I don’t blog on Shabbas (the Sabbath)

Worth watching: The Big Lebowski

Recently, I’ve been watching a lot of movies online, which I haven’t seen for many years. It amazes me how little I remember of them; in many cases, it’s as though I’m watching these flicks for the first time all over again. Among them has been a popular cult classic, which I watched years ago (in 1998) when it was first released: ‘The Big Lebowski’.

This movie is full of hilarious moments and running gags.

One of these is that of supporting character Walter’s (John Goodman) commitment to his Jewish conversion, which he underwent back when he married his ex-wife. This character is a right-wing veteran of the Vietnam War with an explosive temper and propensity towards violence (he probably suffers from PTSD); and he is also, unexpectedly, as he puts it: shomer fucking Shabbas!

From a Jewish perspective (mine), one of the elements that makes this so hilarious is just how accurate Walter’s description of traditional Shabbas observance (I pronounce it ‘Shabbat’, btw, as it is pronounced in modern Israeli Hebrew) really is. Have a quick listen to this Jewish Supercut of the Big Lebowski below. For those of you who haven’t seen this movie, the word ‘roll’ in this context refers to bowling, which is the main character’s recreational activity of choice.


Partial transcription:

Walter: I DON’T ROLL ON SHABBAS!

Donny: How come you don’t roll on Saturday, Walter?
Walter: I’m shomer Shabbas.
Donny: What’s that, Walter?
Walter: Saturday Donny, is Shabbas. The Jewish day of rest. That means I don’t work, I um, don’t drive a car, I don’t fucking ride in a car, I don’t handle money, I don’t turn on the oven, and I sure as shit DON’T FUCKING ROLL!
Donny: Sheesh
Walter: SHOMER SHABBAS!

Walter: Shomer fucking Shabbas!

Donny: Hey Walter, if you can’t ride in a car, how do you get around on Shabbas


Shomer fucking Shabbas!

Yes, really: We don’t flip light switches

Living in Jerusalem, as I do, it’s entirely normative to observe Shabbat. The weekend in Israel falls on Friday and Saturday (Shabbat begins at sunset on Friday), and most who do not observe Shabbat have at least a general concept of what it is.

In principle, I would describe Shabbat as a day during which those who observe it refrain from engaging in physically creative activities (although procreation is encouraged). We aim to avoid causing physical changes to the world and focus ourselves, instead, upon spirituality, family, and the intangible.

The specifics of the restrictions that apply to the traditional Jewish observance of Shabbat were developed by our sages throughout the course of many centuries, and they are based primarily upon those physical acts that were necessary for the construction of the portable Tabernacle, which God instructed the Israelites to build after they had left Egypt.

Without getting into much detail, the Sages determined that there were a total of 39 categories of physical labor that cover the many restrictions of the Sabbath. One of these 39 categories is: the lighting of a fire, and another one is: the extinguishing of a fire.

Now, modern technology, and electricity in particular, was a game changer for the rabbis. When electricity entered people’s homes, the rabbis had to decide whether or not to permit its use on Shabbat, and ultimately the accepted mainstream ruling in the Orthodox Jewish community became that a spark of electricity is like a spark of fire, meaning, for example, that it is forbidden to flip light switches on and off on Shabbat.

Of course, from a scientific perspective, this is nonsense. Electricity is not fire.

A popular idea is that creating an electric spark is like lighting a fire, which is halakhically prohibited on Shabbat. Nobel Prize-winning physicist Richard Feynman recounts that he was approached by young rabbis who asked him, “Is electricity fire?” The renowned physicist responded that electricity is not a chemical process, as fire is.

-Me, The Skeptic’s Kaddish # 12, Oct. 25, 2018

Regardless, this religious ruling took root and remains the norm today among the vast majority of Sabbath observant Jews. I do not flip light switches on Shabbat; I do not use my phone; I do not use my computer; etc.


I don’t blog on Shabbas

The lived experience

Growing up as a secular Jew, I knew nothing of these Shabbat-related norms, which is why it strikes me that some of you may find this intriguing. Actually, I first began thinking about writing this blog post after creating a Twitter account for myself in order to publish daily micropoems in 2021. After all, January 2nd was a Saturday:

To be honest, I am not interested in getting into the nitty gritty of Jewish religious law. Rather, I simply want to provide a sense of what our lived Shabbat is like. We have many religious restrictions, but the one which I think would be the most obvious to an outside observer is the limitation on using electricity.

From a technical perspective, it is very simple: instead of flipping light switches on Shabbat, we set timers for all of the electric devices and appliances that we need. Lamps and fans are set to timers, for example, as is our electric hot plate (‘platta’ in Hebrew) for heating up food for Sabbath meals. The food itself must be prepared before Shabbat but can be warmed up on the Day of Rest. Essentially, we cannot cause physical changes on Shabbat, but if we set timers before Shabbat, that’s kosher because the cause of the physical change occurred before Shabbat. Simple, right?

But providing you with this technical illustration is not my reason for writing this blog post. What I really want to do is describe, briefly, the impact of this lifestyle upon our family life.

The impact

Like many of you, my wife and I spend most of our days behind computer screens; also, our six-year-old loves watching Disney movies and other videos, having screen time with her extended family in Russia and the USA, writing prose and poetry on a computer, and playing the video games installed on her children’s camera (clever marketing idea, right?).

It’s not that we don’t do other things; it’s just that our telephones and computers occupy a tremendous amount of space in our lives. And – they serve to separate us from one another because we often end up interacting with our electronic devices instead of interacting with one another.

On Shabbat, on the other hand, we spend all day together (especially this last year of global pandemic when we haven’t gone to synagogue and haven’t been invited to friends’ Sabbath meals), and the quality family time is priceless, especially from a parenting perspective. We play card and board games, read books, horse around in the bedroom, etc., and I am certain that this unplugging is very healthy for us all. Of course, we do all get to missing our shows and news websites during those 25 hours every week, but I cannot think of many other facets of traditional Jewish life that have come to be so relevant in this modern era.

The sages who ruled against using electricity could not have foreseen this 21st century reality, and I still disagree with the logic they employed in issuing their religious rulings against it. However, truth be told, I don’t really care about that at all. Shabbat, as I have come to know it and live it, is one of the best parts of traditional Jewish life for me.

Blogging can wait for a day.

Six-year-old burgeoning poet

A couple of days ago, you provided me with an outpouring of wonderful advice, as to how I might nurture and develop my six-year-old daughter’s poetry talents. Truly, the many suggestions for approaches, games, techniques… were simply amazing. Thank you so very much.

By coincidence, the very following day my six-year-old told me that she wanted to write a free verse poem with me (“a poem that doesn’t rhyme,” she said). I explained to her that poetry doesn’t have to follow the rules of grammar and that lines can break wherever the poet so choses. Also, I emphasized that poetry is intended to express feelings ~ that the most important thing is to feel the words.

Shortly after completing our first collaborative free verse poem (which she deliberately wrote in a silly way), she asked me if she could try to construct a poem with me online on MagneticPoetry, as she had seen me do several times myself. To be honest, I was somewhat hesitant about this because I thought that the aspect of playing with the magnets would distract her from attempting to construct a poem, but many of you (and my mother) had suggested than I just let her play and learn by doing… so I agreed.

Below are our latest pieces, both free verse:


Two poems, a collaboration

by David (41) and Liorah (6)

1.

The car found a cat
The bar found
a bat
The bat was hanging
The cat was
banging
The bat said “can you stop that?”
The cat said
as he walked
on the bar to the car, “I
don’t want to!”
“Why?
Are you not going to stop that?”
Atop the car, beside
the bar, the cat
stared at the bat
from afar
He said to the bat, “I do not want to
because I like it.”
He banged on the bar; it
made the bat cry.
“I am so 
sorry!”
For the cat was now
worried about 
what he did.
The 
bat 
said, 
“Why 
did 
you 
do
that?”
The cat sat
then lay flat
on a mat
near the bat;
put on his hat
and said to the bat,
“Sometimes
it’s hard to control
myself, you see.”
The bat
said, “Yes
I do see.”

NOTES:

I was not the one who began this poem ~ she deliberately wrote something silly about a car finding a cat because she liked the concept and because the two words sound similar. Following her lead, I wrote: “The bar found a bat.” After all, fair is fair – am I right? 😉

Liorah and I took turns with this piece, and upon writing the ending, she asked me, “Do you like my ending?” I smiled. “Very much,” I said and hugged her.

2.

Liorah’s first Magnetic Poem (Feb. 16, 2021)
bluest sky the girl sees
spring goddess in diamond red
gown let storm beauty soar
sweeter and music mist spray
on those forest lake winds

NOTES:

I had to teach her about the magnets with word endings like ‘est’, ‘s’, and ‘er’, as well as how to manipulate the mouse to drag the virtual magnets to the left side of the screen.

Also, when it was my turn to add some words to the poem, she became a bit impatient as I scrolled through all of the available words looking for some that spoke to me. I had to explain to her that this is how I personally write Magnetic Poetry, but she remained rather irked with me. I guess I’m just an old fuddy duddy.

Lazy Friday morning, or: Before Shabbat

                         I sit and write about the
                         Playmobil toys scattered
on the floor; stuffed animals, pillows
on the sofa; markers, colored pencils
on the table; Disney princess dolls and
                         plastic ponies everywhere; 
                         a 3D Disney castle puzzle 
in front of me, fully constructed; fish
in little aquarium, swimming around
in all directions; bookshelf, full of
                         books, toys, tchotchkes;
                         colored balloons left over
from our daughter's sixth birthday; gifts
from parents, grandparents; traffic sounds
from the left; the street not quite visible
                         through the large rectangular
                         flower grilled window;
we sit quietly at our oval wooden table;
we just woke up Friday morning; already
we are, each of us, busy with projects;
                         paint by numbers, color
                         within the lines, compose

The above poem is my take on d’Verse’s ‘Setting’ prompt.

The writing challenge: Bring us to a time and place in your poem. Give us the smells, sights and sounds of your setting. Note that settings can be real or fictional, or a combination of both real and fictional elements.


N.B. On Shabbat, which begins at sunset on Friday and ends upon sunset on Saturday, Jews traditionally do not write, paint, nor use electronic devices (among other restrictions). In essence, according to Jewish tradition, we are not to “create” on Shabbat. Therefore, Friday mornings are the perfect time to engage in our respective creative projects.

Looping perpetually, or: Perpetually looping

A ‘Palindrome Poem’

Death begets darkness
Dimming skies above flutter
Essence of shades
Unseen
Swirls through existence
Observes life
Emerging budding gushing
Teeming multitudes of energies
Inspiration begets
~Being~
Begets Inspiration
Energies of multitudes teeming
Gushing budding emerging
Life observes
Existence through swirls
Unseen
Shades of essence
Flutter above skies dimming
Darkness begets death

The above poem is my take on d’Verse’s ‘connections’ prompt.

d’Verse prompted us to think about connecting or connections—in any sense. It could be connecting ideas, connecting historical moments, or your own connections with people, places, nature, or art. Also, to think about how we are connecting words, phrases, lines, and ideas in our poems.

This prompt brought to my mind and inspired me to write my first ‘Palindrome Poem’.

I wanted to be a rabbi

It was during college that I first considered the notion of studying to become a rabbi. I was an awful engineering student and apathetic about my studies. Clearly, my greatest passion in those years lay in community building and learning about Judaism. After four years, I graduated with an engineering degree, poor grades, and no ambition to find work as an engineer.

I could have pursued the rabbinate at that point, but I didn’t.

What if my eagerness was merely directionless floundering? What if I was only grasping at straws? What if mine was nothing more than a youthful fantasy born of desperation?

Four years later, I had earned a graduate degree in public policy and moved to Washington, DC as a contractor at the Department of Energy. During my interview for that position, I was asked to speak at length about my graduate research, leading me to believe that my work at the DOE would be equally stimulating. Unfortunately, several months later, enveloped on all sides by the inflamed bowel linings of the US government, I knew with certainty that it would be nothing of the sort.

Meanwhile, I had made my kitchen kosher as soon as I moved into my own apartment in DC and enthusiastically started hosting weekly Shabbat meals. I quickly became active in two different Jewish communities, and my dearest friends in Washington were among those who attended a lay-led, local Torah study program with me every week.

Through members of my extended Jewish community, I learned of an institute in Jerusalem that offered an intensive, yearlong text study program for Jews of all persuasions. My weekly, hour-long learning was meaningful and empowering, but more than anything else it whetted my appetite for deeper understanding of Torah, Talmud, and other classic Jewish sources. At nearly thirty, I was still sloshing about in tradition’s shallows.

After three years in Washington, DC, I decided to quit everything and move to Israel for a year of learning. I could still become a rabbi, I thought. It wasn’t too late for me.

During my first year of study in Jerusalem, I surfed waves of boundless enthusiasm over the sea1 of the Talmud. I knew that I would be staying for another year long before it came time to fill out the application form; and I preemptively met with representatives of a suitable rabbinical school in America. I was on track.

* * *

Then, during my second year in Israel I started dating my wife and decided to remain permanently in Israel. (a story for another time)

This decision derailed me.

Israel, you see, is where rabbis from around the world dream of retiring to. They serve their congregations, teach at their various schools and institutions, and perform life cycle events for the members of their communities. Then, ever so nostalgically and with due pride, they hand their reins to the younger generations of Jewish leadership and move to the Holy Land.

Due to the sheer number of rabbis in Israel, it is nearly impossible for the vast majority of religious leaders to sustain themselves here as Jewish professionals. Rabbinical students come here to learn, perhaps even to be ordained, and then they move away to build their careers. Those who move here before retirement knowingly give up their rabbinic careers and seek other prospects.

For several years following my decision, I continued studying, profoundly struggling to accept reality, but the truth was unbendable. I couldn’t have it all. I had given up my entire life in America to pursue the rabbinate, only to give up the rabbinate for Israel. I struggle to find words to describe my inner turmoil during that period of my life.

By coincidence, I was actually offered a plum job as a Jewish educator shortly after my daughter was born, which would have required me to travel regularly to Europe to work with young, Russian-speaking Jews. Painfully, I turned it down. Before Israel, before fatherhood, it would have been a dream for me, but I couldn’t be away from my family for nearly half of the year, including most Jewish holidays.

* * *

After reading my blog post ‘Resting on Religious Laurels’, my brother asked me if I had any regrets about pursuing Jewish studies in my early thirties. “You at least learned a bunch.”

“No,” I responded, “I wish I had immediately started studying Judaism after college and become a rabbi at a young age.”

* * *

Footnote

Shir haShirim (The Song of Songs) contains the following verse, in which a lover is describing her beloved (5:14):

יָדָיו גְּלִילֵי זָהָב, מְמֻלָּאִים בַּתַּרְשִׁישׁ; מֵעָיו עֶשֶׁת שֵׁן, מְעֻלֶּפֶת סַפִּירִים. His hands are like rods of gold set with beryl; his body is like polished ivory overlaid with sapphires.

In Shir haShirim Rabbah, an aggadic midrash on Song of Songs, the author expounds upon this verse, offering an interpretation. He writes, in part:

מַה גַּלִּים הַלָּלוּ בֵּין גַּל גָּדוֹל לְגַל גָּדוֹל גַּלִּים קְטַנִּים, כָּךְ בֵּין כָּל דִּבּוּר וְדִבּוּר פָּרָשִׁיּוֹתֶיהָ וְדִקְדּוּקֶיהָ שֶׁל תּוֹרָה הָיוּ כְּתוּבִים. מְמֻלָּאִים בַּתַּרְשִׁישׁ, זֶה הַתַּלְמוּד, שֶׁהוּא כַּיָּם הַגָּדוֹל, הֲדָא דְאַתְּ אָמַר (יונה א, ג): תַּרְשִׁישָׁה, הֲדָא מַה דְאַתְּ אָמַר (קהלת א, ז): כָּל הַנְּחָלִים הֹלְכִים אֶל הַיָּם. What are these ‘waves’ (galim)? Between all the big waves, there are small waves, and so too between all the sayings, the sections and the nuances of the Torah were written. ‘מְמֻלָּאִים בַּתַּרְשִׁישׁ’ (‘m’mulayim ba’tarshish’) refers to the Talmud, for it is like a great sea; so you say (Jonah 1:3): ‘תַּרְשִׁישָׁה’ (‘Tarshishah’); so you say (Ecclesiastes 1:7): ‘All the rivers run into the sea’.

This is classic midrash, in that the author deliberately reinterprets several words from the verse in Song of Songs in order to make his case, which is that the Talmud is like the sea:

  • The ancient Hebrew word ‘galim’ in the Song of Songs is generally translated as ‘rods’ in that specific context, but this same word can mean ‘waves’.
  • The ancient Hebrew word ‘tarshish’ is generally understood to mean ‘beryl’, but it is also the name of the kingdom that God commanded the prophet Jonah to visit.
    • And – since Jonah traveled to ‘Tarshish’ first in a boat and then in the belly of a fish (i.e. through the sea), the author understands this to suggest that the verse in Song of Songs is referring to the ‘sea’, as described in Ecclesiastes.

So – in case you were wondering – the Talmud is often compared to the sea.

QED?