A Holy Night in Bethlehem

On Christmas Eve, Pope Francis inaugurated the 2025 Jubilee, a holy year of pilgrimage, and renewal, by opening the Holy Door of Saint Peter’s Basilica. The theme he chose for the year: hope. It is a word many need to hear, perhaps none more than the Christians living through the Israel-Hamas war. That’s why I chose to spend my Christmas amid the struggling community in Bethlehem, where Jesus Christ was born.

The flight itself was difficult to arrange; carriers have not returned to their normal routes, and American airlines are still not flying to Tel Aviv. On the plane, I was seated next to several young Jewish Americans from Long Island, headed to Israel to volunteer. We took a shared delight in the confluence of Christmas and Hanukkah falling on the same day this year, for the first time since 2005. When I told them I hadn’t been to Israel before, they gleefully told me of Jerusalem’s spiritual atmosphere.

It was a note of optimism that I needed to calm my apprehension. But the first thing I saw when I arrived at Ben Gurion Airport were posters, each showing the face of a hostage still held by Hamas, lining a ramp leading to Israeli customs. The memorial was a stark reminder of the ongoing conflict that has cast its shadow over the region since Hamas attacked southern Israel on October 7, 2023.

I arrived in Bethlehem and found that there was no towering Christmas tree in Manger Square, no twinkling lights, no festive music filling the air. The absence of Bethlehem’s usual Christmas cheer hung like a dark cloud, despite the unseasonably bright weather.

Festivities usually begin with the arrival of the Latin patriarch, Cardinal Pierbattista Pizzaballa. He travels by car down Hebron Road from Jerusalem, stopping at various points along the way to exchange greetings with Palestinian and Israeli officials. When the patriarch arrives in Bethlehem, he enters the city by walking down Star Street, the road believed to have been traveled by the Magi, the three kings who journeyed from afar to visit the Christ child in the Nativity story. The street, named for the iconic Star of Bethlehem, which led the royal visitors on their journey, is typically alive with celebration during the cardinal’s arrival. The annual procession, along with its endless stream of cacophonous marching bands, is one of the highlights of the year for city residents—Muslim and Christian alike.

Instead, this year, hundreds of solemn-faced youths quietly marched down the ancient cobblestone street, a restrained procession that reflected the city’s mood.

The question that hung in the air: to stay or to go?

More than 60 Christian families have left Bethlehem in the past year alone. As of a 2017 census, 10 percent of Bethlehem was Christian. Now, I’m told, Christians number between 2 and 3 percent. The city’s lifeblood, its pilgrimage-tourism industry, has come to a near standstill since the war started. Everywhere there were shuttered stores and empty hotels. Over a lentil salad with parsley and pomegranate at a Palestinian steakhouse, the owner told me that he and his wife had just been notified that their application for green cards in the United States was approved. They didn’t yet know whether they would go or stay; they were torn about leaving behind extended family members.

Outside the Church of the Nativity, which Christians believe marks the place where Jesus Christ was born, I met Eddie Tawil, a Palestinian American who grew up in Bethlehem and who moved to St. Louis, Missouri, three years ago. “There used to be so many beautiful occasions,” said Tawil, a truck driver who manages to make the trip home for Christmas annually. “I’m still feeling the holiday spirit. We still celebrate. We still pray.”

The main entrance to the church for pilgrims is the “door of humility,” a two-foot-wide, four-foot-tall opening that requires every visitor to stoop to enter.

Inside, I had the church practically to myself. A handful of pilgrims moved about the ancient building, one of the great wonders of the world. The basilica, dedicated on May 31, 338 AD, is built over the grotto long held to be the birthplace of Christ. Rays of light shone through the church’s windows, making the surviving gold mosaics and golden altar glimmer.

I descended the narrow staircase below the main altar to kneel at the small cave where Christ was born. Typically, long lines spill out of the small grotto. Unrushed, I could take my time and savor the visit.

The church itself has stood through wars and famines and plagues in the past. The building, preserved by a yearslong restoration effort completed in 2019, offers a quiet courage to all who enter. I said my prayers for my family, my friends, and for peace.

Before going on to Midnight Mass in the Franciscan-run Church of St. Catherine adjacent to the Church of the Nativity, I visited the Hogar Niño Dios orphanage run by a group of Argentine sisters, home to some 35 children, ranging in age from 6 to 18. The children, many of whom are disabled, come from local families who don’t have the resources to care for them. Only a handful are Christian, but they are all excited for Christmas. When I asked the community’s superior about her approach to Christmas, she shared, “For us, it’s Christmas every day. Not only because we are living in Bethlehem, but because we see Baby Jesus in the children we serve.”

On my way back to Manger Square, in anticipation of Midnight Mass, I stopped in a shop and chatted with the owner. His two brothers and sister have also left Bethlehem for the United States. “First we had Covid, now the war,” he lamented. To illustrate how difficult the situation has become for some, he told me a friend sold his wedding ring to buy food for his family. “Pray for us, father,” he said. “Soon there will be no Christians in the Holy Land.”

Cardinal Pizzaballa made meaning out of the unease we all felt in his Midnight Mass homily. “I frankly admit that it is hard for me this year to announce the joy of Christ’s birth to you here and to all those who look to Bethlehem from all over the world,” he began.

Then he reminded us that Jesus Christ was not born under easy, peaceful circumstances. Christ’s parents were in need of shelter, having been ordered to Bethlehem to participate in a census by a political regime. If Jesus had been born in easy, affluent circumstances, the story of his birth wouldn’t have meant the same to the 2.6 billion Christians around the world who believe God’s grace can be found in the humblest of places.

Through the rest of the Mass, the congregation boisterously sang beloved Christmas carols in Latin. I lent my voice to the crowd, bellowing “Gloria in Excelsis Deo.” I fell in line as the 70 attending priests processed from St. Catherine’s, and through the thick stone walls of the adjacent ancient basilica, and down once more to the cave where Christ was born.

We sang the Gospel of Luke in Latin. When we arrived at the Latin words that translate to “And she gave birth HERE to her firstborn son,” a statue of the baby Jesus was placed upon the very spot referenced in the Bible. As the song continued on, the statue was moved to the manger under an adjacent altar, where it will remain all year, until December 25 comes again.

After the ceremony, I stepped out of the church into the quiet square and gazed up at the night sky. I hoped to see new light from the Star of Bethlehem, light that would lead a new path out of the darkness. After all, on Christmas night, there is a birth, and where there’s life, there’s hope.

Father Patrick Briscoe is a Dominican friar who lives in Washington, D.C.

And for more on the story of Christ and the Holy Land, read Rod Dreher on “Mary and the Mob.”