I am writing this at eight pm at the Friday night football game. It's the third quarter and we're down 42-0, but I have two students on the cheer squad, so I'm working on Shabbat. Not just literally, in the sense that I'm am here because of my job. I earlier attended Friday night service via Zoom, after which I cooked my own dinner, got in my car, and drove one town over to the school where I teach. Then I carried blankets into a public stadium, where I began to write. But none of this matters. Because I got here just in time to see one of the most entertaining half-time shows I've ever seen. And because one of my most introverted students is having fun despite herself, dancing with girls she never would have tried to befriend last year. This is the beauty of breaking rules.
Please know, I do not write this with any intention of criticizing Jews who adhere more strictly to rules and traditions. Sarah Hurwitz has described Shabbat as a radical rejection of the hustle and bustle that consumes us during the rest of the week (a paraphrase), and I agree. I have felt the tension fall away from my shoulders upon crossing the threshold into the synagogue. I have felt the energy seep back into me over the course of a Friday night service. I have felt the languid passage of time on a Saturday afternoon when I commit to leaving all the electronics inside and laying on a blanket under a tree, reading books and being present. Nevertheless, it has been the ability to break the rules and find my own way that has allowed me to build a relationship with God and Judaism in the first place.
To begin with, I live in Small Town, Arkansas. My city has a population of maybe 5,000, and it's the county seat. The nearest synagogue is a 90 minute drive. Sometimes, someone hosts a Shabbat service or Shabbat dinner in the next town over--only about 30 minutes. Either way, I have to drive. I have no Jewish neighbors, so my only other option is to celebrate alone. Okay, I did mention that I attended via Zoom tonight, but I'd rather go in person. It's just not the same online.
Driving on Shabbat isn't the only thing that's made Judaism more accessible. If I want to read the Torah portion or follow along with Daf Yomi, I access texts on my phone, using the Sepharia app. Even on Shabbat. And sometimes, while I'm laying on my blanket outside, I put down my novel and throw on one of a myriad of podcasts about Judaism--Unorthodox, Chutzpod, The Study, Throwing Sheyd, and Torah Smash to name a few--and then I close my eyes and listen, while the leaves of the tree above dance patterns across my eyelids. In fact, my personal study of Judiasm has been more far more podcasts than books. It's a little unstructured sometimes, but considering I can play them while driving, cleaning, quilting, they keep me enveloped in Jewish ideas, despite the distance. And on the rare ocassions that I do find myself celebrating entirely alone, I have a go-to Shabbat playlist on YouTube with many of the prayers we sing each week.
Sometimes, I forego traditional Shabbat altogether. One Friday night, my husband and I met two friends for dinner. When they expressed some concern about pulling me away from my religious requirements, I explained that what I have learned about Shabbat is this: It is connection. Connection to God, to the world, to friends and family. So the way I saw it, regardless of driving, carrying, or eating chicken ramen followed by ice cream, I was absolutely honoring Shabbat by spending time with them and being fully present.
As I enter the Jewish world, I cannot abandon the world I've lived in for the last 33 years. This is not a battle I have with Judiasm, but a lesson I have learned from it. Judiasm is a communal religion, and part of my community lies beyond the synagogue walls. If I left it behind, the isolation would ironically close me off from my new faith. I know my world will continue to shift and change, and I may one day find myself in a position to walk to shul and prepare my Saturday meals in advance. But that's not a worry for tonight. Tonight is a Shabbat of its own. My cheerleaders are teaching dances to the elementary girls. I spot former co-workers connecting in the crowd. Many of my students roam the stands with friends and siblings, practicing their codeswitching. And I am present for all of it.
