Frozen Shabbat

Last week I was talking to a friend who was explaining why she canceled her camping trip. She said, "I haven't showered. We have no water. My house is an igloo. I think I'm good for now." And that's pretty much the way a lot of people felt. 

Just over a week ago, entire neighborhoods lay dark and empty—what a surreal scene. The world around us  - literally frozen. And as the magic of snow wore off and reality set it, my first thought was this: Entire houses were now filled with absolutely useless devices. Every Amazon Alexa was now a paperweight. Millions of devices that just yesterday provided us so much control. So much power. The precise climate of our houses. The settings to lights and windows. Remote-controlled doors. Even faucet knobs. All of it just sitting there. Now useless. Powerless. Which, in turn, made me feel powerless. Scared. Exposed and afraid. 

Which is why I got up. I walked outside. And I threw some lighter fluid together with some damp wood. And light it all on fire in a pit. And just stood there. Gazing into the flames. And after a few minutes, a buddy of mine joined me with a wine glass. And so we stood together. 20 degrees and winter parkas. Chatting under the night's sky. And as clouds of smoke poured out and the flames danced, there was something that made that space sacred. Because the way we communicated was intentional and vulnerable. Something about the mixture of fire, stars, moon, stories, and memories - the wine and the flames' crackling song. That felt so different from the space we regularly occupied at the dinner table. Or a cafe or restaurant. I saw the humanness in him. And in myself. A sense of authenticity. Of humanity. And it made me feel safer. It made the world less scary. 

And then came Friday night. Walking into the sanctuary after a week of darkness felt surreal. But the other way around this time. And as our service began. And our accompanist Mark played the familiar Sabbath melody. It hit me. That same exact sensation I had felt earlier in the week. Not of darkness and despair, but of shelter, trust, and kinship. Because this was Shabbat. A space in time set apart. And as I look up at the ceiling, I began to squint. And when the angle was just right. The scattered lights above twinkled like the stars. Our lustrous ark became a glowing moon. And as Rabbi Scott and her daughter Breyt light our sabbath candles - ushering the warmth towards their faces - I couldn't help but think, "this is how it begins." This is the spark that ignites the feeling of connectedness during dark times. There wasn't any lighter fluid involved, but still. This was the same feeling. And suddenly, the world around me began to transform. Everywhere I looked, I saw the vision of gathering around a campfire. 

Our chairs, while fancy and plush, became stumps and logs. My suit jacket was now down coat. Kippot and tallitot were scarves and beanies. My leather shoes were hiking boots. Equipping me to traverse up and down our bima - our high place. A tall, cavernous mountain lush with tall oak trees. Even the fake flowers behind me became real flowers. 

I thought about this podium I'm standing at. This special space that's been carved out. Set apart from the rest of the entire synagogue of desks and offices. A sacred space for people to be vulnerable with one another. To be genuine with one another. Bear our souls. Utter words we typically wouldn't during a weekday board meeting. But this space. This time. Is different. It's Shabbat. And this is our sanctuary. Our meeting place not only with God but with one another. To meet face to face. Without the maks and guises we wear throughout the week. 

And when it's all said and done. Like the pungent smell of a campfire that infiltrates every porous particle. What occurs during Shabbat lingers with us. Like the aromatics of havdalah, these smells are reminders of all that transpired. And all we have to look forward to the next week. And the next.

During the Amidah prayer, we typically recite the following words in English. We say:

We pray that we might know before whom we stand,
the Power whose gift is life....
We pray for love to encompass us
for no reason save that we are human,
that we may blossom into persons 
who have gained power over our own lives...
We pray to be open to our own true selves...
in touch with the power of the world

What we do on Shabbat isn't necessarily holy because it's commanded of us. It's holy because we attempt to restore our humanity after a week of insanity. What we do on Shabbat is exactly what human beings have been doing for thousands of years. We build campfires. And do what one does around them. Talk. Recount. And share pieces of ourselves. And we do this not out of any forced command, but almost instinctively. As if it's embedded in our DNA somehow. Like Shabbat is woven into the fabric of Judaism. Something unconscious. A voice that calls to us and says, "Build a fire. Be human. Dispel darkness." 

Now, I am certainly not making the case that because Houston lost power and I had this meaningful experience, that we should all put our ovens on Shabbat mode and walk to shul. But what I am making a case for is that the power on Shabbat doesn't come from ERCOT (we can all agree on that one). But the power we do receive and is one that enables us to really see ourselves again. And to see others for who they really are. That is the Power whose gift is life - the power of the world.