Shabbat Shalom in Jerusalem

Today, when we returned to the hotel in Jerusalem after a busy day visiting Masada and the Dead Sea, the lobby was full of little girls in black party dresses, white tights, and black Mary Janes, brothers in black trousers and white shirts, and their parents, preparing to celebrate the Sabbath.  Extended families gathered in the downstairs dining room, while upstairs, a rabbi with long curls and white robe and cap taught a group of young adults the Sabbath rituals. And at another table in the lobby, three preteen boys in khakis and sneakers seem to be arguing with an older sister about what card game to play, while a younger kid in a plaid shirt begs to be allowed to join in. If the babble of voices and laughter is any indication, this is a joyous time to be savored, in which family and faith are inextricably entwined.

As Christians, our the closest thing to the Sabbath is Sunday.  For most of us, the days of roast dinner - or pasta and meatballs - for Sunday lunch - are long gone.  And I don't think I'd want to go back to the days of blue laws and enforced churchgoing three times each Sunday. But I wonder if we have lost something in the process. Sundays are busy, filled with soccer or shopping or the incessant demands of chores.  Family and faith so easily become relegated to the time left over, or perhaps even displaced altogether.  And even when we make them a priority, they are often marked by sullen teenagers and harassed parents and overtired toddlers.  And I wonder, what can we take home for our own weekly celebration of the resurrection?