Remind me, what is the reason for the season?

It took me 4 years, but I finally made it. I went in the New Gate of the Old City this morning not really knowing what to expect. It wasn't my first time in the Old City, or even the Christian Quarter, but it was my first time there on Christmas. Every year I say to myself that I will attend a Christmas Eve mass, and every year, the cold dark night that I must fight to get there seems much less inviting than my warm bed. This year, I didn't even make the promise. I simply broke the paradigm (wait, wait) and went in the morning (novel, I know).

The sun was shining, the birds were singing (ok, not sure about this one), and after a very uneventful ride on the number 13 bus to the center of town, I made my way to the Jerusalem's Old City. I think, in my head, I was picturing crowds of people--something similar to the pictures of the Via Dolorosa on Easter that I always see in the news. But it was empty. As I walked in the New Gate, there was only one person in sight . . . so I followed her. The truth is, my stereotypes took over, and because she looked Russian (no, she wasn't wearing bright pink lipstick or anything--it's Christmas, people), I figured she was a good candidate for a church-goer. Turns out, I was right (about the church-going part at least). As the cops always say at the end of murder mysteries, "She led me right to 'em" ('em, in this case, being Christians or monks or priests or . . .).

I followed her through the winding stone alleys and down Casa Nova Street (and no, the irony of the name of this street was not lost on me). An Israeli tour group stood in the middle of the stairs of Casa Nova, but I was not tempted for a moment to stop and listen. Some things you must experience and not simply hear about. Distracted a bit by the group, I lost my "tour guide" but it turns out, she had taken me straight to a church. I walked into an enclave and saw stone steps leading up towards what I assumed was a sanctuary.

In fact, as I saw when I stepped through the doors, it was a cathedral. I'm no architect, so I won't begin to describe buttresses or domes, but what I saw was beautiful. What I heard, though, was even more amazing. The mass that was in session rang in my bones. I sat quietly, shyly, in the last wooden pew. To my left was a nativity scene, at which entering worshippers kneeled, crossed themselves, and prayed. Around the altar which stood at the front of the the church were seated around 12 priests dressed in white robes, and throughout the gathering of about 100 worshippers, there were priests dressed in brown robes.

While I understood very little of the mass (seems my high school Latin has not remained), the few familiar Christmas carols and the story of the Nativity (un papa un bambino--is this Italian?) did bring a smile to my face.

But what brought tears was not any particular intellectual experience but rather a feeling. I think there are those in the world who refuse to enter holy places of other religions. This, for me, is hard to believe, because the warmth and hope I felt in this space is almost indescribable. It didn't matter that they spoke of "Christo" or recited the Nativity story rather than that of the Exodus from Egypt. I prayed there for my family celebrating Christmas, for shalom bayit (peace in the family) for those who need it, for my Jewish friends to find husbands, and most of all, for peace.

Perhaps my voice was the lone Jewish one in the crowd, but I have a good feeling that it, too, was heard.

A great miracle happened here!

I would like to start this blog entry with a cup of hot chocolate . . . Ok, Done.

I would like to continue this blog entry with a picture that will bring most of you a smile.

No, this is neither a new age guru nor a carnie-cum-fortune teller--this is my father, sporting this year's Chanukkah gift from our neighbors, people with big hearts and obviously too much time on their hands.

Some of you may remember my previous post on my predictions for the Messiah arriving to Jerusalem in time to sort out my lawsuit with City Hall. As it turns out, this did not happen. However, due to a very nice judge who felt sorry for my pitiful new immigrant self, the fight for justice/logic/sanity has been moved to outside of legal arena. I've been spared! In essence, we are taking a Delorian back in time to go through the process that should have happened prior to a law suit being filed. So, at least no legal costs.

My expectations remain low, i.e., realistic. I fully expect City Hall to reject my appeal and say something to the effect of, "We don't care that it's not your debt to begin with. We are heartless trolls who who like to make old men cry in our offices (true story)--we are actually training to work at maximum security prisons in Guantanamo." But the intensity level of the whole situation being lowered is an accomplishment of its own, a modern-day Chanukkah miracle, if you will.

Concerning any further bureaucracy, I have talked with Mr. Claus and these people will be getting coal in their stockings this year.