This is the official kickoff of this year’s Before Shabbat essays. I usually begin on the Shabbat between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, a weekend with its own name on the Jewish calendar: Shabbat Shuvah. You might think the word shuvah sounds a lot like teshuvah, which means return, or repentance. And you would be correct. They share the same root.
Shabbat Shuvah, the Sabbath of Return, gets its name from the haftarah we read this week, where the prophet Hosea pleads, “Return, O Israel, to Adonai your God.”
Pairing Shabbat with repentance is a curious move. Shabbat celebrates the creation of the universe. On Shabbat we are asked to see the world as whole, even if only for twenty-four hours. We don’t work, and we cease from any activity that might suggest the world is incomplete. We are commanded to stop striving. Or, to twist the aphorism: Don’t just do something; stand there.
Teshuvah says the opposite. It insists that we are unfinished, that there’s a lot of work to do – stat! And not just on ourselves. We need the world and all its bounty, and the world needs us, as stewards and protectors of this fragile place where we live.
Shabbat Shuvah asks us to hold both: to do the inner work of return from a place of rest rather than anxiety. It is the clearing in the deep woods where we can pause and breathe. We know where we are: in the loving embrace of Shabbat. We are not lost. There’s something so wise in that, something so Jewish. Because when we feel safe and secure, we can be more honest with ourselves, and with the people to whom we owe apologies.
I hope this doesn’t qualify as TMI, but my wife and I occasionally have a difference of opinion – a rare, but not unheard-of, occurrence. In those moments it is so much easier to engage when we both understand that we’re on the same side, that we are safe with each other.
Genuinely asking forgiveness must come from the adult side of our brains, the side that eschews excuses and demands honesty. I remember being ordered to apologize as a kid, and later, as a father, doing the ordering. The results were the same either way. “Tell your sister you’re sorry.” “I’m SORRY!” – followed by a snort or a derisive sneer. That doesn’t count. The words don’t count if the heart is absent.
Shabbat Shuvah eases us toward Yom Kippur. The deep woods of that day are less familiar territory, filled with the questions we have to ask ourselves all through the service. How have I lived my life this year? When have I been kind and selfless? When have I been selfish? When have I been judgmental and mean? When have I tried to be a mensch – a person who does the right thing – and when did I take a pass because it was inconvenient? So many questions, all meant to help us recalibrate how we behave in the world, from the macro level of giving tzedakah to the most intimate settings with family and dear friends. Yom Kippur isn’t easy. It’s not supposed to be.
But before we get there – soon! – we give thanks for this Shabbat, a soft, gentle respite in which to pull ourselves together for what’s ahead.
Before Shabbat 