The Numbers:13 Project 
 
‘Though Balak were to give me his house full of silver and gold, I could not of my own accord do anything good or bad contrary to the LORD’s command. What the LORD says, that I must say.’     Numbers 24:13 
 
What constitutes integrity?  I try not to get too theological in these columns, but sometimes it is unavoidable, as you will see. 
 
I have always imagined integrity to be connected to integration, which is to say, the opposite of compartmentalization.  I think it is impossible to live life without some measure of cordoning off certain experiences from others.  I learned it as a rabbi a long time ago on the day I walked from one room in the synagogue where I conducted the naming for the first child and granddaughter of a multi-generational family to another room where I conducted a funeral after the sudden death of a young father of two toddlers.  The emotion in each room could not have been different, but I could not afford to be swept away by either joy or grief. 
 
The contrasts in our lives are not always that severe, of course.  Yet, some measure of separation between work and home, responsibility and indulgence, birth and death, reaping and sowing, embracing and refraining from embracing -- you know the list -- is the experience of everyone who has been around the block even just once. 
 
Still, the person who segments every experience and lives always and only in the moment seems (at least to me) to live without integrity.  Integration involves connecting the various aspects of any system (in our case, a life) into some kind of comprehensive and comprehensible whole. 
 
As a person of faith, I have one more criterion I think cannot be overlooked.  Lots of folks find a way to knit together the parts of their internal landscape as they process their sojourn through life.  Using the compass of conscience, however defined, or of self-interest (in its extreme expression known as narcissism), they mistake self-satisfaction for integrity.  People whose sense of integrity is limited to what happens inside themselves are guilty of compartmentalization writ large. 
 
The person of integrity is connected with something larger and external.  For me, that’s God.  I am not smug about that faith (nor even the version of it to which I adhere), but I believe deeply that anyone who answers to no standard but an internal standard is, in the end, a scoundrel. The reason: every decision, most especially those we like to call “moral,” is based on serving the self.  It is not necessarily the case that the self-serving moral decision is bad or wrong -- not everyone is completely selfish -- but it is not transferable to other people who do not share the same internal landscape.  Which, of course, is everyone else. 
 
We are living in times in which integrity is pretty easily compromised.  The parade of public figures who seem to have traded their principles for access to power or money (mostly to find themselves exposed and/or under a bus) is constant.  You do not need to subscribe to the external values to which an individual has pledged allegiance to feel the pain and disappointment when integrity has disintegrated.  Compulsively clinging to that external standard comes with its own set of problems, but letting it go entirely almost always leads to tragedy, whether it is misconduct, opprobrium or plain old loneliness. 
 
The oft-maligned Bilaam (aka Baalam) seems to appreciate this truth when he is offered a fortune to use his oracular talents to condemn the Israelites. He is, at least at this moment, a man of integrity, that is, answering both to his internal and external values.  It is a high point in his life (which precedes the low point -- being outsmarted by a talking donkey).  He is not an Israelite/Jew, which teaches the lesson that integrity is not tribe-dependent (and allows the Bible to make his fall less personal to Jewish readers). 
 
Maybe some other time I will muse about how to balance the internal compass and the external standards.  For the moment, I will stop with the suggestion that adage “no one is an island” should inspire us not only to intertwined relationships, but also to a life of integrity, 
 
 

 The Numbers:13 Project 
 
Then Balak said to him, “Come with me to another place from which you can see them—you will see only a portion of them; you will not see all of them—and damn them for me from there.”        Numbers 23:13 
 
There is no question that some individuals arrive at the border of the United States with malice in their hearts.  They may have contraband to smuggle – drugs especially.  They may be bringing children or young women to the border with the promise of a better life but the reality of being trafficked. They may have exacted exorbitant sums of money from other people hoping to avoid immigration authorities by crossing illegally. 
 
I wouldn’t defend them, and I won’t defend them.  They should be prevented, apprehended and/or prosecuted, as they deserve. 
 
There is no question that some African American, Latinx, Hispanic and Asian individuals (and others) belong to gangs.  They may be willing to tolerate or engage in criminal or anti-social activities.  They may intimidate neighborhood residents or members of other gangs.  They may seek to pressure recruits to join or to turn away from family and friends. 
 
If they cross a legal line, they should be held liable for the consequences, as should anyone. 
 
There is no question that some wealthy business people have gotten rich through illegal or immoral activity.  They may have laundered money or concealed it from taxes in offshore accounts.  They may have engaged in price gouging, price fixing or bait-and-switch pricing.  They may have persuaded people to entrust them with their own money and then violated that trust. 
 
No matter how genteel these crimes are, they should be investigated thoroughly and prosecuted to the full extent of the law. 
 
The transgressions of any subset of any demographic segment must not be used to typify the population of similar individuals.  Politely, we call that stereotyping.  Less politely, we call that bigotry.  If I suggest that sometimes stereotyping is an understandable reaction, it is not to justify it, but to recognize that when the only thing someone knows about an entire cohort is the actions of a few, extrapolating to the larger population is an understandable (if illegitimate) reaction.  And certainly, if culture has not evolved to encourage wiser and more humane response, there is hard work to be done.  Native Americans, LGBTQ individuals, immigrant populations from the Irish to the Guatemalan, and, most notably, African Americans have suffered from a proclivity of Americans of privilege to “other-ise” minorities.  Education and personal relationships are the most effective correctives to bigotry borne of ignorance. 
 
Sometimes, however… 
 
Sometimes there are people of genuinely bad will who seek to create a frame around others that purposely casts them in the most negative light for the general population. Take Balak, the self-proclaimed enemy of the Israelites who was intent on bringing down a curse on the liberated slaves.   He promised a prominent religious figure, Bilaam (often called Balaam in English translations), wealth and access to power if he would attempt to marginalize the Israelites with an imprecation.  Bilaam found himself drawn to praise at the wide expanse of the nomadic encampment.  Balak suggests the ancient equivalent of cropping a photo, taking Bilaam to a vantage point that obscures most of them and diminishes their presence. 
 
Maybe at that point Balak encouraged Bilaam to see criminals and rapists and drug dealers with calves the size of cantaloupes.  Perhaps he called them roving bands of violent criminals roaming our neighborhoods.  It could be he suggested that they wanted to bleed his country dry as their financial dealings were the equivalent of getting away with murder.  And who knows – maybe from that promontory the visible section of the camp looked sinister and dangerous.  Maybe it was a persuasive case to someone otherwise uninformed. 
 
It didn’t work then, and it shouldn’t work now.  Embracing those who differ from us does not mean ignoring the shortcomings of those who do not respect the law, just as we ought not overlook those most like us who do the same.  And acknowledging the shortcomings of the minority of the minority does not mean generalizing to the majority of the minority. 
 
Any religious figure who is seduced by wealth and power to do what is wrong in the eyes of his or her faith is a fraud.  Any public figure who seeks to isolate an entire community by a sweeping judgment on a small subset is a bigot.  And anyone who falls for those tactics has chosen ignorance over righteousness. 
 

The Numbers:13 Project 
 
Balaam arose in the morning and said to Balak’s dignitaries, “Go back to your own country, for the LORD will not let me go with you.”    Numbers 22:13 
 
A long time ago, when gentle ethnic humor was still funny, there was a joke which was told about an immigrant – alternately Eastern European Jewish, Arab or Indian – who was sued by an African American for verbal assault.  The judge asked the complainant what happened.  “Your honor,” he stated, “I was walking down the street looking for a particular restaurant.  This gentleman was walking toward me, so I asked if he could direct me to the establishment.  In response, he pointed at me and said, ‘You’re a black bastard.  You should go back where you came from.’” 
 
The judge said to Mr. Epstein/Ahmadi/Singh, “Sir, I am surprised at you.  You have come to this country and been treated as family, without regard for your country of origin.  How dare you invoke one of the worst statements of bigotry imaginable!” 
 
The defendant replies, in the accented English he worked so hard to master, “Excuse me, your honor, I believe I was misunderstood.  This gentleman was walking in the wrong direction, already beyond his destination.  All I did was point the right way and say, ‘You’re a block past it.  You should go back where you came from.’” 
 
I haven’t re-piloted this joke in live performance, but I am guessing it wouldn’t get too many laughs today.  Instead, I would be met with a furrowed brow, a sigh and perhaps a remark about my own latent prejudices.   
 
Laughter is good for the soul and also for the body.  The reason we laugh is not well understood, but not for lack of trying.  Theories include the Ontic-Epistemic approach, the Computational-Neural approach and Benign Violation (which is likely considered oxymoronic these days), among many others.  I have always subscribed to the notion that laughter comes at the sudden realization of the unexpected, a definition also used for epiphany, which I find delightful.   
 
But this much is true: if you have to explain it, it’s not funny.  And if you explain why something ought not to be funny, if laughter isn’t a casualty, a relationship very well might be. 
 
What we are left with, if we want to laugh, is not so much humor as outrageousness.  Albert Brooks, long one of my favorite comedians, has an old routine about being unable to generate laughs at a concert until he deployed the s-word.  After that, he says, they wanted to put up a statue of him in the town square.  Since then, the use or inference of profanity has become an almost necessary ingredient in humor, not including the benign violation caused by Dad Jokes. 
 
Humor always depends on insult or injury, but not really.  The depiction of someone slipping on a banana peel should provoke concern or empathy.  A word manipulated into a pun deceives the listener who insists on being literal.  Even a game of peek-a-boo with a toddler plays on the child’s perception that something has suddenly disappeared and reappeared which is, of course, false and therefore a cruel exploitation of inferior cognition.  
 
Humor can be cruel if deployed with cruelty, and laughter “at” rather than laughter “with” can conceal the intent to bully. 
 
But laughter is also the most potent force in combating oppressive behavior and defusing the fear it produces.  The aggressive way in which public provocateurs are lampooned in society today – by late-night comedians, by caricature balloons, by fighting Twitter with Twitter – is the only alternative to bile and brimstone until the next election.  In my life and community, it is a familiar tool in the box, used in the past and present against medieval kings, petty tyrants, genocidal maniacs and physical disease.  Laughter does not need to be licensed or registered and has a negligible record of fatalities, despite the undocumented claims of those who have “almost died laughing.” 
 
The little phrase from the little verse from this little column is not, in and of itself, funny at all.  But when it is lampooned in the little joke, it loses its power and its offense.  Lots of people have been injured by the challenge to go back where you came from.  Defusing it can reduce the sting.  So, among the many things of genuine consequence that deserve condemnation and resistance having spewed out of the mouth of the insulter-in-chief, let me add my trifle. 
 
He recklessly spoiled a useful and perfectly good joke. 

​The Numbers:13 Project
 
From there they set out and encamped beyond the Arnon, that is, in the wilderness that extends from the territory of the Amorites. For the Arnon is the boundary of Moab, between Moab and the Amorites.    Numbers 21:13
 
What is the difference between a boundary and a border?  I have an intuitive sense of the distinction, but in the end, I decided to Ask Doctor Google.
 
They are, for all intents and purposes, synonyms.  But in common usage, a boundary limits, while a border merely marks a distinction.
 
As is often the case, sports are a common way to illustrate the difference.  The outline of a soccer or football field is a boundary.  Whatever is within the outline is in-play.  Whatever crosses the line is out of play.  That’s why the player who crosses the line is said to be “out of bounds.”  A boundary is a terminal marker, beyond which it is not permitted to go.
 
But a border simply demarks where one area ends and the next begins. The border between Kansas and Nebraska is an artificial and imaginary line (except, maybe, for Jayhawks and Cornhuskers – back to the sports).  Were you to stand in the field traversed by the border between the states, you would not notice a difference on either side.  Certainly, nations go to a lot of trouble to delineate and control traffic at their borders, but absent a natural topographical feature, the Kansas-Nebraska thing applies.
 
I have the privilege of being a graduate of the rabbinic training program called Rabbis Without Borders.  The notion of the program is that rabbis tend to stay within the borders of their own denominational affiliations.  We become very adept at determining what is and is not within the artificial and imaginary lines of Conservative, Reform, Orthodox, Renewal, Reconstructing and None-of-the-above Judaism, to the detriment of the Jews who move, more often than not, freely across the borders.
 
From the very first day that my cohort met, the leaders emphasized that we were not Rabbis Without Boundaries.  Collectively, we all recognized certain boundaries – things that were in bounds and things that were out of bounds – for all of the Jewish people.  Individually, each of us set personal boundaries of what was acceptable and tolerable.  For some, it was food restrictions, behaviors on shabbat or what constituted a prayer quorum.  For some, it was a social ethic, the kinds of marriages to validate or the fluidity of liturgy.  For one extremely dear member of my cohort, it was purity of language and eschewing of the casual coarseness which has infected even the clergy among us.
 
But we were encouraged to distinguish between those matters that were really boundaries, and therefore to be respected, and those that were borders, and therefore to be understood as artificial and imaginary.  What might we learn if we were to consider a perspective from across a border we had merely chosen not to cross?  And, more importantly to our common mission, who might we find searching for some benefit from Jewish life in “Kansas” if we were willing to step out of “Nebraska?”
 
Unlike in basketball and the United Nations, one rabbi’s border is another’s boundary, and vice versa.  It can be most difficult when a colleague will welcome you across your border which is considered a boundary in the other direction.  Likewise, there is an uneasiness when one rabbi’s boundary is considered artificial and imaginary by friends and colleagues.
 
All I know about the Amorites and the Moabites is what I read in the Bible.  (Okay, maybe a little more than that, but not much).  They shared a border and a boundary.  The Arnon, likely what today’s Kingdom of Jordan calls Wadi al-Mujib, is the rift in the mountain through which the run-off waters descend to the Dead Sea.  Perhaps some DNA-testing service could determine if there are any actual descendants of Emor or Moab running around who could be expected to respect the boundary between the two ancient tribal lands.
 
Not far from where that wadi reaches the sea is a border that separates Jordan and Israel.  It is an artificial and imaginary line that crosses the middle of the sea.  It is a near-impossible task to cross that border.  The sea is not hospitable to travelers and, if you really want to visit the other country, there are much easy ways to go.  But commercial, industrial and environmental projects with similar goals are continuing on opposite shores.  The Dead Sea does not know that border.

The Numbers:13 Project
 
he stood between the dead and the living until the plague was checked.    Numbers 17:13
 
It took a long time for me to demystify visiting a cemetery.  I never considered it “creepy” to be present among the graves and their markers.  In fact, even before I studied to be a rabbi (when I began visiting cemeteries for professional reasons), I was fascinated by the personal histories represented by the tombstones.  The information on them was enlightening about the life of the individual and the family left behind.  The material from which they were carved reflected not only aesthetic choices but implied a socio-economic status.  The shape and size could convey details too painful to memorialize in words; a marker carved like a lopped tree trunk was a sure sign of a healthy young person lost in the prime of life.
 
The part that was difficult for me was walking among the graves.  Perhaps due to idioms like “dancing on his grave” or “desecrating her grave” I found myself walking in unnatural ninety-degree patterns while muttering small apologies for a misstep as if stepping over the unidentifiable end of the actual grave was a sort of injury to the deceased.  And attempts to read the fading letters or view the embedded photos on some gravestones resulted in twisting my posture in ways I can no longer confidently attempt.
 
Of course, a burial ceremony almost always requires that people stand and walk on the graves of others.  And it slowly dawned on me that it was not merely “sacred purpose” that excused a step on a grave.  The earth that blankets the dead is the barrier between the dead and the living.
 
This phrase from the Bible has always intrigued me.  It is as blatant in Hebrew as it is in English – as if Aaron (the “he” in the verse) were positioned between two similar cohorts of people, one the living and the other zombies, walking dead, attacking hordes. It’s the word “until” that brings it out, because it implies the process of death from the plague did not end with Aaron assuming his sentry position.
 
As it happens, I was thinking about what I would write about this verse during the weeks on either side of a family gathering organized by my sister.  This winter, it will be my father’s thirtieth yartzheit, the thirtieth anniversary of his death.  Chicago is very cold in the winter; indeed, my father’s burial took place on a day of record-setting temperatures.  So, at my sister’s suggestion, we scheduled an observance at his grave on a warm day.  She arranged for the military honors we did not have at his burial, and each of his children took the opportunity to speak.
 
My dad is buried with his parents and in close proximity to many of his aunts, uncles and cousins.  Before us as we spoke was family – my mom, his children and most of their spouses, most of his grandchildren, many of his nieces and nephews and half of his six great-grandchildren.  We called on his presence in remembrances and in his own words, written as a soldier during his service in the Second World War.
 
We stood between the dead and the living, until.
 
There was no plague to arrest.  But there was good reason for the living to stand before the dead until it was time to take our leave and return to the house in which the three of us were raised.  We went there to do the things we do only when we are alive: to eat, to tell stories, to laugh, to remember and to plant the seeds of memory for the youngest who were there.
 
I remain mystified by the tableau that the Bible describes.  Despite numerous attempts by commentators to explain it, the plain meaning is hard to understand. 
 
But I now have a clearer understanding of what I have done for many, many people during my years as a rabbi, at funerals and memorial services and ceremonies to dedicate the tombstones.  I stood between the dead and the living until the immediacy of the grief had been checked.  By my willingness to stand in that breach, I assured them that a loved one’s death was not contagious, and that just as they assembled “until” for this person, others would assemble “until” for them.

The Numbers:13 Project 
 
Is it not enough that you brought us from a land flowing with milk and honey to have us die in the wilderness, that you would also lord it over us?       Numbers 16:13 
 
At some point or another, every hero fails.  For those who admire the hero, and more so for those who follow the hero, the mark of a free mind is the ability to accept the failure without rejecting the person.  
 
If the expectation has been infallibility, the fall can come hard.  History is filled with personalities who promised the moon and could not deliver the next meal – the expectations they raised were dashed and with them their reputations.  Bernie Madoff, Sammy Sosa, Tammy Fay Bakker, Elizabeth Holmes…in every field of endeavor “too good to be true” turned out to be too true to be good.  The hearts of followers too invested to consider the necessary human flaws in their heroes can be shattered beyond repair. 
 
On the other hand, a willingness to acknowledge those flaws and still embrace the person and their admirable qualities is the basis of surviving disappointment.  Anyone who has ever been married can tell you how important it is cultivate love that does not rely on perfection.  Anyone who has been divorced can tell you what happens when expectation is more important than acceptance.  (Both statements offered without judgment.) 
 
But there is another possibility when a hero fails.  It is to deny the failure in order to maintain the heroic stature.  If you’d like my definition of a cult (well, even if you wouldn’t here it comes), it is the elevation of a leader above their failures.  In faith communities, whether established religions or groups clustered around a charismatic leader, when devotees are asked to put common sense second to trust, the hero supplants the heroic idea. A person becomes the repository of hope, which means hope is supplanted by the repository. 
 
Tragically, it is most often (though not always) sexual abuse that is the mark of failure, and the continuing participation of victims in the abuse that perpetuates it.  Before you read that last sentence as blaming the victim, let me acknowledge the power of the leader to intimidate the victim and, in many cases, even to persuade the victim that the fault lies in their own shortcomings.  Without the power to frustrate the good judgment of victims, the cult leader cannot function.  Indeed, once a victim speaks out, the end of the cult is at hand. 
 
But it is not always sexual abuse that places the hero above the idea.  Sometimes it is the would-be hero’s ability to make the follower feel special just for knowing something no one else knows. 
 
The verse that prompts this short essay comes in the midst of a rebellion against Moses’ leadership.  The words are not spoken by the challenger, but by followers of the challenger.  Even if you are a casual reader of the Bible, you know that the phrase “land [of] milk and honey” does not describe Egypt, rather the Promised Land.  The rebels, who are themselves former slaves and less than a year into their liberation, have inverted the rhetoric of promise and turned the desire of their leader to “lord over us” onto Moses.  A return to Egypt would result at best in re-enslavement; it would never get near milk and honey, and the leader of the rebellion would not last a day after the return.  But the rebels’ minds were not free; they put common sense second to trust. 
 
It’s not just a Biblical phenomenon.  To my astonishment (and I hope the astonishment of a clear majority), some number of Americans are repeating these ancient (and perpetual) mistakes. 
 
The America from which we emerged into the twenty-first century was not a land flowing with milk and honey.  To be sure, some people – most of them white and Christian – saw a consistently upward trajectory of income and opportunity that took off with the Reconstruction and the Industrial Revolution.  Perhaps it even peaked as the twentieth century closed.  The leader who wants to go back there by suggesting it would make America great again has specialized in distracting from the promises unfulfilled to those privileged folks who are white and Christian. 
 
So when he encourages them to look at leaders who are claiming their several rights of citizenship and “send them back” – whether it is to the place of their family’s origin or to that former America where they “knew their place” – he is asking yet another time for his followers to put common sense second to trust.  Regrettably, some of them gleefully do so, condemning them for representing progress and then lording it over us. 
 
In the Bible, the ground swallowed the rebels.  These days, I am just hoping for a landslide.  
 

​The Numbers:13 Project
 
Every citizen, when presenting an offering by fire of pleasing odor to the LORD, shall do so with them.    Numbers 15:13
 
For most of my life, I have lived in places with the motto “if you don’t like the weather, wait ten minutes and it will change.”  It was certainly the case growing up in Chicago, where summers fluctuated between 50 degrees and unbearable and winters were inconsistently bone-chilling and (as my son once said) “I-can’t-feel-my-face.”  Spring and fall were always delightful, the one occurring on May 15 and the other on October 12.
 
Washington, DC is similar with one exception: whatever the weather, the DC area is unprepared. The city in which I live floods when it rains – and not just the part near the river – and has for so long that there is a flood-measure marker at a prominent corner.  Snowfall, which amounts to more than a foot on average, is such a surprise that the forecast alone is enough to close some school districts and cause a run on toilet paper, snow being the laxative that it is.  And the quality of the heat in summertime strains the local forecasters’ vocabularies, because “hazy, hot and humid” is only one variation.
 
But there are a few summer days in DC on which the weather seems to carry memories from far away places. When the temperature is high and the dew point is low, there is a breeze that blows down every street between the office buildings.  The pleasing odors travel on them.  Unquestionably, they are of local origin.  But deep inside my old olfactory factory, I am transported back to Jerusalem.
 
I have had the privilege to spend time in Jerusalem during many of the years of my life.  Other members of my family are there more regularly; my nephew and his family live there permanently.  But in this one somewhat unusual way, Jerusalem is always with me. 
 
I know how peculiar that seems, but there are three smells – I can’t call them fragrances – that transport me to the streets of the Holy City immediately.  The sensation is entirely pleasant, even if the smells are not always. 
 
Perhaps the most appropriate one is smoke from a grill or a fryer.  The scent of meat on an open fire, falafel and fries in ubiquitous corner shops and shawarma roasting on a vertical spit is unmistakable along the streets of the Holy City.  You find nothing exactly like it in downtown DC, but there are molecules that insinuate the aroma of very familiar places. I can be crossing 19th and M NW and find myself momentarily among the restaurants that line Agrippas Street near the market.
 
Those aromas and others might be found in all sorts of cities around the Mediterranean. But when you walk through the place where the Temple stood, the pleasing odor is redolent of Biblical instruction.  Sacrifices roasted on the fire of the altar every day the Priests and Levites performed their duties.  When the dry desert wind blew the smoke through the city, a sacred memory was implanted in every nostril.  When the pilgrims returned to their villages from a Temple visit or the exiles wept by the waters of Babylon, a moment of homecoming was stirred by the unexpected whiff of an everyday fire.  What I smelled in Jerusalem let me travel back in history before it followed me halfway around the world.
 
But what are the other two smells?  They are very different from the pleasing odors.
 
One is the scent of diesel fumes from certain bus emissions. The other is the very pungent odor of certain refuse. 
 
Pollution and garbage!  What an awful way to prevent my right hand from losing its cunning!  But I assure you it is entirely involuntary, the way most memories associated with smells can be, including smoke on the breeze.
 
Jerusalem is traversed by a network of buses that still carry the majority of vehicular passengers through the city.  They are joined – especially during the summer – by tourist buses of various degrees of luxury.  The smell of the exhaust is almost inescapable, especially on the major thoroughfares.  Depending on how hot it is, how windy it is and how close you are to the back of an accelerating bus, the smell of diesel exhaust is to your nose as the on-hold music for your call to the airline or utility company is to your ear: unavoidable, intrusive and forgotten immediately – until the next time.
 
As in any city with a hot summer, the garbage in Jerusalem piles up and cooks.  In neighborhoods populated by considerate merchants, the trash finds its way to large dumpsters off the beaten path.  Some of the less considerate restaurant operators hose down their kitchen and dinning room floors and sweep the dirty water onto the sidewalk and gutter to evaporate.  The stench from either is unmistakable.  It sneaks up on you without warning and assaults your sense of smell.  My reflex, probably not unusual, is to hold my breath for a few steps or more.  But the fact is that when I exhale, I can feel the stink trying to hold on for a free ride.  Sweet, sickly and pungent – I could not recreate it if I wanted to.
 
Washington has buses and garbage, too, as does most any city.  The buses are less numerous, and the trash is mostly behind the buildings.  And the wobbly pattern of weather does not often recreate the dry desert wind that blows through Jerusalem.
 
The fact is that food, transportation and waste are the essence of any city, anywhere in the world.  And, as I have written before, the sense of smell so often is the most reliable carrier of memory among the ways we perceive the world.  It’s that breeze which is so usual in Jerusalem that distinguishes a sudden whiff of Washington as a souvenir of Israel when the weather is not heavy or wet or still.
 
I am reminded that people live their everyday lives in a place I am instructed to remember for its holiness, and that therefore there is something holy in the everyday lives of people who catch a hint of those sometimes-pleasing and sometimes-not odors meant to remind me of sacred ordinariness.