In the starlight of a night long ago, when Herod the Great was King of Judea, the roads of Palestine were crowded with reluctant travellers. The great trunk road, on which the silks and the candied fruits of Damascus met the pickled fish of Galilee and the gold of Arabia, was that night alive with families travelling on camel-back, on asses, and on foot. Villages and towns were awake all through the land. A cluster of lights marked Nazareth on its hill. The stark little towns of Judea gleamed darkly among the clefts of the mountains; and on the flat land of the Sharon Plain lanterns shone against the background of the sea like the camp fires of a host. Dusty and travel weary, the wayfarers came to towns and villages and knocked upon doors. Alas, some had nowhere to sleep that night. Guest chambers were full, and travellers, finding no room in the khans or in the houses of lofts and garrets and stables. There were some who grumbled as they slaked their thirst and broke their fast:‘God knoweth our numbers, Why should we be counted on the fingers of men?’
God knoweth our numbers... It was the old cry of Israel, the hatred of the counting of heads, the sin that drove David to build an altar unto the Lord on the threshing-floor of Ornan the Jebusite. But these were different times. Augustus, the Master of the World, had sent forth a decree that men should be counted, and Herod the King had commanded that all Jews, men and women, should return into their tribal territory and be enrolled as households, as the Egyptians were enrolled every fourteen years for the ease and convenience of the tax collector. Men spat upon the floor and cursed the disjointed world. Some day, they said, a king world rise in Israel, the Messiah, a men sprung from the loins of David, one born with a sword in his hand, a man of war; and he would free his country and drive the oppressor into the sea. Among those who travelled from Nazareth at the time of the census was Joseph the carpenter, and Mary, his wife. They were on their way to Bethlehem, David’s Town, because Joseph was of the house and family of David. Among the women who travelled the roads that night there must have been many like Mary of Nazareth over whom hovered the mystery of birth. Greater even than any mystery of motherhood was the mystery of her destiny and the sacred mystery of the splendour that was so soon to fall upon her. As Mary rode that night to Bethlehem, one is reminded of the opening words of Genesis. Once again in the history of the world the Spirit is brooding on the face of the waters, and as its wings go past in the darkness they promise new hope for the human soul.
‘From henceforth,’ Mary had cried in the Magnificat, ‘all generations shall call me blessed.’ She had not singled out one nation from the others. Her song was the first expression of the unity of Mankind, the first cry for the abolition of injustice and inequality and greed, the first looking forward to a better world. So the immortal travellers came out of Samaria, and as they climbed up into the foothills of Judaea they approached the long steep road that leads to Jerusalem, and saw a city, cruel and dark within its wall, crouched in the night like those beasts which the Egyptians carved on their temples. If they came down by the north road, where the white towers of Hippicus and Phasael gleamed on their right, they would have passed a little hill outside the city gate. The name of this hill was Golgotha. The road to Bethlehem runs like a white ribbon for five miles to the south of Jerusalem. The little town which the travellers now approached, climbed the hill among olives and vines. Beneath the fateful stars of that night Joseph and Mary went from house to house seeking a lodging, for from far and near, all the tribe of David was crowded together in that place. The old houses in Bethlehem are build above caves in the rock. Above these caverns, where the cattle are stabled at night, are the rooms the humble families live. In such a dwelling Mary of Nazareth found a lodging. There was no place for her in the room above; but below in the friendly darkness of the rock, and among the quiet, friendly beasts of the field, the mother of Jesus made her bed that night.
Just outside Bethlehem was a place called Migdal Eder, ‘the watch-tower of the flocks’, where the sacrificial lambs were gathered before they were driven towards Jerusalem, to the altar on which their blood was spilt.
‘And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night. And, lo, the Angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore afraid. And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord. And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger. And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying, Glory to God in the highest and on earth peace, good will toward men.
This shepherds said, one to the other:
‘Let us now go even unto Bethlehem, and see this thing which is come to pass, which the Lord hath made known to us’
There is an ancient story that at this moment mariners off the coasts of Greece heard a voice crying in the darkness: ‘Great Pan is dead!’ The story of the first Christmas is the most lovely story in the world. It is one on which the world has lavished the treasure of its love and its imagination: the shepherds on their knees, the Wise Men with their gifts, the quiet beats in the dusk of the cave where the Mother sat with her Child. Those who believe in Christ and those who deny Him agree in one thing: that on this Christmas night long ago in Bethlehem, the first vision of Perfection shone out over the world. The world is still imperfect, but the Vision remains: the vision of a world ruled by love and justice, where man loves God with all his heart and soul and his neighbour as himself.
More precious even than the inspired canvases of Botticelli and Correggio are the little pictures of a frosty night in Bethlehem which each one of us holds in his heart. The sound of the Flock has taken up by human voices ever since. It comes to us from the past, and we sing it in the darkness of the present: Come, all ye faithful, joyful and triumphant, Come ye, O come ye, to Bethlehem.
Women of the Bible by H. V. Morton
METHUEN & CO. LTD., LONDON
