Home in San Diego for the holidays, I encounter new Jewish dilemmas with each rising of the sun.
Friday morning, Shabbat on its way, I was talking with my father about our plans for the evening. We had none. And everyone was working late into the afternoon. And my step-sister was arriving into the airport at 7:30 PM.
Shabbat is always an adventure, especially outside of the comfort zone of my home and New York. I have my standards, my normal behaviors and prohibitions and concerns. And, at home, more or less, I play the role of the lone observer.
So when I inquired, Friday morning, what our dinner plans were, I was really looking out for myself. I would not be leaving the house that evening. I would be eating dinner. I hoped the rest of the family would be able to join me so we could eat and celebrate together.
But busy schedules had their own demands and constraints. And so I offered to be the cook for the evening. I'd take care of dinner - some pasta and other carbs before our Feast of Matza a day later.
As the day progressed, I planned my menu. I bought challah from the best bakery I've ever found. We planned to eat when the family returned from the airport, at about 8:30. Evening arrived, and off they went. Shabbat came in shortly thereafter. I took a deep breath, relaxed, and sat down on the couch for a few minutes of rest before preparing the food.
Two hours later, my family came back home to join in our festive meal. As they stumbled into the house, I stumbled out of the slumber that had overtaken me since they'd left.
Oops.
Friday night. The sun was long-since set. There was no dinner to be had.
And in that moment, as I realized how I'd gone wrong, I panicked. It was late. I was embarrassed. Such an important part of my Friday night ritual would fall apart. There'd be no communal meal. The chance to make kiddush would all but pass.
There is, afterall, an order to how things are supposed to be done. The sun sets. Ma'ariv. Dinner. And so on.
The meal, like with so many Jewish times, is the highlight. The time for family. The time for celebration. The time for good food. And I'd missed that ship. Within minutes, the family would disperse, go their separate ways and eat food on their own. I would be left with my non-meal and a kiddush cup of wine all to myself. The natural order of Friday night was all messed up. And it was my fault. And I was terribly uncomfortable.
Uncomfortable because the natural order of how my Friday night was supposed to be would not happen; uncomfortable because things were not in order.
Erev Shabbat is not, certainly, the only time that order plays such an important role in the Jewish things we do. Order factors in constantly, most obviously in the Passover Seder. Fourteen acts, repeated every year, make up the essence of the ritual. The seder is named "order" for a reason. Do it this way, not that. In this order. This and then that and then that.
First night of Passover, I found myself in an out of order Order. Maror was before Motsi Matza and, after that, Rahtsa. We flipped back and forth through the pages of the hagaddah, back and forth and back again. I squirmed a little in my chair, trying to stay quiet and smiling. I put on my happy face.
We're together for the holiday, learning together and celebrating, I thought, and that's really what's important. Isn't it?
Because the rite is ritualized in a set order for a reason - it teaches its own lessons, inscribes itself in a certain matter in the tablets of memory. But the order itself is not the ritual. And the ritual itself is not the God we praise.
Standardization brings comfort - it normalizes an act. But we cannot become so enslaved to the normalcy of an oft-repeated ritual that, when forces beyond our control demand so, we are unable to do it a little differently.
Rituals, even out of order, are still religious acts. It takes a little humility, but the man of set order can learn to become comfortable in situations different from routine.
Dinner happened Friday night, afterall. The whole family came together to help out. We threw together a salad. We brought out some tuna salad and the challah and a little peanut butter. Vwalla.
Kiddush. Hand washing. Motsi. Let's eat.
An hour later we were deep in a political argument over the election.
All in all, the night was different. But it happened. Shabbat happened. The mitzvot were fulfilled. The people were happy. And, most importantly, I enjoyed Shabbat with my family, around a table, with love and good discussion filling the room. Ultimately, there was no reason for discomfort.
And the story of how I slept through cooking dinner will never be forgotten.
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