There are moments when I am jealous of Orthodox Jews. I do not mean
to belittle their practices. I know that they require great commitment.
However, it often seems as if it may be easier to observe the commandments
routinely, without needing to think much about it. And yet I do not believe
that the Torah was dictated by God to Moses on Mount Sinai. Rather, I
believe that the echo of God’s voice inspired its words. I do not
believe the great Rabbis truly knew better than I what God requires of
us, and I therefore cannot follow the mitzvot exactly as they interpreted
them. How simple Shabbat would be if I believed that refraining from
the thirty-nine acts required in the building of the Mishkan was what
God asked of me. But I do not. (The work forbidden on Shabbat is based
on the thirty-nine activities necessary to build the Mishkan, the desert
sanctuary. Mishnah Shabbat 7:2.)
I struggle to reconcile my secular world with a deep yearning for the
sacred and the serenity that complete rest promises. Observing Shabbat
is not a commandment whose laws are clear and concise; it is a whispered
invitation that I strain to hear. This is Shabbat for the Reform Jew—not
simple; not prescribed; not obvious. Yet like Jews everywhere, I do hear
the invitation and find myself pulled toward the sweetness that Shabbat
offers.
Over the last two years our family has been experimenting with how to
observe Shabbat on Saturday as well as on Friday night. Friday night
rituals have been part of our practice for years, but Saturday has been
a work-in-progress. Shabbat morning is the only morning my children are
allowed to watch television. We stay in our pajamas as long as we like.
In fact, my children have special “Shabbat pajamas” that
they wear. We try to refrain from grocery shopping, but mall shopping
or other fun outings are fine. We may read our email, but we don’t
respond to those that are work related. My husband, a congregational
rabbi, goes off to lead services, and even when we go with him we still
get up an hour or two later than usual. As one preschool parent at our
JCC said to me on hearing about our Shabbat, “That doesn’t
sound like any Shabbat observance I know!”
Our Shabbat is emerging, and we are learning as we go. We are engaging
in the Reform practice of informed choice. We are learning, exploring
and reinterpreting Jewish ritual and law to find meaning for our family.
We are listening to the invitation and reimagining the celebration. There
are times when it all comes together. Then the chaos stops and I can
hear the voice of God a bit more clearly. Before my eyes, our lazy Saturday
transforms into Shabbat—holy, meaningful and everlasting.
The Shabbat that I describe here is a personal Shabbat. It happens in
the quiet of our home with friends and family. However, so many of our
discussions focus on how to bring Reform Jews to synagogue on Shabbat.
Whether it is reclaiming Shabbat morning services from b’nei mitzvah
craziness, or the cineplex model with its something for everyone, we
have focused on bringing people in for Shabbat.
I would like to suggest that perhaps we should instead focus on bringing
Shabbat to people. I do not want more programming in the temple on Shabbat
afternoon. I want a chavurah (small group of Jews who enjoy “doing
Jewish” together) to while away the day with. Let me join in song
and prayer with my community as the sun sets on Friday evening, and let
me stay in my pajamas until noon on Saturday morning.
I do not mean to suggest that we should not have Shabbat morning minyanim
in our synagogues. I am suggesting that our emphasis needs to change
from what we can provide in our building, to what we can help people
build in their homes. Shabbat is not a programming problem we need to
solve—it is a sanctuary in time we need to enter. During six days
of the week our community should explore the myriad possibilities for
Shabbat rest, and take the seventh day to live those teachings.
The invitation is whispered. I hear its promise of wholeness and holiness.
Help me to not create more to fill the time. Teach me to cease from creation
and treasure the empty space, filling it with the sanctity of Adonai. |
Nearly twenty-five years ago when I converted to Judaism, one of the
rabbis on my beit din asked me, “If you had to give up everything
about being Jewish but could only keep one thing, what would it be?” An
intriguing question, I thought, and after a moment answered, “Shabbat.
Because if I had Shabbat, I would have everything else.” For me,
the idea of Shabbat incorporated the essence and totality of Judaism
in one neat package; it contained Torah, community, relationship to God,
study and the other elements necessary for living a Jewish life. Nice
idea, huh? The rabbis questioning me thought so.
Shabbat is one of the revolutionary ideas we gave the world. It seems
so central to our sense of Jewishness that it’s hard to think of
being Jewish without the idea of Shabbat. And yet for me, twenty-five
years later, Shabbat, except for Friday nights, is mostly still an idea.
My wife and I light candles and have dinner together every Friday night,
unless one of us is out of town. We attend services mostly on Friday
nights—especially when our congregation has its monthly communal
dinner. We’d attended Saturday services more often when my daughter
was growing—but now that she’s off on her own, the half-hour
schlep to temple on Saturday morning becomes easier to avoid.
Yet observing Shabbat in its fullness is something that is appealing,
but isn’t integrated into my life. It’s a struggle. And I
trust I am not alone in this respect. When Rabbi Yoffie announced his
Shabbat initiative at the Biennial, I felt a longing and even a pang
of guilt. It was good to learn, as he told us in his speech, that he
himself struggles with Shabbat observance. But that fact didn’t
end the nagging in the back of my head—and it didn’t move
me to make any behavioral changes. I knew the initiative was coming—in
fact, I’d taken part in a special URJ Symposium on Shabbat in January
2007 that was a wonderful exchange of ideas, learning and discussion.
As a member of the URJ’s Joint Commission on Worship, Music and
Religious Living, it was an issue we’d studied intensely.
So it was that when I was asked to take part in this Eilu V’Eilu
discussion, it was not without a little trepidation. What could I bring
to the table? What perspective could I bring that would possibly add
to the discussion?
Then a funny thing happened on the way to this first column, which I
am writing in the first week of April. I had to be in New York City for
an event, and stayed with some friends for several days. My friend David
is much more traditional than I—a yeshiva student as a boy and
observant today. His family eats kosher. He gets up Saturday morning
and walks to shul. So while I didn’t make it to shul with him,
I spent from Friday through Saturday night sharing Shabbat. We ate meals.
We talked. We took a nap on Saturday after lunch. I played with the couple’s
young daughter. It was restful and filled with friendship, fun and discussion.
Time stopped. And I enjoyed it, making the Sunday event I had to take
part in even more enjoyable.
This coming weekend, I’m attending a Shabbaton our temple is holding.
Not a few folks off in a private retreat center—but a congregation-wide,
full Shabbat of services, Torah study, and workshops and classes held
on Friday night and Saturday, led by members. Classes on Torah trope,
parenting, gardening, cooking, proper shofar-blowing technique, just
plain schmoozing and more. It’s an attempt to experience Shabbat
as a communal time for the congregation, devised and planned by its members.
It was planned before Rabbi Yoffie’s initiative was announced,
which says something about the way our congregation thinks and acts.
(Saturday mornings are always well-attended—we pride ourselves
in having licked the problem of b’nei mitzvah many years ago. Saturdays
are truly a day when we welcome the young person into the community;
they are not private affairs.)
So I’m writing this sandwiched in between two different, but meaningful
Shabbat experiences. Perhaps it will spur me to take the steps that have
been beckoning me for some time. Or maybe it will just intensify the
struggle. Who knows? It will no doubt give me ideas to continue this
discussion in the coming weeks, and maybe that will be a help—to
me and to others. |