When I see artists painting the same stone arches and cobblestone streets that I walk through every day, I think to myself, “Jerusalem, it’s a hell of a town.”
When I walk into Jaffa Gate, and I’m not the least bit surprised to see a camel sitting there, or someone playing sitar, guitar, or harp. When I see the policemen riding in the ancient streets on six-feet-tall horses and imagine that it must not have looked too different here three thousand years ago, I think to myself, “Jerusalem, it’s a hell of a town.”
When I get heckled by Arab vendors shouting at me in English, “Come into my shop!” and I see their jaw drop as I, a blond-haired, blue-eyed American Jew say to them, “No thanks, but have a great day!” in fluent Arabic, I think to myself, “Jerusalem, it’s a hell of a town.”
When I hear music from my balcony late at night and I follow it. When it leads me to a group of young Jews sitting under the giant golden Menorah, designed to look like the one used in the Temple and I sit. When I look around and I see Americans and Israelis and Brits, “black and white” yeshiva students and religious Zionists in T-shirts and shorts. When a Hassid, donned in the full traditional dress, stops by and starts playing a guitar and another one joins in on the flute. When we all sing songs of Jerusalem late into the night and forget the differences between us, I think to myself, “Jerusalem, it’s a hell of a town.”
When a bride and groom come to film their wedding video and we all start singing the ancient Jewish wedding song, “Quickly, quickly, oh G-d our Lord, let us hear again in the cities of Judah and in the outskirts of Jerusalem the voice of rejoicing and the voice of happiness, the voice of a groom and the voice of a bride,” and I see their faces light up, right across from the Temple Mount, I think to myself, “Jerusalem, it’s a hell of a town.”
When I go to an open-house Friday night meal and over a hundred people are eating there, free of charge, and the host stands up and apologizes that it’s a bit crowded, but don’t worry-they’re adding on, I think to myself, “Jerusalem, it’s a hell of a town.”
When my wallet falls into a sewer and before I even have a chance to attempt to get it out myself, a bunch of strangers crowd around, push me “out of the way” and do it themselves, I think to myself, “Jerusalem, it’s a hell of a town.”
When I sit out on my balcony and take in the view. When I look to my left and see the Western Wall and Temple Mount. When I look straight ahead and I see a candlelit wedding in the gardens by the southern wall of the Temple Mount. When I look to my right and see the lights twinkling in the ancient City of David. When I see the beautiful fireworks shooting up, indicating that one of our “cousins” just got married. When I sit and watch the orange, layered sunrise, like a breathtaking painting over the hills of Jordan as a rooster crows, I think to myself, “Jerusalem, it’s a hell of a town.”
When I think of Pesach Susnitsky, who in 1892 was arrested on Shabbat in Brenham, Texas. Who was carried to jail, then subsequently released for keeping Shabbat, since he refused to attend the Saturday hearing. Would he, in his wildest dreams, ever have fantasized that over a hundred years later his great-great-grandson would be living in the Old City of Jerusalem, welcoming in the Holy Shabbat at the Western Wall with thousands of other Jews, of every color and every flavor, from every corner of the globe, together as one?
Jerusalem, it’s a hell of a town.
