Oliver
It was a July afternoon, and I had planned to spend time with my good friend. But fate had other plans. She fell ill, and I found myself heading to the Old City alone, drawn once again to the Western Wall. There, standing before the ancient stones, something stirred within me. I thought of King Solomon—not only the king who delivered the famous judgment about the baby, but also the one who built the Temple itself.
In that moment, I realized that the Temple Mount was our baby. As a people, we would need to relinquish some control—not entirely, but enough to create a compromise. Like the mother in Solomon’s judgment, we might need to make a sacrifice to save the Temple Mount, ensuring its survival for the sake of peace, without fully relinquishing it to the Arabs. This would be a path toward unity, “achdut”, rather than division.
The intensity of the revelation overwhelmed me. I felt the weight of that sacred energy, as if the past, present, and future were all coming together in that moment. It wasn’t just an abstract thought—it was a profound truth that felt etched into the very stones of the Wall.
September 9 was overwhelming for me as I reflected on “Achdut le’olam va’ed”, which means “unity forever.” I had been writing it to my friend in my texts, but as I looked closer at the phrase, I realized something more. The first letters—Aleph, Lamed, Vav—initially didn’t seem to spell anything significant, but then it hit me: they spelled “Elu”. This brought to mind the famous declaration from heaven during the debate between Beit Hillel and Beit Shammai, “Elu v’Elu”, meaning both perspectives were correct. This only deepened my belief in unity—“achdut”—and how multiple viewpoints could coexist in harmony, like a symphony of differing voices. It felt like the universe had aligned to bring me that realization, like some quantum energy at play. I was shaken by the profundity of it but forced myself to get some rest.
The morning of September 10th didn’t start well. My meeting with the Ministry of the Interior to discuss my aliyah was upsetting—typical Israeli bureaucracy. Papers hadn’t been received, and the process would continue to drag on. It left me feeling deflated, frustrated, and more than a little unsettled from the intense “Elu v’Elu” revelation the day before. I didn’t know how to process it all and, for a moment, even thought about going back to America.
I reached out to my friend, needing to talk. She had only a few minutes to spare, but I explained how “freaked out” I was by the “Elu v’Elu” epiphany. She suggested I visit the Kotel again. At first, I hesitated, not wanting another overwhelming experience like the epiphany about Solomon’s baby. But I decided to follow her advice. Magical things tend to happen when I take her suggestions, and as it turned out, she was right once again. The day would unfold in ways I couldn’t have imagined.
As I made my way toward the Kotel, I decided to take a different route through the Old City. Instead of heading straight for the Wall, I veered toward the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, a path less traveled by me but one I had explored with my friend a couple of months earlier. The air felt thick with energy, as though something profound was waiting just around the corner.
And that’s when I saw him—Oliver, a large African man standing just outside the sepulchre, wearing a skirt-like drape around his legs. He looked out of place, visibly deflated. I soon learned why: they wouldn’t allow him into the area where Jesus had died because his attire didn’t meet the standards for entry. He had bought the skirt from a nearby vendor, but it wasn’t enough.
Oliver was a religious Christian, and I could see how much this moment meant to him. He was on a spiritual detour from Tel Aviv, where he had been for business, just to visit the holy sites in Jerusalem. The look on his face moved me—I wanted to help him. For a split second, I considered giving him my pants, but he was a large man, and I knew they wouldn’t fit. Still, I told him, “Don’t worry, we’ll find you some pants.”
Oliver returned the skirt to the vendor, and we set off together, heading into town to find some proper pants. It turned out that Oliver had moved to London from Zimbabwe 27 years ago and was now in Israel on business. He ran his own company, but this trip to Jerusalem was more than just a side stop—it was a spiritual detour, a calling to visit the holy sites. I wanted to make sure his day turned around, to make it a memorable experience for him.
After getting the pants, we returned to the Church of the Holy Sepulcher. This time, we were able to enter the inner sanctum. As Oliver and I walked inside, I could feel the weight of the space, but what struck me most was watching him. Oliver was spiritually charged. He started praying, and it was clear how much this place meant to him. To me, it felt like visiting the grave of Abraham or Maimonides, but for Christians, this was where Jesus lay dead, where he was laid to rest, and where he ascended to heaven.
I watched Oliver, moved by his devotion and fervor. Though the sight itself didn’t stir me in the same way, seeing him experience such a powerful religious awakening affected me. It was fascinating to observe—this was quantum oneness in action, a force that affects each person differently, like selective energy. It wasn’t like getting zapped by an x-ray beam, where everyone gets the same dose. This was something unique, tailored to the individual’s faith and connection.
After our time in the inner sanctum, we were gently ushered out—there’s only so much time each visitor can spend inside. As we stepped back into the open air, Oliver told me something that stopped me in my tracks. He said that if he had stayed in that sacred space any longer, he might have been “sucked in,” so deeply drawn into the experience that he wasn’t sure if he could have come out of it. His words struck me. The power of the place had pulled him so deeply into his own faith, his connection to something greater, that it almost became overwhelming.
That’s when I knew I needed to talk to him about quantum oneness.
I soon learned that Oliver wasn’t just a deeply religious Christian—he was also an engineer, an occupancy engineer to be exact. He worked with sensors that detect when people are present in a room, using technology like carbon monoxide monitors. This made it easier to explain the concept of singularity and quantum oneness in a way that clicked for him almost immediately. I told him, “Imagine the universe expanding like carbon monoxide diffusing into a room. It fills the space, spreads out, but through quantum entanglement, the diffusion can still communicate—just like the sensors you use in your work.” His eyes lit up. It was like a light went off in his head. He got it.
We continued talking as we walked the Via Dolorosa, stopping at various stations where Christ had paused on his path to crucifixion. As we made our way through the Old City, Oliver opened up about his family’s deep religiosity. It was clear that faith was a cornerstone of his family’s life, and now, here we were, connecting that deeply held faith with the profound concept of quantum oneness.
We then walked to the Western Wall, where I did the afternoon prayer with other men. Oliver used the time for silent meditation. As we headed out of the Jewish Quarter, Oliver stopped to buy a prayer shawl. I bought a large shofar at the shop, and I enjoyed blowing it during the Jewish month of Elul, which precedes Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year.
Oliver told me that this was a very special day in his life. And I was blessed to be his physical and spiritual tour guide. The best part is that Oliver and I are now close friends, and he gave his blessing to this piece.
Spirituality is a very individual experience, and how and when it will manifest itself remains one of the mysteries of quantum oneness.