Newly arrived in the city of Jerusalem, it is shortly after sunrise as I come into the plaza for the first time. My stomach contracts. What I wanted was tears, joy. But the wall, our most sacred spot – is ugly. Huge stones; dead. A vertical cemetery for what was, and for what is going on around me. Vast stones, ominous, dark, with here and there a man, head covered, praying.

'What I wanted was tears, joy. But the wall, our most sacred spot – is ugly. Huge stones; dead.'

I keep my distance; look up, around me. The wall is vast. I hadn’t expected that, from photographs. Slowly I approach, touch it, wanting to feel… something, something other than its coldness. Around me, a few men are bending, swaying. But I feel no words rise up. I turn, leave, and go back a few days later. It’s midday, warm, bright. Many more people in the plaza, worshippers, tourists with cameras, a few soldiers. And now there are women on the far side of the mechitzah. I wander close to it, feeling safer there, far from the men in kipot, rocking back and forth. A closeted gay boy, I write a little note and cram it into the crack between two massive stones: “Dear God, please fix me.” God is silent.

I return a few days later, before my first class. The sun is just coming up. There is almost no one there. I move toward ithe wall, wanting to feel…something. I move toward the mechitzah again. Pause. Run my hands down the cold stones in front of me. Press palms to it. Forehead.

Someone tugs on my arm. I turn. Four men in black stand behind me. One says, in Hebrew, that they need me for a minyan. In English I reply, “No thank you.” They grab me, pick me up, carry me into a little room off to the side, even though I am kicking and struggling and yelling in Hebrew, “I’m not Jewish!”

I flee the moment they stop davening and don’t go back. I find tender warmth in the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, its corners embracing, its sheltering chapels comforting. Spiraling incense, sound of chants. Or I ascend the mount itself and sit in the Dome of the Rock on piles of carpets, pressing hands to their softness, praying wordless prayers, bowing, embraced by the holy roundness of that sacred mosque.

My year almost over, I make myself go back to the wall one last time. It is evening. The massive, ugly stones are now bathed in pink gold. I press myself up against the mechitzah, chest clenching. All around me, the faithful in prayer. Then off to the far side of the women’s section, a bus pulls up. Out from it stream men in Western jackets and women in saris, saris of every imaginable color. The men circle behind the plaza and enter the men’s section. The women drift toward their side of the wall, where they press their bodies against the massive pink stones. Revelation: I didn’t know there were Indian Jews.

The wind picks up. And in front of those gigantic, inert, 2,000 year old stones, soft pinks and greens and reds and blues and purples drift, float, undulate, unfold, like wordless, rippling, non-linear Torah scrolls. No straight lines, nothing solid. Just billowing light-illuminated waves of silk, shimmering in the pink twilight. And then, the silent voice of God, in that river of colors, ocean of hues:

You will be all right, says God.

And I am.

To read Part I of Andrew Ramer's "Jerusalem Tryptich," click here. To read Part II, click here.

Feature image by Wayne McLean, licensed under the the Creative Commons Attribution 2.0 Generic license.  http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Western_wall_jerusalem_night.jpg