Reflections on “The Sabbath”
Technical civilization is a man’s conquest of space. It is a triumph frequently achieved by sacrificing an essential ingredient of existence, namely time.
Despite the best efforts and frustrations of man, time remains chaste and unmarred by humanity’s continuous assumption of the physical. Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel begins The Sabbath (FSG, 1952) with this observation, framing the challenge that Shabbat presents: to sanctify and inhabit time fully. Heschel describes Shabbat as a palace in time, a sanctity constructed not of objects, but awareness and a certain vulnerability. It demands a sort of openness before God that I have long struggled to feel, without the armor and distraction of the material world.
In high school, Shabbat was not a sacred time so much as a refuge from life’s pressures. I buried myself in the material to the point of drowning. I used Shabbat as a day to collapse in bed and turn off my brain without intention by mindless scrolling and binging. It was rest, yes, but it was passive. It was a slothful rest. A gluttonous rest. It was a way for me to check out and, rather than enter this sacred plane, disassociate from everything—the world and myself—completely. Heschel distinguishes between mere rest and holy time, while modern life teaches us almost to abuse it. To use it efficiently when necessary, to indulge in pleasure when the work is done, but rarely to honor it. My prior imperfect Shabbat observance mirrored that critique. I knew how to rest and give my body and brain the relaxation they craved, but not how to inhabit holiness.
This year, seminary has brought a shift in perspective, simply due living in Jerusalem. In Jerusalem, the world essentially comes to a halt, but it is more than a “time-out.” It is a communal decision to bring back the holiness that is pushed aside during the week. Yet it is also a very personal sacred encounter. My desire to start imbuing each week with this divinity came with a certain anxiety. The fear of failure and of not fully keeping Shabbat, slipping up despite my best efforts, weighed heavily on my mind. This fear kept me ensnared in my mentality of using Shabbat and desecrating it for my “rest.”
Despite growing up attending a Modern Orthodox Yeshiva Day School, keeping Shabbat was uncommon amongst my peers. Observing felt isolating. After all, if no one else was keeping, why should I? Why should I alone struggle against modern life? And yet I did struggle alone. I fell into my fundamental issue with observance in the first place, only now I was isolating myself under the guise of respite.
Since living in Israel, I have started to attend shul, and it has transformed my relationship with Shabbat and davening itself. Heschel reminds us that time is relational: sanctity is experienced together. Prayer, once distant from me, now feels intentional and embodied. Kabbalat Shabbat in particular bears responsibility for this growth, with its overwhelming beauty. Heschel describes Shabbat as both a bride and a queen, an invitation to holiness that is welcomed and not seized. In these moments, time itself bends, mimicking our deference and inviting us to inhabit presence fully. Vulnerability is transformed into beauty, and the act of being present becomes its own reward. I am reminded that the essence of Shabbat is joy, not obligation, and each act of engagement is another step into the palace Heschel describes.
Viewing Shabbat as the privilege it is is how I want to raise my children. I want to build a home where Shabbat is a blessing rather than a limitation thrust upon them. It is not a set of rules, but a joy, a holy presence, and a communal connection. Heschel teaches that the sanctity of Shabbat is transmitted through lived example and repeated participation. My imperfect observance, my struggles and returns, are part of that transmission. I am not going into Shabbat with the goal of mastery. Each week, I try again to achieve my goal of inviting God into my life and forgoing pale human creation for the sake of the most wonderful product of Creation.
I still struggle deeply. Keeping Shabbat requires me to be fully present with myself, which does not come naturally. Electronics are my generation’s most obvious obstacle. Instagram, WhatsApp, and scores of streaming services offer the illusion of control, connection, and distraction. Resisting them forces me to confront my own thoughts and discomfort. The challenge is not simply abstaining from technology, but sitting with myself, my anxiety, and my imperfections without trying to fix, avoid, or escape them.
In these moments, Shabbat exposes my vulnerability. It exposes the part of me that fears stillness, confrontation, and emptiness. And yet, each time I persist and inhabit my own presence, I learn a little more about being comfortable with myself. Davening offers me comfort in introspection, not as a distraction, and strengthens both my relationships with God and with myself.
Heschel frames Shabbat as a resistance to our mastery of space and the constant connectivity and consumption that often come at the expense of time. Every small act of restraint becomes a deliberate choice I make to inhabit Shabbat and be fully present. It is not easy, but each week, despite my imperfections, Shabbat remains the greatest gift, from which I am able to receive and gain immense fulfillment. And every week, I have the opportunity to be the best version of myself. The aspirational act of trying to reenter the palace each week is itself sanctifying.
Heschel’s writing has always spoken to me, not only for his philosophy, but his artistry. On the whole, his prose is stunning, and the way he weaves his words is masterful, making The Sabbath a joy to read. Even when I struggle to keep Shabbat fully, reading Heschel reminds me that the invitation itself is beautiful and that the effort to enter the palace is already an act of dwelling within it.
Gianna Goldfarb, TRADITION’s student intern, is studying at Midrashet Amudim in Jerusalem.