Alef: The NEXT Conversation » Shabbat

The Earth is Not Quiet

Emily.Comisar@birthrightisraelnext.org — Tue, 17 Aug 2010 15:17:38 +0000

By Laura Jo Hess

No place but a sidewalk crack, a bridge across water, the oily death of a crooked coast. Here, you sip tea on a balcony made of wood, spit tears from a hotel roof, jut eyes across a dimmed room. Hammocks are slung between bedposts, blankets pile high on the floor, shadows take the shape of a sailboat. If you try hard, you can recall the angles of the woman in the marketplace and the hue of her orange skin. You can locate love in the zee of two bodies clasped together at a bedside or a coffee shop. All you need to know is this smeared window and the existence of plastic tables and telephone poles. Take your feet and place them down—learn the loose alleyways and etch your face on the tavern wall as you turn to leave.

What life there is, is remembered on the balcony of a soon-to-be vacant room. Shirtless boys with tanned skin bend at the hips and knees; girls in shoes walk like birds to the local bar, kiss gloss to the side of glass and make you remember their scents. I, in canvas shoes, just learned how to breathe. I, an animal, forgot you when the air came through. How must the cracks in the desert hide jewels, a scroll of history, bedposts of old lovers. How must soldiers hold metal in clasped hands and recall, broken, the face of their best friends, their brothers, shema over the arch of a bomb. A man wipes the skin beneath his eyes and his teeth shine as he speaks—I can’t hear the words but his lip movements are inevitable. I can’t see his hands but later they place stones on a grave flat and secure. Later, his chest heaves and his gun sags with the weight of his tears.

But how could this be in a place that just began? Let us recall a boy in shirtsleeves and a tie clip, ten years old, studying letters in black ink, shapes that start with lines and end in squares: moments you mustn’t trust until spoken. Climb aboard, his father says, yelp these words from rooftops havens and hammock beds. Place sounds in wood petrified to stone, in the stratified parallels of doorways, the limestone fibers of a place you claim to love. If you want language, he boasts, learn to love a foreigner. If you want history, memorize these words, tattoo them on the inner side of your wrists; remember them once I’m gone. When addressed in Yiddish, respond in Hebrew. When wide-eyed boys throw stones in your direction, throw back in Hebrew. If you want food, shiny shoes, or a slice of bread, use only Hebrew words.

A hundred and fifty years later, a street moans in language: lamps sway and sound emits from the crown of the head, light from the back of the throat. What you know is limited to distance and boiling points, minutes of mediocrity. Amid a circle, find swans dancing limbs across the radii, blonde arms flailing and torsos aghast, static becoming motion momentarily. Let me explain you the drummers with tanned skin and definition, a shofar in hands callused, lips pursed red. But at a beach in the afternoon, a light splits the air in thirds and a white horse prepares for a ceremony, human legs sturdy on either side of its tough and furless hide. I heave my body upon sand, haul breaths from my open center, pause for heat to gather on my chin, my toes. I suppose it took such a contrast of color to make me weep.

At synagogue, a woman with thick stockings and a wig leads my finger along Hebrew words. She picks the lint from my skirt and covers my calves with fabric. You come to my house, she whispers, you eat Shabbat. If Israel is a moment, then put me in a café with a wooden deck and chairs with straight backs, a cue. Give me a real hand on a real thigh, an instant of smoke billowing from the lungs. If Israel is a day, then sit me on a bench at Jaffa with jagged coastlines and flags folded over in wind. For now, Israel must be larger—sand surrendered in the fiber of a pant leg, a graveyard set at dawn.

Photo by acroll, licensed under Creative Commons.

Laura Jo Hess is a midwesterner living in Brooklyn. She is attending The New School in the fall.

The Evolution of a Shabbat Guest

Sarah — Fri, 13 Aug 2010 18:23:01 +0000

By Yocheved Sidof

I left my family and cozy home in the Midwest at a young age and headed out East to attend Yeshiva boarding school. Gone were the Shabbat meals of steaming rice, choresht, and ush (traditional Persian dishes) and in came plates of gefilte fish, potato kugel, and cholent…. It was a lot to get used to. But more than making gastronomic adjustments, I was forced to perfect the art of being a Shabbat guest: the knack of chit-chat, engaging the ’lil ones at the table and finding clever ways, each week, to answer the question – “So tell me about yourself?”…’Not bad for a fourteen-year-old.

As I moved through my adolescence and went to seminary in Israel, my skills flourished. I wasn’t shy about sitting at a table I’d never been at before, especially not in the Holy Land, where it took little more than a heartfelt “Shalom” to feel like you’d known someone forever. I became an expert at securing invites and finding the “best” places to spend Friday night dinners; “best” being defined as tasty food in abundance, a “cool crowd,” and of course, the makings of a good story to tell my friends at school.

Back in New York, living the single life, the definition of the “best” place to spend a Shabbat meal became even more nuanced. More than the right food and the right crowd, it became a space to share thoughts and ideas, create community, and bond. Shabbat wasn’t complete unless I was with others, at a Shabbat table, experiencing something enchanting together.

I got married in my mid-twenties. I was no longer a nomad, seeking out meaningful Shabbat experiences; I was finally able to have my own Shabbat table, to create my own ambiance. I remember the first Shabbat meal I had guests for; I was giddy with pride. I cooked some Persian food (kuku sabzi) along with the Ashkenazic staples I’d grown accustomed to (always with my own little cumin-turmeric-cilantro spin on them), and invited a bunch of our closest friends.

If I had grown to love being a guest at Shabbat meals, I was head-over-heals in love with the experience of being a host. It was electrifying… The planning, the shopping, the cooking, the last minute calls asking if someone could bring along another guest, or two, or three… I felt honored.

Fast-forward a couple years of steady meals and steady guests. A good friend of ours (and Shabbat regular), Saadya, asked if we could host a meal for a large group of his friends – Jews he met from all walks of life, from all over the world, who now lived in New York. Of course, we obliged.

That Shabbat meal was incredible. About twenty-five beautiful people crammed into our living room space (the most guests we’d ever had!), eating, drinking L’chaims, singing songs, deep in discussion…there were no pretenses, no inhibitions; enjoying Shabbat together with fellow Jews created a camaraderie that was truly uplifting and inspirational.

We knew we had to do it again, and so, the “Big Shabbos” was born. And now, every couple of months, we host another big Shabbat meal. Each meal takes a couple of weeks to plan. We send email invites, create an RSVP list, shop, cook, schlep tables and chairs. It’s a frenzy of activity that crescendos when the first guest walks in the door, and doesn’t die down till hours later. Artists, writers, lawyers, students; Americans, Israelis, Brits, Turks; mothers, daughters, sisters, girlfriends; the whole spectrum of Torah observance…Thank G-d, our Shabbat community has grown, and friends always bring friends.

At times we’re anxious that we’ll be filled beyond capacity. “Maybe we invited too many people?” “What if there’s no room?” “What if there isn’t enough food?”

Call it serendipity if you’d like (I’d call it a message from the Big Guy, loud and clear), but on those weeks when we were nervous that we were overbooked, we’d always “lose” a guest or two (which, despite our anxiety, was always a bummer). My husband and I vowed that we’d put our worries aside; there would always be enough, we could always make more room…Our apprehensions were never worth an empty chair at our Shabbat table. And so, we stopped worrying. (And truly, there always is room for one more…)

As I’m developing identity as Shabbat hostess, I can’t help but remember places I’ve stopped along the way, hosts who influenced me and my home in profound ways: The Mendelsons in the Old City, for example. An elderly couple in their eighties who only spoke Yiddish and Hebrew, yet whose tables were always filled with English-speaking college students. He poured cups and cups of wine for his guests as he spoke animately about G-d, the parsha, and his childhood in Chevron, all in Yiddish – and yet, we understood him. There was no language barrier (and it wasn’t because of the alcohol). And his wife, whose food was always beautifully presented, down to the potato-salad-shaped-like-a-fish with a little olive for it’s eye. Every detail mattered.

And there were the families back in Crown Heights who always welcomed me to their table, even at the last minute, and made me feel like I was a part of their family, like I really made their Shabbat table complete… Of course, something tells me, all their guests felt the same way.

I think back to myself, that fourteen-year-old girl with glasses and a retainer sitting at a table full of strangers, desperate to feel at home. And then I look around my own table these days, full of people who may have been strangers only moments before but who, in the magic of Shabbat, now feel like family. And finally, finally (!), I feel I’m home. So here’s to the guest I once was, the guests I’ve been honored to host, and ones I’ve yet to meet…you’re really something.

If you live in the NY area and would like to come over for a Friday night meal, please contact Yocheved at yochevedsidof@gmail.com.

Cartoons for Shabbat

Rafi — Wed, 11 Aug 2010 16:17:30 +0000

By Dan Abrams

Ask any ten-year old, and they’ll tell you – weekday cartoons are fine, but if you want the good stuff, you’ve gotta get up on Saturday morning, and start flippin’ channels. And so, growing up, I found myself in the same fight with my parents every Saturday:

Them: Get dressed. We’re going to Synagogue.

Me: First Ninja Turtles, then Muppet Babies, Then Captain N: The Game Master, then Synagogue.

Them: You have ten seconds, or we’re throwing the TV away. Here are your pants.

Me: ….

Next thing you know I’m in pants and on my way to Synagogue. And, believe me, I’m not happy about it.

I don’t tell this story to demonstrate how much of a brat I was (And when it came to the Ninja Turtles, believe me, I was) but rather to explain how important Saturday morning cartoons were for me when I was younger. For a ten-year-old, it’s a no brainer – why would I go to Synagogue, when I could stay home with cartoons instead? My parents, on the other hand, didn’t see things quite the same way. And so, for years, I sat in my Synagogue’s youth services, bitter at missing the animated adventures most of my friends were enjoying from the comfort of their sofas.

To this day, Saturday-morning cartoons hold a special place in my heart. Maybe it’s a symptom of arrested development, but the idea of watching hours of cartoons on end, with no one telling me otherwise, is still a pretty powerful reason to get out of bed on a Saturday morning. Synagogue, not so much. So, when I saw these Shabbat cartoon dolls in my NEXT Shabbat Shabbox, I was pleasantly surprised; now my inner-child could be the one dictating who wears what pants for Shabbat. And, sure, they’re not the Ninja Turtles, but a cartoon is a cartoon, and as such, is inherently better than a not-cartoon.

Who woulda thought? 16 years later, after countless Saturday morning arguments, I’d get cartoons on Shabbat after all.

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Download your own Cartoon Shabbat Dolls here
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Read more from Issue 17: People of the (comic)Book.

Tales of a Rabbi’s Kid

Sarah — Mon, 09 Aug 2010 20:56:52 +0000

By Aleza Alpert

I’m an RK. That’s right. My dad is a rabbi which makes me a “Rabbi’s Kid,” or an RK as we like to call ourselves. I didn’t always like having this as part of my identity (but I’ve since changed my mind). The response I’ve always received when people learn this about me is fascinating. When it first comes up, people look at you a little differently.

“So, are you really religious?”

“Do you know the Torah by heart?”

“I didn’t realize rabbis could have kids…” (that was always my favorite).

There is some sort of awe-inspiring respect that most people have for rabbis that I just don’t get. It’s just like your dad being a lawyer, or a doctor, or a plumber. All dads have jobs, but when they come home, they’re just dad.

My dad is an awesome rabbi. He’s been at the same small congregation in Muskegon, MI for 34 years. He’ll deny that he’s anything special, but ask anyone in the Muskegon community, Jewish or not, and not only do they know him, but their eyes light up and have something kind and wonderful to say about him. Yup, that’s my dad.

Sounds wonderful now, but if only people knew what it was really like growing up as the rabbi’s kid in a small congregation of about 50 families. Shabbat, which I now consider a relaxing, joyous, and prized weekly occurrence, was dreaded.

From the outside, it probably looked like a nice family dinner followed by services, the Alpert family sitting in the front row while my dad stood before the congregation. On the inside, it was a stressful, scarfed-down meal followed by a frantic rush to get to the synagogue to set up (no custodian or office staff—Rabbi Dad had to be the first there to unlock the doors).

Once there, we would usually draw a crowd of 8-12 and my siblings and I were the only youngins’ under the age of 30. We’d have to sit through a service we never understood, the same one every week, and then socialize with the grown-ups after. All this on Friday nights, while our peers were off at the movies, at football games or hanging out with friends.

We would do what we could to get out of it (sorry Mom and Dad, we really weren’t sick that many Friday nights), but our guilty consciences always brought us back week after week.

What eight-year-old Aleza didn’t understand then was that those Friday nights made us a community, and that is what Shabbat is all about. It wasn’t until I left home that I really began to appreciate Shabbat. I began to see it as a break from the rest of the week. It’s what I like to consider my weekly spiritual deep breath; it doesn’t matter how I celebrate, as long as I take time to relax.

While I felt tortured when I was younger, I now see the strength and love that comes from my Jewish family in Muskegon. We may be small, but we are mighty. These people have watched me grow, and I feel like they consider me one of their own daughters.

While-eight-year old Aleza wanted to be a “normal” kid, I wouldn’t trade anything for the sense of community I have from my hometown. Now, I am proud to be a rabbi’s kid and there is no other place I’d want to be for any Jewish holiday than Muskegon, MI sitting in the front row watching my dad lead a congregation of people who love him and his family.

Evolution of Shabbat

Sarah — Fri, 06 Aug 2010 18:14:06 +0000

By Emily Kapit

Recently, my husband and I attended the wedding of my first cousin, who grew up in an Orthodox household that was part of an Orthodox community, complete with an Orthodox shul and Jewish day school. Our extended family’s knowledge of all things Jewish made my knowledge base seem rather paltry and I feared that truth would shine through on this trip. While driving up to the wedding the Friday afternoon prior, I pulled out the weekend schedule my uncle had sent around and read it aloud to Jon:

“Well, there’s a minchah at seven o’clock tomorrow evening…and then a seudah shlishit, which apparently means ‘third meal’ followed by Havdalah and a Maariv…?”

“I’ve got Havdalah but what were all of those other things you mentioned?” He replied while navigating the car through the backstreets of a small New England town.

“Not sure but they’re establishing an eruv. What’s that?”

“Beats me. Look it up.”

Thank G-d for smart phones—I “Wikipediaed” everything and we continued up to Rhode Island, confident that, given our Reform/Conservative upbringings, neither of us would appear completely in the dark while speaking with Jews far more knowledgeable of the traditional customs and traditions that go along with an Orthodox Shabbat and wedding weekend.

A few hours later, right before Shabbat dinner, my uncle spoke to the my family and friends and mentioned that he had spent six hours establishing an eruv around the property so that the more religious guests in attendance would be okay to carry flashlights. From across the aisle, Jon and I winked at each other since, just that afternoon, we had learned via Wikipedia what, exactly, an eruv actually was.

The next morning, as Jon and I walked to the gym (a.k.a., our typical place of worship on a given Saturday morning), we spoke about the weekend up to that point. Eventually, we touched upon the eruv.

“So your uncle spent six hours setting that up?” Jon asked.

“Yeah—it kind of seems like a lot of work to avoid breaking rules about ‘doing work’ on Shabbat, you know?” I replied.

“And people had to turn off their flashlights if they stepped outside of it?”

I nodded, though I still wasn’t exactly sure about the rules on the subject.

Jon, who has somehow picked up my knack for making puns whenever possible, stopped walking; when I turned to see what was wrong, I noticed the telltale sly grin.

“Yes?”

“I bet they’d really have to…eruv on the side of caution in the dark then, eh?”

I’m fairly sure people in a neighboring New England town heard me groan; that said, his well-played pun added to the conversation I’d already been having in my head for the last several months: How does Shabbat relate to me now? Growing up, I’d always respected the more Conservative and Orthodox people in my life, admiring both their knowledge and execution of the traditions, Shabbat and otherwise. However, I didn’t completely understand the rules and felt that whenever I asked “Why?” I could never elicit a logical response. As a result, I always ended up questioning the rationale and then continuing with my own hectic lifestyle.

Regarding Shabbat itself, I know that this is the intended day of rest for Jews but, to me, following a litany of rules seems like even more work than normal. Attending regular services? Setting a timer on the lights/stove/other common household items? Pre-setting the DVR? Upon hearing that one several years ago, my cynical side just sighed and wondered where, if at all, the Torah or Talmudic writings indicate that pre-setting modern technology was truly necessary for observing Shabbat.

Though I am sure there is a rationale (or three) for every Shabbat tradition, I have to wonder if the original justification for Shabbat really is far more simple than a few thousand years of rabbinic arguments would suggest: perhaps Friday night at sundown to Saturday night at sundown is simply meant to be a break from work and a time of relaxation, time best spent with loved ones. The execution of this idea would be like fingerprints, then: unique to everybody.

More recently, the conversation in my mind has shifted from questioning what constitutes “work” on Shabbat to, instead, focusing on the “break from work” component. In truth, I believe this transition has less to do with maturity and more to do with becoming a workaholic of the worst kind: insomuch as I love what I do, I’m always working. When friends started pointing out this fact, I realized that actually taking a break would revive me. I’ve also found that I really enjoy both hosting and attending Shabbat dinners with friends. To that end, I’ve been making a point to spend Friday night and Saturday with friends, catching up on my DVR-ed shows, ignoring my to-do lists, and simply relaxing my mind. How successful I am with truly breaking from work changes by the week, though I am now toying with the idea of being smart and putting down the smart phone for a full twenty-five hours. We’ll see how long that lasts!

Later this month, Jon and I are attending the first-ever Couples Shabbat hosted by Birthright Israel NEXT Atlanta. My guess is that the notion of how Shabbat applies to me may evolve as a result of that experience and that perhaps my connection to Shabbat—and all things Jewish—will continue to evolve, adapt, and transition as I do the same. The one constant I can hope for is that however I keep Shabbat and other Jewish traditions, they will continue to bring me a sense of spirited connection to both my religion and culture…and not require me to miss out on quality time with my DVR.

Read more posts from Issue 18: Friday Night Lights.

Photo by Carly & Art, licensed under Creative Commons.

Oh Yes, Oh Yes, Oh YES!

Sarah — Thu, 05 Aug 2010 15:42:36 +0000

by Lisa Keys

Years ago, I was talking with an acquaintance who was planning a weekend conference for a Jewish youth organization. “Do you observe Shabbat?” I asked him. He looked at me, silent for a moment. “We say ‘yes’ to all the ‘yeses,’” he replied.

I smiled at the response, and a decade later I still do. What he meant is he doesn’t view Shabbat as a series of restrictions. Instead of Shabbat being a period filled with things he shouldn’t do—go shopping, for example, or have lunch at his favorite Thai restaurant—he chose to look at all the things he could do, precisely because it was Shabbat. When it came to planning the conference, instead of enforcing a we-don’t-use-the-telephone-on-Shabbat rule, it became: yes, we enjoy each other’s company, face-to-face, in real time.

That tiny shift in perspective makes a world of difference. There’s something incredible that happens when you flip a “no” into a “yes.” (Not in some cheesy, Jim Carrey movie kind of way, where a simple-minded man just can’t say no to anything and all-out hilarity ensues.) The idea isn’t exactly new, even if recently written tomes on the power of positive thinking could easily fill the library at a large state school. The theory goes something like this: “yes!” opens us to the possibilities in the world. By saying “yes” to opportunities and challenges that come our way, we open ourselves to new experiences, new friendships, and even, some say, the capacity to get rich. Plus, as a survivor of any tragedy can attest, a simple “yes” can propel us through life’s darkest hours.

But you don’t have to take some Oprah-approved guru’s word for it. That three-letter word is so powerful that legend claims it launched one of the greatest romances of modern times—the love affair between John Lennon and Yoko Ono. The two first met at a gallery in London where Yoko, an established artist known for her positivity and interactivity, was showing her work. One of the pieces invited attendees to climb a ladder, which John did. He then saw on the ceiling a small placard with a tiny, single-word inscription on it: “yes!”

That, John later said, is what piqued his interest. Had it been “no,” “maybe,” or something random like “pastrami,” he wouldn’t have given it—or Yoko—another thought. But that little “yes” is what eventually brought the world bedins, “Give Peace a Chance,” and Sean Lennon. (Fine—insert a knock about Yoko breaking up the Beatles, if you must, but I don’t believe it.)

Of course, our lives are filled with “nos”—saying “no” is quicker, easier, and the simplest answer when we’re faced with doubts. Shabbat, too, suffers from its outward appearance as being a day of “no.” It’s often described by its restrictions: we can’t drive, we can’t spend money, we can’t email. In our busy world, where we’re plugged in everywhere we go, are expected to be reachable at all hours, and have too much to do and not enough hours in the day, all those restrictions spur many of us to reject the idea of Shabbat altogether—who has time for it?

Instead of focusing on the “nos,” I challenge you to look at Shabbat as a day of “yes.” Don’t think of the things you can’t or shouldn’t do—think of the things you can and want to do. After all, it’s a day that stands apart from the rest—so go ahead and treat Shabbat as something special, and take a break from your everyday routine. For example: Instead of texting your neighbor that you should “get together sometime,” actually drop by.

Instead of zoning out to the latest “Road Rules/Real World Challenge” marathon on MTV, say “yes” to the pile of New Yorker magazines lying next to your bed that you’ve been meaning—really!—to read. Instead of hitting the hippest spot in town for brunch (and waiting in line 40 minutes, and overpaying for bloody marys, and screaming over the too-loud-for-morning music), have some friends over and actually enjoy each other’s company.

As for me, instead of running errands, mopping my floors, and the half-million other things I should be doing in my “free time,” this Shabbat I will lie down and take a nap. Oh, yes.

What will you say “yes” to this Shabbat?

Photo by Sir George Martinn licenced under Creative Commons.

This piece originally appeared in the Shabbox, as part of the NEXT Shabbat program.

Keeping Shabbat

Sarah — Tue, 03 Aug 2010 20:45:18 +0000

By Ari Averbach

I grew up celebrating Shabbat. Every Friday, my grandparents would come over in the afternoon so we could spend some time together before sundown. Together we would watch Jeopardy before my dad came home from work. I remember my grandparents loved to yell at the contestants; my grandmother was almost certain they could all hear her.

Sometimes we would have other special guests around our massive dining room table. The whole family took part in making the meal meaningful: My mom would make the best challah and prepare amazing food, my siblings and I would make seating cards and put on our nice clothes, and my dad would bring home flowers. Together, we would say the blessings and enjoy an evening of food, family, and friends.

One day my mom asked me, “Are you going to continue these traditions?”

I replied, “Of course! When I have children, I will make sure that…”

My mom cut me off. She told me that I didn’t need to wait until I had children, that I could start celebrating on my own in college and continue in my adult life as well. Until then, I never thought of Shabbat as something you do without your family.

On my own, I would try to welcome Shabbat in a special way. Only recently have I been doing it more regularly and consistently. Last Friday night, my girlfriend and I did not have a Shabbat dinner to attend, yet we spruced up what would otherwise have been a quiet meal together.

She lit and said the blessing over beautiful candles her mother brought her from Tzfat. We poured some wine, made the bracha, and drank. Coincidentally, her aunt helped her make her first challah that morning, so we had two delicious and beautifully braided breads. The evening was perfect, and for the first time, I really felt like I was fulfilling the hope of my parents to carry on such a special family tradition.

Regardless of my devotion to Judaism, the idea of sanctifying a Friday night always seems right to me. We constantly live plugged in. We are always reachable, doing business and relentlessly making plans. While we are with one person, we are texting another to see what is next. Now, more than ever, I find Shabbat to be so meaningful. For six days we are dealing with the outside world, being pulled in every direction. On the seventh day, we retreat, realign and reassess.

With our small Shabbat last week, it made me hopeful that I could continue this tradition with people I love, just as my mom lit candles with us every week, and her mother before her and generations of my family past.

I love that Shabbat has never been an obligation, but a special privilege that was handed to me that I also hope to pass to my children. And I’m thankful that now my TiVo records Jeopardy on Friday nights so that I can catch up on Sunday, shouting the answers at the screen.

Unplugging

Sarah — Mon, 02 Aug 2010 20:15:39 +0000

By Tanya Schevitz

Observing Shabbat was not something Sabbath Manifesto creator Dan Rollman grew up with and he wasn’t really interested in doing it in his adult life — until a few years ago when he was invited to attend a weekend retreat with a group of creatives. As the sun set for Shabbat, he began to think of how dependent – or addicted he was to technology, and that this connectedness never allowed him a moment of pause.

He had recently launched the Universal Record Database, an open platform for world records, built on a belief that everyone on earth can be the world’s best at something. The Internet and technology had started to consume his every waking moment.

“As my life became increasingly hectic and plugged in, I became more and more attracted the idea of a weekly day of rest,” said Rollman, who lives in Brooklyn. “There’s clearly a social problem when we’re interacting more with digital interfaces than our fellow human beings. Rich, engaging conversations are harder to come by than they were a few years ago. As we voyage deeper into the digital world, our attention spans are silently evaporating. I recognized that I needed a break and I wanted a modern way to observe a weekly day of rest. From that desire to reclaim the Sabbath came the idea of the Sabbath Manifesto.”

At the heart of the Sabbath Manifesto, created with the non-profit organization Reboot, are 10 core principles that can be interpreted broadly to allow anyone to carve a weekly timeout into their lives. The principles were developed in the same spirit of the Slow Movement, (Slow food, Slow living) with the idea of taking time off (deadlines and paperwork be damned!) to observe each of the ten principles one day per week, from sunset to sunset.

The Ten Principles: Avoid Technology, Connect With Loved Ones, Nurture Your Health, Get Outside, Avoid Commerce, Light Candles, Drink Wine, Eat Bread, Find Silence, Give Back.

“The concept obviously evolves from Jewish Sabbath traditions, but we wanted to create something that was framed in a more modern context (i.e.”Avoid technology), and was accessible for people outside Judaism (We welcome people of all religions to observe the Manifesto on any day of the week they want),” Rollman said.

We launched the Sabbath Manifesto in 2010 with the first annual National Day of Unplugging. For the launch, we asked people to take on the challenge of Principle Number 1: AVOID TECHNOLOGY to recharge their spiritual and personal lives by not using computers, cell phones, or any technology for 24 hours. This idea resonated with people across the globe and attracted press coverage from a variety of sources, including the New York Times, CNN, USA Today and Katie Couric.

“Though technology obviously provides wondrous opportunities for society, I think there’s a growing feeling that too much of it in one’s life can have negative consequences. The Manifesto provides people with a weekly time out to step back from the modern speed of society and reconnect with elements of life they may have been neglecting,” Rollman said. “I use it as a tool to help me cherish the Jewish Sabbath and embrace it as my favorite day of the week.”

In the wake of the National Day of Unplugging, we created the Sabbath Manifesto “Unplug Challenge,” where we ask public figures to unplug from cell phones and PDAs, power down computers and tune in to the world for 24 hours. After the experiment is over, we report about it in the Huffington Post. We encourage you to take the Unplug Challenge and then tell us about the experience. We will choose a testimonial from a Birthright Israel NEXT participant to highlight in our Huffington Post Unplug Challenge column.

Happy Unplugging!

Tanya Schevitz is Reboot’s national communications coordinator. She can be reached at Tanya@rebooters.net.

Friday Night In Israel

Sarah — Fri, 30 Jul 2010 13:52:01 +0000

By Lauren Gelnick

I grew up observing Shabbat, which meant that I always had Friday night dinner with my family and friends. Whether we celebrated at my house or theirs, it was always with people close to me. However, for my first Friday night kabbalat shabbat in Israel with my Birthright Israel group, I celebrated very differently. I was in Jerusalem. I went to the Kotel and danced. I sang the words of the Kabbalat Shabbat with women from all over the world and from many religious backgrounds. I didn’t know these people, but somehow a special sentiment sparked, a feeling I had never experienced, even after all those Shabbatot (plural for Shabbat) with family and friends.

Since that Shabbat in June 2003, I have observed many more Shabbatot, both in Israel and outside of Israel. The contrast between the two places strikes me, and sometimes its nothing more than a small detail, like the names of the days of the week. In Hebrew, the days of the week are yom rishon, yom shenei, yom shlishi…– the first day, the second day, the third day… Yom shishi, what we call Friday in English, is also called Erev Shabbat. However, Shabbat, which is technically the seventh day of the week, is never called “the seventh day.” Outside of Israel the days are plainly stated as Friday and Saturday, and they are like any other day without a special name or designation.

Fridays in Israel change the atmosphere for the entire country. There are signs showing what time Shabbat begins. When I go shopping, the people in stores wish me “Shabbat Shalom” as I leave. Outside of Israel, it takes real effort and strength of spirit to make and create this atmosphere.

One of the beautiful things about Friday night in Israel is that there are many people celebrating Shabbat in so many different ways—from the woman who is dressed in white, walking to and from the synagogue looking regal, to the family who gathers at a relative’s house to have Shabbat dinner and then watch a movie, to the students who are in Israel studying for a year. Regardless of who you are, everyone is observing Shabbat together and radiating that special feeling. Elsewhere in the world, Shabbat isn’t shared with such an array of people. There isn’t a central place, like the Kotel, where everyone gathers in order to welcome Shabbat.

It’s hard to express in words what Shabbat feels like in Israel because it’s an all-encompassing feeling that can’t necessarily be verbalized, as well as a suspended and sanctified point in time. Everywhere else, a bubble of Shabbat must be created by the few who celebrate it, and it rarely seems to compare with the overwhelming sense of appreciating a moment so sacred.

The last component of Friday night–which is the official beginning of Shabbat– is the t’zfeerah—the siren that is heard to let everyone know that Shabbat is starting. It’s a single note, echoing and saying, “Friday night is beginning.”

Lauren Gelnick is an olah chadasha from NYC. She went on Taglit-Birthright Israel in 2003, and made Aliyah with Nefesh B’Nefesh in December 2009. She lives in Jerusalem where she practices as an occupational therapist. She volunteers with Magen David Adom and is an instructor in the MDA Overseas Program.

The Best Year

Sarah — Wed, 28 Jul 2010 21:11:37 +0000

By Emily Comisar

It wasn’t too long ago that I found myself telling someone: “My best Jewish year was 2006.” In 1999 I joined a synagogue, in 2003 I learned how to bake challah, in 2004 I attended Kabbalat Shabbat services every Friday night, and in 2009 I was hired to work at a Jewish organization. Yet 2006, the year that I stopped going to Hillel every Friday night and made the evening my own, remains my best Jewish year.

I don’t even remember what prompted the decision – maybe it was my return from a conference at Camp Ramah Darom in Georgia, or maybe it was just that my New York Times Jewish Cookbook had caught my friend Ian’s eye – but somehow the idea of hosting our own Shabbat dinner wormed its way into the backs of our heads and wouldn’t go away until we did something about it.

Our first Shabbat dinner was intended to be a one-time event. Ian played the role of welcoming host because his kitchen was better than mine. He prepared the dining room and did most of the cooking — I can’t take credit for much more than drinking wine, telling jokes, and maybe chopping a few vegetables. Little did he know that his home was about to become a Friday night revolving door as we quickly realized that the food and the adoptive family were too good to not replicate.

That was how the tradition began. The company constantly changed; significant others came and went, friends popped in and out. Some days we served a table of ten; one time the two of us dipped our bite-size chunks of challah into a giant bowl of guacamole and called it a meal. The only constant was that one thing to which you can never put a name. It was the thing that made you forget all your stress from the week behind and the hectic schedule of the coming weekend. It was that feeling that you were exactly where you were supposed to be. I cannot count how many Shabbat dinners we cooked that year – there were so many.

Upon my college graduation some months later, I relocated to Florence, Italy – a foreign town where I had no Jewish friends and couldn’t buy a challah in the supermercato. The dinners stopped and Friday night became just like any other night of the week. There was studying and celebrating, drinking and eating, sure. I chalked up my lack of that nameless something special to my immersion in a brand new culture. It wasn’t until I returned to the United States that I felt the big, gaping whole in my week.

Now I find myself in a city full to the brim with Jewish people where you can find challah in every supermarket. You can find Hebrew classes, JCCs, synagogues, temples, kosher restaurants, and Jewish colleges. I’ve tried a few of these things on for size, but they all fit a little long in the arm and short in the leg. All that I’m craving now is a home-cooked meal with a few of my friends. I think what I really need, again, is to reclaim my Shabbat.

Photo by roland, licensed under Creative Commons.