When prose fails

5/19/19

            To kiss the Mezuzah on the city’s gate, made of melted weapons of war.

            To let reason surrender to faith, certainty to mystery, mastery to innocence, and proof to belief, at least for a time.

            To hear a wailing shofar while singing “David Melech Yisrael” while Christian pilgrims shuffle their way into the room of The Last Supper.

            To stand in that same room and see the sculpture of an Olive Tree with three braches representing the three Monotheistic Faiths and their shared fate, a personal gift from Pope Francis.

            To pose for pictures at the request of Chinese tourists. Many pictures.

            To eat Jerusalem Bagels smothered in Zatar and pose for pictures with IDF soldiers.

            To weave between the columns of the Roman Cardo and know that history is continually adding chapters to an unfolding story and that to be human is to author your chapter but denied the final word.

            To know that you are part of the future of that story and to embrace your sacred obligation.

            To visit the city that King David built and ascend from there to the Western Wall.

            To wrap yourself in an Israeli flag, or a Tallit, or Tefillin, or in thoughts and prayers. 

            To stand alone, to cry alone. To stand together, laugh and cry together. To sing together, to be quiet together. To make sacred promises together.

            To stand at the place where Jesus was crucified, where his body was ritually washed, where he was laid to rest, and where his loving devotees know with deep conviction that he ascended to heaven to return to his Father so that they might live in the light of His grace. 

            To wander together, and wander some more. Supervised of course.

            To smell and taste and touch and hear and see Jerusalem’s marketplace.

To watch the vendors drop the prices of their perishables and shutter their shops for the evening only to reveal spray painted faces and pictures of Jewish life.

To visit again Ben Yehuda Street again and make the journey up and down and up again (and again) like the angels on Jacob's ladder.

To return exhausted. More than 8 miles later.

To feel that Jerusalem is yours. And theirs. And ours. A city both impenetrable and an open book of life.

To kiss again the Mezuzah made of melted artillery and pray for peace.