clergy enter the church, led by three men in strange Ottoman attire; the office begins, followed by the mass. The choir underperforms, their voices straining in the higher registers. Inside the church, to the right and left of the entrance columns, are large screens—the crowd watches them because they offer a better view than the altar. Everyone photographs, selfies, videos the screens. Among us, a tall woman with red nails and bleached hair forces her way through to the gate to take pictures with her phone, though as far as I can see, nothing comes out. When confronted, she shouts indignantly: “I represent the Iraqi Christians!”
The patriarch’s sermon in English is applauded, and most of the crowd starts heading out. It’s 12:30; tourist buses leave for Jerusalem at 12:40—anyone wanting to stay for the second part of the mass needs to arrange a taxi. I step outside. The rain continues, splashing on black limousines; the dignitaries have already left. I go back in; now no one blocks my way. In the slowly emptying church sanctuary, the mass continues. No one selfies anymore—those remaining focus on the priest. I sit in a side chapel, opposite the manger, offering up those I brought with me.
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