For the second year running, I had the privilege of teaching a remarkable group of young Nigerian Jews. They are primarily members of the Igbo ethnic group who believe that they are descended from the lost tribe of Gad. What struck me last year was their extraordinary sincerity.
These young men and women, many of whom are highly educated professionals, were not interested in the labels and divisions that so often preoccupy the established Jewish world. They simply wanted to learn Torah, understand Judaism, and deepen their connection to the Jewish people.
Last year, when I taught them, they made me rethink what it means to choose Judaism. This year, they made me think again about Shabbat.
I had been asked to give them four one-hour sessions. Their Jewish knowledge was enthusiastic but patchy, so I could not assume that everyone knew what kiddush was, why we light candles on Friday before sunset, what the prayer “Lecha Dodi” means, why there are three meals on Shabbat, or even why Jews refrain from doing certain things on the day of rest.
It was an interesting challenge. Where do you begin to explain Shabbat from scratch? Not with turning light switches on and off. Nor with cooking, carrying, mobile phones, or the 39 categories of prohibited activity. Those things matter, of course, and eventually we discussed them. But if your introduction to Shabbat is simply a list of things you are not allowed to do, you have missed the point.
So I found myself going back to the beginning. Literally.
The first Shabbat in the Torah is found in the opening chapter of human existence. God created the world in six days and then stopped on the seventh.
Shabbat does not mean collapsing exhausted onto the sofa after a difficult week. It means ceasing; stepping back from creating, manipulating, producing, and controlling.
Suddenly, I realized how radical that message has become. We live in a world that measures us by what we produce. How much have we earned? How many emails have we answered? How many tasks have we completed? How quickly did we respond to that WhatsApp message?
Our phones make us permanently available. Work follows us home. News follows us to bed. Even recreation becomes something to photograph, post, and share.
Then, once a week, Judaism says: stop. For 25 hours, the world can manage without you. That is an extraordinarily liberating idea.
The Torah gives another explanation for Shabbat in the second version of the Ten Commandments. This time, it tells us to remember that we were slaves in Egypt.
What does slavery have to do with Shabbat? Everything.
A slave does not own his time. Someone else determines when he wakes, when he works, when he eats, and when he may stop. Shabbat, therefore, is a weekly declaration of freedom. I may have an employer, responsibilities, bills, and deadlines, but ultimately I am not a slave to any of them.
Perhaps today we should add something else: I am not a slave to my screen. That does not mean technology is evil; far from it. I am writing these words on a computer, and I taught my Nigerian students using modern technology.
But something can be useful without being entitled to occupy every minute of our lives. There is something wonderfully subversive about a dinner table where nobody is looking at a screen.
Sacred and ordinary time
Teaching the practical structure of Shabbat reminded me of something else we easily overlook: Shabbat has theater.
Friday is spent preparing. Food is cooked. The house is made ready. We wash and change our clothes. Candles are lit. In synagogue, we sing “Lecha Dodi” and metaphorically go out to welcome the Shabbat bride.
We do not simply notice that Saturday has arrived. We welcome Shabbat as an honored guest.
Then there is kiddush, invoking the sanctification of the day and declaring that this piece of time is different from the time that preceded it. There are meals, singing, Torah, conversation, prayer, and community. At the end comes havdalah, when wine, spices, and flame accompany us as we distinguish between sacred time and ordinary time.
That distinction is crucial. Judaism does not teach that the ordinary week is bad. We need six days in which to work, build, trade, travel, and create.
But Judaism insists that not everything should be ordinary. We need sacred space, but we also need sacred time. And there is something particularly ingenious about sacred time. A holy building can be destroyed. A holy place can become inaccessible. A people can be driven from its land.
But Shabbat travels. Jews carried it to Baghdad and Berlin, Casablanca and Krakow, London and Lagos. Wherever Friday evening arrived, Jewish sacred time arrived with it.
Think about this: a Shabbat table throughout the millennia hasn’t changed! Candles, wine, challah, a white tablecloth, and our best tableware.
That is surely part of what Ahad Ha’am, the founder of cultural Zionism, meant when he famously wrote that more than the Jewish people have kept Shabbat, Shabbat has kept the Jewish people. For generations, it created a rhythm that said: whatever country you live in, whatever language you speak, whatever happened to you this week, you belong to an ancient story.
Where rediscovery begins
Teaching these young Nigerians also made me wonder whether we present Shabbat as an all-or-nothing proposition too often.
I am an Orthodox rabbi. I believe that Shabbat has a halachic structure and that its laws matter. I am not suggesting that we can simply rewrite them according to personal preference.
But there is a world of difference between saying, “I do not yet keep every aspect of Shabbat,” and saying, “Therefore, Shabbat has nothing to offer me.”
Imagine what would happen if Jewish families who currently do little to mark Shabbat decided that Friday night would become sacred family time. Phones away, no television, a proper meal, candles, wine, challah. Perhaps one song and one exchange of Torah. Perhaps simply two hours in which parents and children actually talk to each other.
Would that constitute full halachic Shabbat observance? No. Would it enrich Jewish lives? I find it difficult to believe otherwise. Perhaps that is where rediscovery begins.
My Nigerian students needed me to explain why Jews prepare their homes for Shabbat, why we sing to welcome a day, why we stop creating, and why we separate holy time from ordinary time.
As I was explaining it to them, I recalled that last year they reminded me that Judaism cannot merely be inherited – it has to be chosen. This year, they again reminded me that Shabbat must be chosen.
Perhaps in an age of permanent noise, permanent availability, and permanent distraction, that ancient choice has never been more modern.
For one day a week, stop. The world will survive. And we may discover that we are living again.
The writer is a rabbi and physician. He writes and teaches on Jewish ethics, leadership, and resilience. His work appears on rabbidrjonathanlieberman.substack.com and youtube.com. @rabbidrjonathanlieberman.