Spirituality on a Saturday Morning

I have a confession to make: I've never really been a big Shabbat-morning shul-goer.

At the synagogue in which I grew up, Shabbat began and ended on Friday night. It took place in a sanctuary filled with lively, joyous music, thought-provoking sermons, the warmth of community, and was followed by delicious Oneg cookies and Israeli dancing. But that's where it ended, unless a friend was celebrating a Bar or Bat Mitzvah the following day.

Consciously I knew Shabbat was Saturday; that Friday night services were merely an introduction to a full day of rest and relaxation. But as it was for so many of my friends, for me Shabbat was a "Friday night thing." Saturday was for soccer games and art classes, visits with friends, going to the movies, trips to 3rd Street Promenade, (thee place to be back in high school) and all sorts of social interactions completely separated from my Jewishness. That is, unless the aforementioned B'nai Mitzvah was taking place.

As the years progressed and the Bar Mitzvah circuit dwindled, Shabbat became entirely isolated to Fridays. There was nothing Jewish about my Saturdays, and I was considered "really religious" by my school friends for attending services (Reform services, mind you) every Friday night.

When I started rabbinical school, my first year took place in Jerusalem. Not only did I live in the capital of frumville, but my apartment and school were located in a particularly religious neighborhood filled with wealthy Anglo immigrants. In Rehavia women dressed modestly, wore wigs, and pushed baby strollers through neighborhood parks with frowns on their faces. The men wore black wool suits with long bears and peos. They had tzitzit dangling from their pants and were constantly rushing off to yeshiva or shul. In my neighborhood, the day was especially set on Jewish time.

At times the stark contrast between my neighbors and my tank-top-wearing, [then] bacon-eating-self were quite striking. I often got frustrated and exhausted by how rigid and detached many of my neighbors could be. But they could also be extremely kind and welcoming, particularly when it came to the Jewish holidays. Thus, I perceived most of my year as an anthropological experiment and an eye-opening experience.

Part of that experience included the Friday afternoon wind-down into Shabbat. Every Friday my friends and I would do our errands, buy our groceries, run to the shuk and the markets and stores, make plans for brunch, and join the hundreds of other citizens of Jerusalem (and Israel) doing the exact same thing. By 3pm the stores would start closing, the traffic would grow lighter, and the smell of roast chicken and potatoes would permeate the air. And, depending on the time of year, sometime in the late afternoon a distant siren would sound, calling the entire country to pay attention: Shabbat had begun.

Saturdays in Jerusalem are silent. They are still. And they are magical. There is something entirely liberating about a city - normally so busy and bursting with life - going completely quiet for one full day. There is something so powerful in that stillness, in that solitude. When the world around you is boarded up and closed, you find that your focus turns inward. With nothing seemingly mundane to distract you, your energy is devoted to that which is more sacred: relationships, rest, and especially prayer.

I started attending services at HUC semi-regularly on Saturday mornings. First it was to support my friends and be with my community, but then it was because I wanted to go. Later on in the year, when getting more sleep became a priority, I would do my own Saturday ritual: wake up late, walk on the tayelet (promenade), pray privately on the veranda overlooking a valley near our apartment, do yoga, nap, mediate, read, prepare simple lunches, spend time with my dear friends, catch up on life, and simply pause.

In Jerusalem, the day of Shabbat became a treasured entity; a sacred endeavor. I did not use that day to become more "religious," or strictly observant, or modify my Jewish practice. But I did use that day to do what the Torah commands: "shamor/zachor et yom ha Shabbat vay'kadshehu." You shall observe/remember the day of Shabbat and make it holy."

I observed, I remembered, and I created holiness in my own special way.

This commandment - uttered twice in our text, (in Exodus and Deuteronomy) once using "zachor" and the other using "shamor," has been integrated into our Friday night liturgy in distinct ways. Pieces of music universally recognized by Reform Jews remind shulgoers to follow these commandments, and those of us who attend services clap and sing along to these verses of scripture in L'cha Dodi, V'sham'ru, and Yis'm'chu.

Yet, the commandment does not command us to remember and observe Friday evening. It's yom ha Shabbat - the day of the Sabbath. As is custom for Jewish time, days begin and end in the evening, hence our Kabbalat Shabbat (welcoming the Sabbath) on a Friday night. But our commandment is the for the day: our Saturday, our Sabbath.

Back in the states, my Shabbat practice dwindled. Life and school and work became so demanding that I craved and needed space from that which dominated my life each and every moment of the week. Plus, I physically needed that Saturday morning sleep. Unless I was down at my student pulpit in El Centro for the weekend, Saturdays quickly became about sleeping and schoolworking.

That is, really, until this past weekend, when I returned to shul on a Saturday morning as a curious congregant.

My school organized a visit to a local synagogue that created an excellent Saturday morning minyan separate from the B'nai Mitzvah. It's strictly for davening, learning, singing, praising, and being with community. Set up in a round, with the cantor and rabbi seated facing each other at a round table, and with natural light flowing in through the skylights and windows, the setting was quite powerful.

Though there were sleepies in my eyes when I arrived and almost no energy in my system when I sat down, I engaged deeper and deeper in T'filah as services went on. Though my voice was hoarse from attending a rock concert the night before, as T'filah went on, I found my strength again. And as the community expanded, people woke up, shook the slumber from their eyelids, and we all started going deeper into that sacred space, together. Throughout the morning I found that I was really engaging with yom ha Shabbat in a way I had not since Jerusalem.

And it felt really, really good.

When I left services and the kiddush luncheon that followed, I felt like I had an entire day to myself; a moment of kedusha (holiness) that was all mine. I took a really satisfying nap and a majorly deep breath. I paused. I relaxed. I detached, in what I deemed to be a completely positive and healthy way. And I bid Shabbat farewell at the end of the day with a newfound energy and sense of calm I had not felt in a long, long time.

So, what next? Well, I would be completely bluffing if I wrote here that I was now going to incorporate Saturday morning prayer into my practice permanently. With my schedule and the demands of my program, I just don't think that's possible at this point in time. But I would be equally bluffing to say this was one isolated incident that won't repeat itself. It reminded me of the power of mitzvah, commandedness. That which brings us closer to God. Who would want to miss out on more opportunities for that?

Instead, my goal is to seek a balance; to return to that unique practice I created for myself in Jerusalem in some fashion. To really pause on Saturdays. To breathe. To reconnect. To carve out that sacred space for myself, not just on Friday nights when the vast majority of my friends and family head off to Kabbalat Shabbat, but on yom ha Shabbat as well.

What a beautiful mitzvah (commandment) to observe and remember this day, and keep it holy. Rest, pause, refrain, reconnect, rejuvnate, refocus.

It is a mitzvah for ourselves, our families, and our mental and physical well-being.

L'shalom, to peace.

Jaclyn