In the recent Israeli documentary Ha-Modernim (“The Modern Ones”), filmmaker Cheli Rosenberg documents the lives of young unmarried residents of Jerusalem as they navigate romantic, social, and familial pressures. Quite appropriately, Rosenberg frames Ha-Modernim with evocative footage from an Erev Shabbat in Jerusalem, beginning and ending the film with the message that the experience of being single and observant is somehow deeply intertwined with the experience of Shabbat.
This connection is equally strong, perhaps even stronger, on American soil. For young professionals and graduate students living on their own in New York, Jewish life is decidedly far less pronounced during the week than it is on Shabbat. On Manhattan’s Upper West Side in particular, elegant, century-old German Jewish congregations such as Ohab Tzedek, the Jewish Center, and Ramath Orah are filled to capacity every week with hordes of smiling, chattering young people. On Saturdays in the spring and summer, joggers through Central Park may be perplexed by the preponderance of black suits and frilly dresses overtaking the northwest corner of the Great Lawn. A friend of mine once was approached by a surprised-looking Uma Thurman in running gear, who asked him what the commotion was all about. He explained what was going on and then excused himself, apologizing that he had seen someone he wanted to talk to and had to return to the fray.
In the fragmented, individualized, and sometimes solitary life of religiously observant, post-college, pre-marriage residents of the big city, Shabbat provides, at the very least, the assurance they will encounter others of their kind. Shabbat on the West Side for its single population (to be distinguished from its also quite sizable population of couples and families) is not an extension of a pre-existing community; it is the community – it creates it and it sustains it. And the community it creates for singles is far from a second-rate substitute for the more “authentic” Shabbat experiences taking place in family homes in the surrounding suburbs. I would even suggest that there is something remarkable about Shabbat on the Upper West Side, a kind of delicate dance between experimentation and commitment that results in something both radically new and also comfortingly familiar.
Shabbat on the West Side provides access to a whole host of interconnected sub-communities with varying models of religious practice. It is possible for someone living in Upper Manhattan to go several months, a year even, without repeating Shabbat day attendance at any one synagogue. The accompanying message can be intoxicating for many, as it was for me: your model of Jewish practice can be something you choose – it is not entirely handed down to you. The model I usually choose involves active female participation, which is found in a wide array of options in the neighborhood. Another element I have been drawn to is the prospect of an intellectual community, with local synagogues providing a broad assortment of lectures and shiurim, and, more important, opportunities to establish rich and rewarding friendships based on something more than geographic proximity.
The result is that Shabbat has become quite different from the quiet reading and family time it was growing up (something that is itself precious to be sure). Every weekend is a whirlwind of new prayer experiences, interesting speakers, and intense conversations. And Shabbat has become a touchstone for all of the feelings of freedom and anticipation I associate with carving an identity out for myself as a Jewish woman and as an adult.
And yet, somewhat paradoxically, Shabbat on the West Side has made me appreciate many of the accoutrements of traditional Jewish gender roles that I once found irrelevant. One of the basic staples of the Upper West Side Jewish experience is the large, usually overpacked Shabbat meal, where novice cooks find themselves faced with the prospect of 15 or more ravenous guests and a distinct regret they had not spent more time helping in the kitchen growing up. Yet for most of us, total domestic ineptitude gradually grows into a respectable proficiency, and we find ourselves laying claim to rituals we once thought limited to a different “kind” of Jewish woman. It may be true that my tofu quinoa concoction is a far cry from my mother’s potato kugel, but it is mine. And in a way, this experience has left me far more sensitive to and respectful of centuries of Jewish homemaking than I ever was before. The more I build a home for myself here, the more connectedness I find between the abstract, cerebral world of Jewish texts and ideas and the sensual, visceral associations we all have with events like Shabbat meals. As untraditional as the world of the Upper West Side may seem, the re-creation of familiar rituals on new ground brings with it an intensified appreciation for those rituals.
Indeed, one of the most striking experiences of Shabbat in New York City, particularly for young singles, is that element of re-creation. The bustling streets and stores around you make for the acute awareness that you have created this Shabbat experience for yourself. No one is forcing it on you; no one expects it of you. Instead, it is yours, through and through, in a way that may be risky for some, but wildly stimulating for those who remain religiously engaged. And the most remarkable thing is how many people do remain engaged with Judaism through the framework of Shabbat. I have several formerly observant friends who have thrown off nearly every vestige of their Orthodox upbringings in this new urban environment, yet almost all of them have invited me, at some point, to some sort of Shabbat dinner.
It is hard to know sometimes whether the unusual thing is the way we re-create and redefine Shabbat in our own environment or the way in which universal features of Shabbat maintain their grip on us, regardless of the directions our lives take. I never properly understood Ahad Ha’am’s famous phrase – “more than the Jews have kept Shabbat, Shabbat has kept the Jews” – until I experienced the significance it brings to Jewish life on the West Side.
Of course, perhaps the most dominant feature of Shabbat on the Upper West Side for singles is that it is bound to be somewhat temporary. As people leave the city, begin families, and generally gain more stability, this delicate balance of experimentation and commitment is unlikely to last in the same way. Many a time I have heard a friend, tired of the latest synagogue mob scene or overwhelmed by 20 people showing up to a meal to which she only invited 8, utter a frustrated “I’ve had enough.” Stability does have its advantages. At the same time however, I cannot help but appreciate how all that instability has resulted in the carving out of such a significant place for Shabbat in my life. It is a kind of Shabbat that some may frame as less than ideal, but it is one that is unusual and irreplaceable, and I feel lucky to be experiencing it.