Every week, every traditional Jew goes to a parallel universe. It is a universe without cars, without electrical appliances, where people live in small communities, where everyone knows each other, and where children of all ages play together in the company of their parents. It is called Shabat: the Sabbath.
Usually, when you hear about the Shabat, you hear about the things that are forbidden: turning lights on and off, cooking, shopping, driving the car. It seems like a great sacrifice, a weekly abstinence, and from time to time it is. What you don’t hear about is the atmosphere that it creates.
I wasn’t in the US last year for the great North-East blackout, but I read a lot of accounts describing the joyfulness which ensued: people meeting their neighbors, sitting on the steps eating ice cream, enjoying simple pleasures. I experienced something similar, though, during Boston’s blizzard of ’78, which shut the city down for a week. This is how I remember it too:
The lack of electricity, the ban on driving, the snow-muffled landscape, the sight of people pulling sleds in the middle of streets, the fact that everyone was home — all of it combined to give a sense we were living in an older, more relaxed time.“I loved the way my house looked at night. There were candles that bathed my home in a soft glow and created dancing shadows on the walls,” Mary Urbanek of North Dartmouth wrote.
“I felt like a pioneer girl. With the absence of television and radio, my family and I were forced to rely on the old-fashioned way of entertainment. We played games, read stories and told jokes,” she remembered.
There were those who behaved poorly in the chaos of the blizzard’s immediate aftermath, stealing cars or the valuables inside. But most folks recall those days as a time of community, of neighbors helping each other, of clear evidence that people were essentially good.
Harold Crapo, long-time National Weather Service watcher, wrote in a note to The Standard-Times, “As I sit now and reflect upon this storm, what I remember most is how the community came together and helped one another.”
Carlton “Cukie” Macomber of Westport didn’t get far on his ride home from work in southern Rhode Island. Taking refuge first in a convenience store and then in a church, he found food, conversation and community. He didn’t get home for three days, but the experience told him, “This country has a lot of nice people in it.”
This is the world of Shabat. Every week, every observant Jew is transported to this world. Not driving, or using any other kind of transportation, every observant Jew (who does not want to be totally isolated) must live within walking distance of a synagogue, creating a community of walkers. Even the largest cities are reduced to small towns where everyone knows each other: virtual villages, invisible to the outside world.
It is a wonderful way to live. It squares the circle of the lonely city, the isolation of the individual endemic to modern life. It is a great way to raise children. It is said: more than the Jews have kept Shabat; Shabat, has kept the Jews.