I am delighted to be writing for this wonderful blog, and even more so that Jamie’s last post, along with the occasion of this last weekend’s graduate student “Rest, Recharge, Renew” retreat give me such a powerful entry point.
During my last 11 years on the hilltop, it has been a consistent joy to discover aspects of Ignatian spirituality that resonate with aspects of Jewish tradition and the other traditions represented on campus. My hope in interfaith engagement is always that different traditions can provide new angles, food for further thought, and sometimes even deeper illumination into the places where they connect. All this, without needing to connect in every place!
Jamie’s last blog post explored one such area of connection and resonance. One of my favorites, quite frankly.
In the last blog post Jamie sagely reminded us of the potential spiritual and emotional pitfalls of an overcommitted lifestyle, warning: “[E]ven busy adults who have important tasks to accomplish everyday can develop an unhealthy relationship to time.” One of the dangers of a utilitarian relationship with time so prevalent for so many of us these days is that it can make time into a possession that we need to use productively, and using time to contemplate doesn’t fit into our notion of productivity and therefore is a waste of our possession.
Indeed. In a context in which we don’t see contemplation as productive, it can be really hard to make the case for it. My experience in multifaith settings over the last two decades tells me that making the case for contemplation has become one of the central roles for contemporary clergy of any background, precisely because it has become so profoundly challenging and precisely because we believe so profoundly in it.
Thankfully, for me, it’s easy to make the case. Enter the Torah.
Jews like to joke that, through Torah, we brought the world the concept of the weekend; in the form of Shabbat. During Shabbat, Jews construct what Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel called a cathedral in time:
“Judaism teaches us to be attached to holiness in time, to be attached to sacred events, to learn how to consecrate sanctuaries that emerge from the magnificent stream of a year. The Sabbaths are our great cathedrals.”
As the sun sets on the eve of Shabbat, we light our plain white candles – one for everyone in the household – raise a glass of wine or juice, break simple bread, and step into that sanctuary in time. There, we leave behind the regular flow of time and the productivity we imbed in it. We do this not in order to escape life, but in order to enter into it more deeply. We step outside of ordinary life so we can then turn toward it contemplatively and “see and taste” (Psalm 34) the goodness of all of life.
If Shabbat were a person, she would high-five, fist-bump, or elbow-bump the Jesuit Walter Burghardt for naming and affirming contemplation as a “long loving look at the real” which inspires as “experiential awareness of reality” and a “way of entering into communion with reality.”
Judaism, in particular the mystical strain of Judaism, teaches that all of reality is a manifestation of the Divine. That God not merely permeates reality, but reality is an expression or embodiment of the essence of God. Seeking metaphors to describe this hard-to-grasp concept, Jewish mystics often refer to reality as a garment of God. This garment is woven of aspects of God’s very being – so it is itself ultimately Divine in both origin and nature. Jewish mystics teach that our spiritual goal is to attain the awareness that this is the true nature of all of life. We do this through what they call devekut (lit. cleaving). Devekut is essentially a communion with the Divine (through, in part, our experiential awareness of reality) that allows us to see and sense the godliness hidden within every single aspect of the material world. Through devekut we come to know intellectually, as well as to sense in our very being, the ultimate truth that all of reality is sacred, all of reality is One.
Through rest, reflection, song, prayer, communal conversation, and Torah study, Shabbat becomes a weekly, extended, and communal contemplative pursuit of – and ideally the attainment of – devekut.
We conclude Shabbat the way we begin it. In a ritual called havdallah (lit. distinction) we light candles, we drink wine or juice, and in place of eating sweet challah, we smell aromatic spices – a symbolic last whiff of the extra-soulfulness we are granted on Shabbat. Unlike the singular and white Shabbat candle, the havdallah candle contains many wicks and strands of wax composed of a rainbow of colors. The multifaceted candle invites us to weave our singular Shabbat consciousness into the glorious multifaceted activities of the week ahead. This idea is affirmed in some communities by actually placing a drop of havdallah wine or juice on our eyelids, as an invitation to see the rest of the week through Shabbat eyes. Or, as Burghardt, S.J., might express it, to turn to all of reality with a long and loving look that invites communion with it.
In Judaism, devekut is a highly valued end in and of itself. Its reward is deep joy. Through it, we find greater meaning and satisfaction in all that we do in life. And at the same time, there is a desired (even commanded) outcome of equal importance – namely, to live with greater intention, righteousness, kindness, and integrity as a result of our loving encounter with the real.
Contemplation, Shabbat, devekut are meant to lead to living in a way that honors what we come to know through them – that everything and everyone is ultimately divine in origin and nature. It’s our joyful and sacred obligation to live according to that awareness and to become maximally productive in the things that matter most: what we bring to this world and how we treat one another in it.
May it be so.
Please consider joining me and Jamie for upcoming retreats as they are announced. We’d love to see you at them.