There was a new person at the pub table of our weekly atheist meet-up, so the subject came up again: What was your former religion? When and why did you stop believing in god?
And I noticed, not for the first time, how despite all rational arguments to the contrary, many of our members would reminisce fondly, even wistfully, when it came to favorite religious practices of their childhood. So I was seriously taken aback when the guy sitting next to me—a fellow member of “the tribe,” aka Jew, no less—stated that he'd neverhad much to do with religion, as his entire Jewish experience growing up consisted of spending Sunday afternoons at a Chinese restaurant. It was said jokingly, but was also, sadly, true.
His comment made me suddenly grateful for having been raised in a more authentic tradition. I went on to describemy favorite holiday—one that could be counted on each week: the Sabbath. From sunset on Friday night to when three stars appeared in the night sky on Saturday, all work or even thought and talk of work were banished from our home (this included my father's business concerns, my mother's household chores—all cleaning and cooking having been completed beforehand—even my own schoolwork!). A former Catholic lady sitting across from me then remarked how peaceful she'd felt upon spending a Saturday in Jerusalem when everything came to a stop—no rushing-about commuters, business bustle, hardly any traffic noise, even the elevators in her hotel were set to glide up and down without the necessity of human touch.
Her observation got us considering that maybe this ancient day-of-rest tradition would be a really good idea for today's ever-faster-paced society. I told her how healthy—both physically and mentally (if not, for incipient atheists as myself, spiritually)—it actually had been to spend an enforced day of rest one day a week, every week, without personal “laziness” guilt or societal “workaholic” admonition. “I could really use such a day!” she exclaimed, pointing to the ever-present business and social demands of her iPhone and sundry connectivity devices. “I have to force myself not to look at a text while driving; I've seen too many accidents with people on their phones. Still, both work and my family and friends expect me to respond to their texts immediately.”
On my Sabbath days of yore, we were forbidden to answer the phone and, as most of my parents’ social group were Orthodox themselves and it being that blissful era before telemarketing, there were no calls. Also no TV or radio, and lights were set on a timer to go off at a decent bedtime hour (so I could happily read Nancy Drew but still get to sleep). Because my mother had cooked ahead and my father was around (on weekdays he came home from work too late for me to join him at dinner), we had lovely leisurely family meals on Friday night and Saturday noon where we discussed ideas and philosophies in depth (remember: no aggravating practical business allowed) and, afterwards, would sing endless rounds of zmirot (Jewish folk tunes).
We sang loudly and joyfully and terribly—but it didn't matter—and when I was little, I had the added pleasure of sitting on my father's lap during all this and banging on the table with cutlery for percussion. These were happy family times!Saturday mornings, when I was a bit older and could roam with friends, I remember skipping out on morning prayers (we each told our respective parents we were attending “the other girl's synagogue”), and congregating at the girl's house with the largest comic book stash (compliments of her absent older brother). We'd spend the next hour or two lounging on her bed immersed in the adventures of Superman, Batman and Archie & Veronica, before faithfully joining our families at their places of worship for some honey cake before the long walk home. We didn't feel guilty about this white lie at all, I remember, rationalizing that the Sabbath was meant for our pleasure as well.
And afternoons, after a stuporic lie-in from that three-course Sabbath midday meal, we'd meet up again at the local park. From age 8 to 12 (when we were considered old enough to be left to our own devices and before boy craziness set in), six to a dozen of us Hebrew School girls would spend the afternoon devising creative games for our mutual entertainment. Sometimes, we split into teams, presenting original songs, comedy sketches and plays to each other or before an appointed judge or judges who'd decide the day's “winner.” But winning hardly mattered—it was all the fun of coming up with new ideas and challenges that counted the most.
Recent neurological studies endorse the significance of unorganized play for a child's developing brain. When it comes to increasing IQ, there's no proof that Baby Einstein and their ilk of preschool computer modules and early reading programs help, in the long run, with anything. What has been proven essential is allowing children free playtime to grow neural networks and social skills. Banned as we were from viewing movies, television and turning on all electronic devices during our weekly Sabbath, free playtime was all we had—and it fostered original thinking and cooperative skills aplenty.
Perhaps my highly developed creative sensibility harkens back to those early play-in-the-park days. As I tend to credit Jewish education for my relentless inquiring mind (nothing beats Talmudic scholarship when it comes to nurturing a love of the Socratic approach and mean debate skills). But most of all, I'm grateful for 23 years of weekly training in shutting out the world. Nowadays, especially, when I feel a migraine coming on (my body's “tell” that I'm overdoing it), I'll know it's time for a “Sabbath” day off. I've read of weekend and weeklong electronics-free spas where people spend a fortune to be forced to disconnect from their laptops and cell phones—all in the quest for peace and quiet without and within. Some even resort to locking their overstressed bodies in pseudo-jails or sparse monk-cell habitats to experience a few moments of silent contemplation. I take myself a Sabbath. Did I mention that no driving or use of mass transit are allowed during traditional Sabbaths as well?
I do realize that, in the old days, people could simply stroll to visit friends whereas now most friends and family are spread far and wide. So perhaps I'll cheat and call an old friend for a long heartfelt chat; still no texting allowed. But other than that single concession, I remain true to—and thankful for—the strict training of my early years in religion. Sorry atheists. Though I agree there's plenty ignorance to fight against and much evil has resulted from religious indoctrination—not the least of which is severely narrowed lives, particularly in the case of women—I'm still not willing to throw out the baby with the bathwater.
As it happened, my religious tradition of inquiry also, eventually, led me to leave Orthodoxy behind (as was the case for many of my friends). But all that training did improve my mind both intellectually and in a way that gives me strength to deal with life's inevitable stresses and disappointments. Meditation is often prescribed for the depressed and anxious. As are ever-increasing doses of pharmaceuticals from Trazadone to Xanax. Personally, I think I'll stick with my weekly training of tuning out life's troubles on the Sabbath. And continue to take a dose of Sabbath for myself, as needed.
© 2015 Mindy Leaf
Mindy Leaf has worked as a professional freelance writer for the past 30 years. Her specialties include travel, culture, the arts and, most recently, a self-imposed weekly essay (or rant) spouting the unvarnished truth—as she sees it.
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