If I Forget Thee: Remembering Jerusalem

“If I forget you, O Jerusalem, let my right hand forget its skill. Let my tongue cling to the roof of my mouth if I do not remember you, if I do not place Jerusalem above my highest joy.”
— Psalm 137:5–6

Written during the Babylonian exile, this psalm is a cry from the heart. The Jewish people, exiled from their homeland and mourning the destruction of the First Temple, made a vow: never to forget Jerusalem, not even in joy.

According to Midrash Tehillim, the “right hand” represents strength and productivity. Forgetting Jerusalem would mean a complete loss of direction and purpose. The Midrash goes so far as to say that Jerusalem is not just a place but a reflection of the Jewish soul, and to forget it is to forget oneself.

This verse isn’t only recited — it’s lived.

What does a broken glass have to do with a new beginning?

It’s a familiar moment: under the chuppah, just before the celebration bursts into music and dance, the groom suddenly crushes a glass beneath his foot. Cheers follow — but this gesture isn’t just a photo-op or quirky custom.

It’s rooted in Im Eshkachech Yerushalayim.

At traditional weddings, the groom recites this verse before the glass is broken. This act links the joy of marriage with the collective sorrow for the destruction of the Beit HaMikdash (Holy Temple). The Talmud (Berachot 30b) tells how the Sages would break vessels at joyful occasions to temper their celebration — a powerful reminder that even in joy, we remember loss.

The Midrash (Vayikra Rabbah 30:2) recounts how King David vowed not to enjoy comfort or music without remembering Jerusalem. The wedding glass is a modern echo of that sentiment. Joy doesn’t erase pain — it honors it.

Can the way you build your home express your deepest hopes?

Another lesser-known yet profound tradition is Zecher LeChurban, “a remembrance of the destruction.” When building or renovating a home, many Jews deliberately leave a small area — usually a square cubit, called an ama in Hebrew (about 18 inches) — unfinished. This is often done near the entrance so that it’s visible, quiet, and constant.

What's the source for this? According to the Talmud (Bava Batra 60b), after the Second Temple’s destruction, no Jewish home should feel fully complete.

This unfinished space is not a flaw. It’s a statement. It reminds the family, and any guest, that something in the world remains broken. It connects every personal space to a national longing.

Some families mark it with an unpainted patch. Others use a decorative plaque or artistic representation. However it’s done, the message is the same: this house stands, but the House of God does not — yet.

Jewish life is rich in joy, but it doesn’t ignore pain. Instead, it insists that we carry both. The broken glass and the unfinished wall are not interruptions; they are integrations. They teach us that memory is not a weight, but a thread that ties us to who we are.

As Rabbi Jonathan Sacks zt”l wrote, “There is no life without memory.” By weaving Im Eshkachech Yerushalayim into life-cycle events and home life, Judaism teaches that spiritual memory is not a separate ritual — it’s how we live.

In every broken glass and bare wall, in every whispered psalm and quiet pause, Jews across the world continue to echo the words of Psalm 137: Im Eshkachech Yerushalayim. It isn’t just something we say, it’s something we do — in weddings, in homes, and in how we carry history.

Because forgetting Jerusalem would mean forgetting ourselves, and that — we will never do.