When I was studying in the Overseas Program at Hebrew University in Jerusalem, the Mt. Scopus campus was still in the early stages of construction. Reading Judy Lash Balint's article about the rally for the Temple Mount yesterday, I was reminded that the area overlooking the Old City was at that time little more than a pile of dirt, rocks and weeds. But I used to like to wander over there every Friday evening to watch and listen to Shabbat descend on Jerusalem.
Back then, the city was full of big old buses that grumbled and rumbled and coughed their way through town. The end of the university line was behind me, just over the hill from the overlook point, and as the sun was getting ready to set over Jordan, the last bus of the day would come wheezing up the steep road, grind to a stop, chug once or twice and then fall silent. As would similar buses all over town.
As the sounds of busy everyday life fell away below me, I would imagine that I felt a cloak of peace settling over the world. Jerusalem would literally glow golden, then fade to pink and finally to purple shadows everywhere, while lights would start to sparkle, laughter would waft up from somewhere impossibly far away, and it would be time to find my way back to the dorm before it got too dark to see.
The scene isn't quite as dramatic from my mother's mirpesset (balcony) in Katamon, and the buses are much quieter these days, but the experiece of Shabbat arriving in Jerusalem is still very special, something I very much look forward to when I visit and something I carry with me always.
Shabbat Shalom.
