Dear Jerusalem

Dear Jerusalem,
Ah, the holy city. I can feel the religion seeping from your bricks and mortar. I can see the religion in your markets, with the street peddlers pushing stars of David and crucifixes, the orthodox Jews draped in black, heads covered and beards flowing, the Muslim women covered from head to toe. I can hear the religion at five in the morning when I am awoken by the Muslim call to prayer, and again at six when the bells start ringing. Are you guys competing with each other, to get in early to God? He's always there, you know.
On your streets I met the Prince of Jaffa Gate. That's what he called himself anyway. He bought me beer and offered to buy me for camels. A charming courting process I think. Later I saw him following tourists, draping his arms around their shoulders, maybe offering them camels for their daughters, trying to usher them into his store. How appropriate, I thought, that the Prince of Jaffa Gate be a beggar.
I walked the path of Jesus, and his mother too. I went to the church of flagellation, only to be disappointed by the lack of flagellation. I watched a Jesus mosh pit as Christians queued to see his tomb. I tried not to laugh as all this worshiping was interrupted by the arrival of a little known politician and her entourage. Cameras suddenly swung away from poor dead Jesus and to the President of the Ukraine. How fickle your attention is. I thought of Jesus and his golden idols.
I pondered the Western Wall and the Jews rocking back and forth, pushing their prayers written on small pieces of white paper into the cracks between the stones. Do they clear them out at the end of the day, put them in envelopes and post them direct to God? Do they throw them away, bin upon bin filled with prayers? That seems oddly appropriate.
I met a Jew in a hostel who buoyantly informed me he was off the the Wailing Wall to complain. To who, I asked. To God. I am not satisfied, he said. The next day he did not leave his bed. I drank last night, he said, my body does not like alcohol. Whose does? I did not think I needed to ask how the complaining went, or whether God had answered his prayer for satisfaction.
I watched the Christian tour groups in their red and yellow hats, walking down the steps of the David Street Suq. I watched them point out the praying Muz-lims and stare at their covered women. I followed the tour groups across Jerusalem to find the churches and mosques. I watched the Muslims walk amongst the Jews, and the Jews amongst the Muslims. I saw the Christians throng together, sheep after all, looking for their shepherd. I silently applauded the opportunistic Arabs selling bread from wagons in the Jewish Quarter on Sabbath. I navigated your streets, Jerusalem, with a tourist map, and a belly filled with five Shekel bread. I did not find one of the Gods the people came to see.
But on your streets, Jerusalem, watching the Jews and the Muslims and the Christians, I thought, for the first time, that we might just get out of this alive. Hope, for Christ's, or Allah's, or Yahweh's sake, hope is what I found in Jerusalem. And maybe, just maybe, that's as close to God as I will ever get.
Sincerely,
Helenahandbasket