Sabbath

“I am my beloved’s and my beloved is mine.” Song of Songs 2:16

I stand at the table with friends who are lighting candles, breaking bread, laughing and pouring juice for thirsty children who hold empty cups and cry, “more, more, more.” The table has been prepared with offerings sent by a wise mother who knows that beauty and tradition convey sacred and ordinary love. The men have brought bread that all can eat.

It is Friday evening. I am welcoming Sabbath with friends at a Be Present training. Our community of black, white, brown, male, female, young, old, rich and not rich, Jewish and non-Jewish friends is watching, eagerly anticipating the gifts. We have agreed to hold hands as each of us finds our way out of the world’s history of distress into the communion of love. It is what we are doing now.

This time, I have been invited to take an active role in setting the table and offering the gift, even though I am Christian. A part of me wonders whether it’s OK for me to be here too. This part shies away from lighting candles, thinking that role should not be mine.

Another me is not wavering at all. At the Sabbath table, I feel deeply at home. The priest and mother in me know exactly how this works. I watch as my Jewish friends find their place in the ritual and listen for my own.

After bread has been broken and grape juice poured and spilled, a friend and I read the words of the Song of Songs: “Arise, Beloved and come….” As he reads in Hebrew, I close my eyes and listen to the sound of a language I once knew. In my mind, I am twenty years old and sitting on the hills above Jerusalem with Jewish American friends who are teaching me how welcoming Sabbath works. “She is like a lover,” they say. “We invite her to turn her face toward us.” I don’t get it, yet. But I love sitting on Mount Scopus overlooking the Old City, singing as sunset descends. The beauty of this land captivates me. The desert wind is teaching me about the connection between spirit, breath and wind. The fading light on limestone transforms the city in which there is hostility and fear into a beautiful, glowing rose. Something happens in the liminal space between day and night when Sabbath arrives. I can see that.

My friend is done reading and it is my turn now. I say again words that have been written on my heart and hope that something of the invitation to love and be loved can be heard in my voice and seen in my eyes.

Looking around the circle, I see several friends with Jewish lineage. Present, too, in my heart is Rebecca, my childhood best friend; Rabbi Dan, a teacher in my Catholic high school in whom I first heard the invitation to walk a spiritual path; Steve, my college boyfriend who taught me my first Hebrew words; Jesus, the teacher whose path inspires my own. A thread of Jewish love has been woven into my life from the start. Sometimes I forget what a miracle it is for Christian and Jew to stand together at this table in friendship, respect and love because it is so obvious in my heart.

When I am done, the circle sings “Shabbat Shalom” with lightheartedness and joy. The ritual is complete. We have moved across the threshold into the arms of delight and rest. Children run off to get their dinner plates. I linger at the table, putting away cups, silver, and the tablecloth that is now stained with overflowing love.

Meanwhile, Sabbath candles continue to burn.


photo credits:

Community and Sunset: Noa Mohlabane: noa-mohlabane.artistwebsites.com
Sabbath Candles: Robert Holzman