Part 2

For the fullness of time has come. Upon the humble Judean town has burst that glory sung by the prophets of old. The long line of Rachel and Ruth and royal David has at last issued in the King of kings.

VII

THE BLOSSOMS OF MARTYRDOM

But even at that first Christmastide, Bethlehem must again be the scene of innocent suffering in another’s place, as for the Christ-child’s sake some twenty baby boys in the little town are put to death by order of King Herod, whose diseased, suspicious mind trembles at the thought of even an infant claimant for his throne.

Five hundred years before, when the strong young men of Bethlehem had been sent away into Babylonian exile, the loud wailing from bereaved, heart-broken homes had recalled to Jeremiah that other sad mother buried there by the lonely roadside. So now again, the awful outrage, perpetrated almost within sight of that venerable tomb, seems to be linked across the long centuries with the first Bethlehem grief; and once more, in the words of the Lamenting Prophet, there is

“Weeping and great mourning, Rachel weeping for her children; And she would not be comforted, Because they are not.”

The Blossoms of Martyrdom—so a fourth century poet calls these little ones who were the first of all to suffer death for Christ’s sake. And in that countless throng of those who “have come out of great tribulation” there must surely stand in the foremost rank the little band of Bethlehem children whose blood was shed because an infant Saviour had been born into an unwelcoming world.

“And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes.”

VIII

THE STORY OF THE STABLE

Between the years 1480 and 1483, Brother Felix Fabri, a learned German monk of Ulm, made two voyages to Palestine, during the course of which he collected information of all sorts about the holy places, which he later published in a large and important book. Some of his statements about Bethlehem are very accurate. Others do not strike us as quite so convincing.

According to these stories told by Brother Felix, Boaz inherited from his father Salmon, who had married Rahab of Jericho, a large mansion built at the very edge of Bethlehem, so that part of the house projected outside the town wall. In the rock underneath the main building was a natural grotto which was used as a cellar, and also as a dwelling room during the hot months. The house passed in due time into the possession of Boaz’ grandson Jesse, whose son David was born in the lower room. After David became king, however, the family removed to Jerusalem, the deserted homestead gradually came into a state of disrepair, and finally the part in the rock was used as a public stable. This degradation of the once splendid mansion was permitted by Providence, so that at last the great Son of David might be born amid humble surroundings, and yet in the very place where His famous ancestor first saw the light.

After our Lord’s Ascension, His mother lived for fourteen years, dwelling in Jerusalem, whence every month she and her friends made a pious pilgrimage to Bethlehem, that they might worship at the cave of the Saviour’s birth. This so enraged the Jews that finally they defiled the stable and blocked up its entrance with stones.

Following the destruction of Jerusalem by Titus, in A. D. 70, Christians were again allowed to dwell in the Holy Land and to visit the place of the Nativity, which they cleansed from the Jewish defilement and hallowed by their worship. But in the year 132, the Emperor Hadrian laid waste the city of Bethlehem, placed in the sacred cave a statue of Jupiter and, as a crowning insult, instituted in the very Grotto of the Nativity the iniquitous rites of the Adonis cult, which continued to be celebrated there for almost two hundred years.

This, however, was the last heathen desecration of the holy spot. In the year 326 the pious Helena, mother of the Christian emperor, Constantine, “cleansed the place of the sweet Nativity of our Lord, cast out the abominations of the idols from the holy cave, overthrew all that she found there, and beneath the ruins found the Lord’s manger entire.” In the manger she discovered the stone on which the Blessed Virgin had placed the Babe’s head, and the hay and the swaddling clothes and Joseph’s sandals and the long, loose gown which Mary wore.

These were all carried to the capital, Constantinople, and remained five hundred years in the Cathedral of St. Sophia, until Charlemagne, returning from the conquest of Jerusalem (so says Fabri), begged the relics as the reward of his holy labors and took them with him to the West. The hay was bestowed in the church of Sta. Maria Maggiore in Rome, the manger in St. John Lateran, and the garments in the cathedral of Aix-la-Chapelle.

After St. Helena had purified the place of the Nativity, she erected above it a church of wondrous beauty, but in such a manner that the rock beneath and the cave in which the Saviour was born should remain untouched. Whereupon the Jews of Bethlehem in derision nicknamed the saintly empress “the Woman of the Stable.”

But by the time we reach St. Helena and the building of the Bethlehem church, legend is beginning to merge into history.

IX

THE EPITAPH OF THE LADY PAULA

The church at Bethlehem is crowded to the doors with a reverent assemblage, which overflows into the public square and fills all the nearby streets with silent, sad-faced worshippers. It is four hundred and four years since the blessed Nativity of our Lord, and the slow, solemn music which sounds faintly from within the heavy walls of the ancient church is the requiem of the noblest, sweetest, saddest lady who ever made her home in Bethlehem for Christ’s sake.

The funeral procession had seemed like a triumphal march. The bier was borne upon the shoulders of bishops, whilst other bishops carried candles beside it and led the antiphonal singing of the choirs. Beside these dignitaries walked the sweet-faced sisters from the great convent which the dead woman had founded, and barefooted brothers from the no less famous monastery which she had endowed. Strange figures followed in the procession: wild, shaggy hermits who for the first time in years had come out of their caves in the wilderness of Judea, and nuns bound to perpetual self-immolation, whose unnatural pallor told of incessant vigils broken this once only, that they also might have a part in the final honors shown to their beloved and godly benefactor. Aged Jerome was there; the foremost scholar in all Christendom, but now bent and weary with the realization that world-wide fame is but a paltry substitute for the companionship of a faithful friend. Beside him walked the proud bishop John of Jerusalem, not long since the enemy of Paula and Jerome and at bitter strife with the convent of Bethlehem; but now, it seems, a sincere mourner of one before whose pure and devoted spirit even mighty hierarchs must bow in humble reverence.

But those whose hearts grieve most sincerely cannot all gain admission to the church. The square before the entrance is crowded with the poor and the sick and the outcast who are waiting patiently until the long ceremony shall end. Then these humble folk will slip into the quiet church at eventide and pray beside the coffin of their beloved friend, while unrestrained tears roll down their haggard faces—tears for her, and them, and Bethlehem.

* * * * *

It hardly seems seventeen years since the coming of the Lady Paula stirred the quiet life of Bethlehem. All the world knew of the young Roman widow, of noble family and enormous wealth, who had renounced the luxurious life to which she had been accustomed and had aroused the gossip of the capital by her coarse dress and incessant devotions and the menial duties which she performed in her efforts to relieve the condition of the crowded slums of the city. And then the wealthy lady had broken the last ties of her old life, so the rumor ran, and had left Rome forever in order to dwell in holy Bethlehem with her daughter and their friend and teacher, the reverend presbyter Jerome.

For a time Paula and her daughter lived quietly in a small rented house, until the completion of a convent which was erected at her expense. A monastery was next built, of which Jerome was made the head, and in connection with this, a hospice for the entertainment of the strangers who in greater and greater numbers came hither to visit the holy places and to study under the famous teacher.

Thereafter Paula was the very spring of Bethlehem life and Christian activity. She managed the affairs of her various establishments with patience, tact, and great executive ability; and yet found time to perfect her Greek and to learn Hebrew, so that under the guidance of Jerome she might read the entire Bible in the original tongues. Pilgrims from far and near taxed the resources of the famous hospice, and gifts to innumerable charities at last exhausted even the large fortune she had inherited, so that she became not only poor, but in debt. And reading between the lines of his own correspondence, we can see that not least among the godly woman’s worries was the care of the great, but somewhat crabbed old man whom later centuries were to honor as “Saint” Jerome. It would hardly be an exaggeration to say that Christendom is indebted to a woman for its most important and influential version of the Bible; for it is easy to conceive that the Vulgate translation might never have been completed by Jerome, without the constant aid and encouragement which were so freely bestowed on the aged author by his friend.

All these varied and exacting tasks were undertaken by one who never enjoyed robust health. Paula was often prostrated by serious illness and she further overtaxed her strength by incessant fasts and mortifications, until at last the life of the eager, self-sacrificing, loving, faithful woman burnt itself out at the age of fifty-six.

* * * * *

The funeral service is over now. The long procession has left the church, and for three days the poor whom Paula loved can worship at her bier. Then the tender, weary, faithful heart will be laid at rest in a vault beneath the church, “close to the cave of the Lord,” and above her cavern sepulchre lonely old Jerome will inscribe these lines:

“Seest thou here hollowed in the rock a grave; ’Tis Paula’s tomb, high heaven has her soul, Who Rome and friends, riches and home forsook Here in this lonely spot to find her rest. For here Christ’s manger was, and here the kings To Him, both God and man, their offerings made.”

X

THE SCHOLAR IN THE CAVE

One of the caves beneath the church at Bethlehem has a window; but the small opening is so high up in the wall that very little light enters, and it is some time before the outlines of the room can be clearly distinguished. It is a square cell, about twelve feet across. The window is on the north side. At the west a narrow stairway goes up to the monastery. At the south a door leads through a series of other caves to the Grotto of the Nativity. On the eastern wall hangs a crucifix. In the center of the cell is a roughly-made desk, cluttered with books and papers, while other heavy volumes and thick rolls of manuscript are piled here and there upon the floor.

In front of the desk sits an old, old man, whose lean, emaciated form is clothed in a long, brown robe which, though of very rough material, is neat and clean. His hair is sparse and gray, and his flowing beard is white as snow. His face is thin and pale, seamed by deep wrinkles worn by physical suffering and spiritual anguish; but about the mouth are other lines which tell of a stern, unconquerable spirit. The eyes are kind, but very weary, and reddened by much study, and he rests them now upon his long, thin fingers as he ceases his work for a moment and listens reverently to the muffled music of the service in the church above.

It is sixteen years since Paula died. The old man is the presbyter Eusebius Sophronius Hieronymus, better known as St. Jerome; the most famous scholar of his age and by far the greatest man whose name has been associated with Bethlehem during all the Christian era. His little cavern cell is the literary center of the world.

For more than a generation Jerome has pursued his scriptural studies here, under the ever-present inspiration of the holy associations which cluster so closely about the cave. Here he has often spent long night hours in gaining that perfect mastery of Hebrew and Aramaic and Greek which enables him to grasp the most subtle meanings of the sacred writings. Here his pen has moved with such feverish activity that more than once he has completed the translation of an entire Book in a single day. At this rude desk have been written words that shook Europe; for Jerome has been the friend of popes and the adviser of councils. From this humble cell have gone forth learned commentaries, controversial articles, translations of the Greek Fathers, a voluminous and widely-circulated correspondence, and that which future generations will value most highly of all, the splendid revision of the entire Latin Bible—the Vulgate. This tremendous literary activity has won for its author the reputation of being the foremost writer of the age, and has made Bethlehem the goal of innumerable pilgrimages by admiring students.

The death of Paula, however, seemed to mark the turning point in Jerome’s career. During the long, lonely years since then he has never enjoyed the same scholarly quiet, and he has had to cope with repeated and varied misfortunes. The very winter she died was one of unusual severity, which sorely tried his physical powers, already weakened by disease and by long-continued privations. The Isaurians came down from Asia Minor and devasted northern Palestine, so that the monastery was overcrowded with fugitives; and with Paula gone, the supervision of the various religious establishments in Bethlehem was thrust more and more upon Jerome, who we may believe was not especially gifted as an executive. Heartrending tidings came from Italy, telling of Barbarian invasions which at last culminated in the sack of Rome by Alaric. Jerome became involved in bitter theological controversies, which resulted in an estrangement from some of his oldest friends and once at least endangered his life, when a mob of angry partisans set the monastery on fire, killed one of the inmates, and forced the aged scholar to flee for refuge to a neighboring fortress. Recently the care of the monastery and hospice has occupied all the day, and although he has tried to work on his commentaries at night, his failing eyesight has finally become so weak that he can hardly decipher the Hebrew letters by candle-light.

Jerome’s spirit, however, is unbroken by defeat. His last works may show something of the irritability of illness and age, but there is never any thought of relaxation or compromise, or any weakening of faith. And perhaps the great man never seems greater then when we see him at the age of eighty, sitting here in his cavern cell, so sick and lonely and indomitable. His translation of Scripture is not yet accepted as the Bible of all Western Christendom, his sainthood is as yet undreamed of, his dearest friends are dead or alienated, the dread advance of the Barbarian hordes is threatening the very existence of civilized Europe, and the brilliant era of ecclesiastical literature of which he has been the brightest light is already fading into a dull, spiritless gloom.

The evening shadows deepen upon the little cave at Bethlehem, as upon the vast, dying Roman Empire. The chanting of the priests in the church above ceases. The familiar square characters of the dearly-loved Hebrew manuscript grow faint and blurred before the scholar’s eyes. He puts away his pen with a sigh. No disciple takes it up. “There is no continuation of his work; a few more letters of Augustine and Polinus, and night falls over the West.”

So they bury him there in the cave, close to faithful Paula, close to the birthplace of his Lord.

XI

THE CHRISTMAS CORONATION

In the year of our Lord 1101, on the very birthday of the Saviour and at the birthplace of the King of kings, Bethlehem is to witness the most gorgeous, striking scene in all its varied and dramatic history; for the long, cruel centuries of Moslem domination are over at last, the banners of the victorious Crusaders now float proudly above the ramparts of Jerusalem, and the mighty Baldwin, Count of Flanders by inheritance and Prince of Edessa by right of conquest, is to be crowned this Christmas Day the first Christian king of Palestine.

Two years earlier, when the Saracens heard that the Western armies were approaching, they destroyed the Christian quarter of Bethlehem, leaving standing only the Church of the Nativity; but the gallant Tancred came promptly to the rescue of the frightened, homeless citizens with a hundred picked knights, and, as a reward of their valor, it was this little band who, looking northward from a hill near Bethlehem, were the first of all the Crusaders to gain the longed-for view of the Holy City.

As soon as Jerusalem was taken and the Moslem army put to rout, the Crusaders set to work to rebuild the nearby City of the Nativity, and now that a ruler has been chosen for the new Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem, the coronation ceremony is to take place at Bethlehem; for Baldwin, with a modesty not entirely in harmony with his previous ambitious and selfish career, has refused to be crowned in the Holy City where great David had his throne. Doubtless also the shrewd Count of Flanders is not blind to the dramatic possibilities of a Christmas coronation in the Christmas City.

So to-day the plain, sombre interior of the Church of the Nativity is all ablaze with brilliant coloring. Along the walls of the nave are battle-worn standards, blessed by pious bishops in distant counties by the Rhine and the Rhone and the Northern Ocean, and sanctified since by many a gallant exploit before the walls of Nicea and Antioch, so that their escutcheons now bear crimson quarterings which were not embroidered there by the lovely ladies in the lonely palaces across the sea.

At the rear of the church are ranks of sunburnt men-at-arms in battered chain-armor, whose stern, self-possessed demeanor throws into greater contrast the nervous, curious excitement of the Bethlehemite Christians, who have put on their brightest tunics in honor of their valiant deliverers from thraldom to the Saracens. The transepts are crowded with bishops and the great feudal lords who have thrown in their lot with the new kingdom, for the sake of the rich fiefs which are at Baldwin’s disposal. The garments of the nobles glisten with jewels, and the dignitaries of the church are resplendent with gold and laces. Here and there upon the gorgeous scene the high windows of the church cast narrow, slanting beams, and the tinted lamps shed their soft glow upon the mass of variegated, orient hues, which are yet held in one color harmony by the insistent repetition of the crimson crosses which shine on every breast.

Where the lamps are most numerous and the light from the windows of the transepts shines brightest, Baldwin of Flanders kneels before the great altar and bows his proud head in a semblance of humility as the jeweled crown is placed upon his brow by the noble Daimbert, archbishop of Pisa, patriarch of Jerusalem and temporal lord of many a broad fief and populous village in Judea.

Surely now the veteran warriors chant again that martial Psalm with which they have advanced so often to the assault of infidel strongholds, “Let God arise, let His enemies be scattered.” And the loud battle-cry of the Crusade, which has echoed above many a desperate conflict, now rolls back and forth from wall to wall of the ancient church with deafening reverberations, “God wills it! God wills it!” And this Christmas Day the glad music of the _Gloria in Excelsis_ rings with a new note of triumph. For the Holy Land is at last reconquered. The Sepulchre and the Manger are cleansed. A Christian king is to reign in millennial peace and prosperity over the sacred hills of Palestine.

During the century following the successful issue of the First Crusade, Bethlehem took a leading part among the cities of the Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem. In 1110 it was elevated to the rank of an episcopal see, whose fiefs included large tracts of land scattered all through Palestine. The Church of the Nativity, which the Crusaders found to be somewhat bare and dilapidated, was thoroughly restored and adorned by rich gifts. The Byzantine emperor, Manuel Comnenos, had the walls beautified with magnificent mosaic pictures, made of colored glass cubes set in a background of gold. Among the other mosaic saints, the artist Edfrem was allowed to introduce the portrait of the generous emperor. More modest donors presented the church with a baptismal font which bore the simple inscription that it was given by “those whose names are known to the Lord.”

Now that Palestine was no longer under Moslem rule, pilgrims thronged from every Christian country to visit the holy places, and Bethlehem was crowded with even greater multitudes than during the days of St. Helena or St. Jerome. At Christmas time the vast concourse of clergy and nobles and pilgrims celebrated the festival with gorgeous pomp in the restored and now magnificent church. There were peals of ringing bells, and triumphant choruses of praise, and swinging of priceless censers, and above the great throng of worshippers a golden star was pulled across the church, while young men on the roof chanted the song of the angels.

“In those days,” Brother Felix tells us, “Bethlehem was full of people, famous and rich. Christians of every country on earth brought presents thither, and exceeding rich merchants dwelt there.”

But with peace and wealth, the Christian population of Bethlehem became more and more enervated and corrupt, until it is said that at last one of the leading men of the town planned to commit a deadly sin within the very precincts of the sacred Cave of the Nativity. When this was reported to the Moslems, they saw that virtue had departed from their Christian rulers, so they were not afraid to rise up against them, and soon they drove them out of all Palestine.

This is only a tradition; but it sounds almost like an allegory of the actual issue of the Crusades and the lamentable fate of the short-lived Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem.

XII

SOME BETHLEHEM LEGENDS

Numberless traditions have sprung up concerning the sacred places in and about Bethlehem and the holy persons who dwelt there. Many of these tales are really beautiful, and even when they will not bear a too critical inspection, there is often a moral overlaid by the extravagant details of the narrative.

* * * * *

The story of the First Roses is told in the words of Sir John Mandeville, who heard it in Bethlehem in the year 1322, except that the spelling of the old knight has necessarily been modernized.