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I went to a festival the other day. It was ostensibly one of those crunchy-granola, blissed-out, We are One, Earth People, California peace and love fests. What struck me, however, was how much of the fair grounds were given over to commerce. About eighty-percent of the space, it seemed, was taken up by booths with people selling bells, crystals, candles, ways of life, musical instruments, plants, food, pipes of various kinds and an absolute tonnage of clothes. To navigate from stage to stage, one had to negotiate a world on sale.

I’ve been reading an interesting book recently—Salt: a world history. It’s reminding me, in great detail, of how much our world has been shaped by people striving to sell things. It’s such a central feature of our way of life I don’t know why it should seem strange to me, but it does. I’ve lived in and been the beneficiary of a capitalist society all my life, but I can’t help feeling that we’re off the mark somewhat. Not entirely, but somewhat.

It brings to mind the story of Kain and Abel. The Bible is pretty terse with the narrative of these two brothers, leaving out a whole lot of details. It mentions only that they both offered sacrifices, that God rejected Kain’s, and that Kain was pissed and killed his brother. But that’s just about it. The murder itself gets only one line: ‘And Kain spoke to his brother Abel when they were in the field, and Kain rose up against Abel his brother and killed him.’ That’s it.

There’s an ancient midrash, oral account, that fleshes out this story, helping us to understand the nature of the world’s first murder by answering the question—what did they talk about? “‘Let us divide the world,’ they said. One took the land, the other all possessions. The first said, ‘the land you are standing on belongs to me.’ The other replied, ‘the clothes you are wearing are mine. Strip.’ The other countered, ‘fly’. After this, Kain rose up and killed his brother Abel.”

Our system for wealth generation may seem pretty sensible, but unchecked it has some deep flaws. Just consider some of the things we’re willing to sell to make money. One of the clearest cases of excess is what one New York Times journalist called, “perhaps…one of President Bush’s most lasting legacies.” He was referring to massive arms deals that were pushed through in the last years of the Bush presidency. In a three-year period, from 2005 to 2008, US government weapon sales abroad increased almost threefold, from $12 to $32 billion. Major beneficiaries of this trade were, of course, Iraq and Afghanistan. But the deals were far from limited to these two titans of stability. The windfall also piled great drifts of “tanks, helicopters and fighter jets [and] missiles, remotely piloted aircraft and even warships” on the shores of such secure, dependable, sure-to-never-let-things-get-into-the-wrong-hands countries as Pakistan, Saudi Arabia, Qatar, the United Arab Emirates, Morocco, Azerbaijan, Romania and Georgia.

When a man came to the Chofetz Chaim, the great ethicist, and asked how he could make amends for all of the bad things he had said about other people, the Chofetz Chaim cut open a pillow, went to the window and scattered the feathers on the wind. ‘When you’ve collected all the feathers and put them back in the pillow,’ he told the man, ‘you will have repaired all the damage.’

In selling weapons around the world, we’re scattering feathers that kill. To do so, we employ a bizarre logic that isn’t all that dissimilar from the logic we use to support our consumerist way of life. Our economic model is based on a premise of self-interested competition; in tandem with this, we act without considering all of the long-term consequences, the true costs. One senior Pentagon official justified the increase in arms sales simply by asking, “Would you rather they bought the weapons and aircraft from other countries?” No. But is that the only other option?

Pursuing self-interest, without considering the consequences over time, can be disastrous. It is the cause of our current economic meltdown.

Unchecked competition and consumption can act like a cancer, destroying its host organism and, ultimately, itself. This is at the root of Alan Greenspan’s revelation, after years of being one of its lead champions, that capitalism in its current incarnation may not function in a stable, healthy, rational manner. This is why, as he told Congress, he was in a “state of shocked disbelief” to discover “a flaw in the model that [he] perceived is the critical functioning structure that defines how the world works.” That flaw, simply put, is that self-interest alone is not a sufficiently reliable governing principle to ensure the proper functioning of an economy, not a sound enough ideology on which to establish a society’s wellbeing.

One of the deepest insights of the Torah (Hebrew Bible) is that self-interest must be balanced not only against the interests of others, but also against something much greater. In biblical speak, this greater thing would be the divine. On our plane, the Torah proposes we accomplish this by balancing our competitive self-interest against time. With the Sabbatical and Jubilee years, the Torah encourages us to make episodic corrections that take the edge off ballooning inequities and allow our overall organism (the earth and all its creatures, including us) to recalibrate. Indeed, it could be argued that the market corrections we currently experience every seven years or eight years are a direct reflection of the Torah’s inherent wisdom in this regard. The corrections we face now, however, are involuntary. If we took it upon ourselves to correct the disparities in our system, by periodically adjusting for accumulated inequities and other harmful consequences, it’s entirely possible that we could avoid these financial hiccups and, more importantly, the economic tsunamis that occasionally follow in their wake.

Ultimately, though commerce carves and shapes our world, we are still only selling our own planet back to ourselves. One of the key underlying lessons of the story of Kain and Abel is about interdependence. Each brother could not thrive without the other; they both needed what the other produced. That’s how an organism works. When the accumulation of wealth becomes an end in itself, unchecked, we divorce that growth from the bedrock reality of our world. Money becomes abstract. We can print more, but that doesn’t make the planet a bigger place. Our own accumulation also doesn’t ensure the wellbeing others. In fact, it often diminishes it. Living in a world where a tiny percentage of the people control the lion’s share of resources is simply evidence that we still don’t comprehend the true nature of life. It demonstrates that we’re not thinking like an organism.

So what’s the alternative? We learn to live with what we have, to slow down, take a step back and let go of our accumulation; we learn to share this planet more equitably. This probably sounds overly simplistic and idealistic, but it may just be the most difficult, rational thing we could ever do.

Peaceful Sabbath,

Jonathan

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[I apologize for the delay in getting this out. Friday I was in no condition to write anything.]

“Now here [the sages] have awakened us to a great secret of secrets from the Torah… Bend your ear to hear what I am permitted to make you hear from it, in language that you will hear. And if you merit, you will comprehend…”
–Nachmanides

You may not have the slightest interest in the Torah (Hebrew Bible), which is completely understandable. You may even think of it as a primitive text filled with unconscionable violence and an alarmingly arrogant, malevolent god. Still, I urge you to at least consider that there may be some good reasons why it has survived as a major religious guide for so long. The secret Nachmanides is pointing towards is certainly one of them. Its relevance penetrates beyond any national, religious or cultural boundaries.

It would be difficult to overstate the authority of Nachmanides as an interpreter of the Torah. Known in traditionalist circles as the Ramban (from the initials of Rabbi Moses ben Nachman), his commentary on the Torah has been a central text for nearly eight hundred years. Drawing from all possible sources to illuminate deeper meanings, it makes clear that he devoured the canon whole, and retained every morsel. His insights are challenging, and sparkle with fresh possibility even today.

Before looking at the relevance of his secret for our time however, we must acknowledge an innate difficulty. When the Ramban wrote that he would say what he was “permitted”, he did not have anyone sitting over his shoulder, staying his hand. In dealing with ancient Hebrew, we’re faced with a language that aimed to express the essence of a thing through the word used to describe it. This is why the word for “word” and the word for “thing” are one and that same: Davar means both “thing” and “word”—there is no separation. The situation at hand is a perfect illustration of this. In referring to something as a great secret, the Ramban is pointing towards what is in essence secret. As Akiva Tatz has put it, ‘it’s not secret because no one will tell you; it’s secret because no one can tell you.’ This is the Torah version of, ‘The Tao that can be spoken is not the true Tao.’

Seen in this light, the Ramban’s call to bend our ears is not hyperbole, it’s literal. I won’t be able to tell you the secret. Still, we can dance around the periphery, hoping to fall in. As the Ramban indicated, if we merit, we will comprehend. In this instance, the word for “comprehend” can also be read as contemplate, examine or study. If you’re still reading, congratulations! Apparently you’ve got some merit under your belt.

In order to investigate the Ramban’s secret, we’ll work from the outside in. First off, if we take a giant step back and look at the Torah from a distance, perhaps the simplest and fairest way to characterize it is: It’s about service to something greater than ourselves. This should come as no surprise to those aware that the traditional tally of the number of commandments contained in the Torah comes to six hundred and thirteen.

If service is the essence of Torah, then we can reasonably deduce that the Ramban is pointing towards some kind of secret about the nature of service. Even further, we can surmise that he is alluding to the deepest nature of service, the service of service.

While we’re out here looking from a distance, we also need to identify the countervailing force to service. All things in form exist in contrast, duality, so service too must have its counterpart. In biblical terms, we would call this counterforce exile. Just as there are degrees of service, so too with exile. These two forces have a dynamic, inverse relationship. The degree to which we serve is the degree to which we are no longer in exile. Ultimate service, the service of service, is the final end to exile, and vice versa.

The Ramban’s comments relating to this great secret are in large part an elucidation of the deeper nature of this relationship and its consequences. His words serve as both a caution and an alert to opportunity. Throughout his long commentary on the Torah, the Ramban draws attention to the connection between our actions and the fate of the world, the interrelationship between the twin destinies of humanity and the earth. One way to look at it is, he was anticipating climate change by nearly a thousand years (of course he was taking his cue from the Torah, which alluded to this relationship millennia earlier). In conveying the secret at hand the Ramban was pointing towards the essential choice we face: that is, which direction do we take—service, or exile?

To understand the nature of this choice we need to come in for a closer look and examine the Ramban’s remarks in their specific context. In doing so, we find that they relate to two commandments in particular—the Sabbatical year and the Jubilee year. Of all the commandments in the Torah, the argument has been made many times over hundreds of years that these two require the greatest degree of selflessness to fulfill. Putting them into practice requires that we look beyond our narrowly defined personal interests and subsume our individual wills to the greater good. Not easy.

The commandments relating to the Sabbatical and Jubilee years include radical prescriptions for economic freedom and ecological renewal. They require that we do more than hope that our individual actions will add up to a sustainable, healthy, peaceful, just, free world; they call on us to align our personal choices with a very clear endgame, a specific, shared vision. They call on us to give up liberty in favor of freedom.

But it goes much deeper than this, obviously, or it wouldn’t be such a great secret. The fulfillment of these commandments points to a mode or degree of selflessness that takes us far beyond any simple prescriptions for socialist economics. To realize the Jubilee, in particular, requires the attainment of selflessness in its ultimate form. And this is where words begin to fail, where we encounter the outer reaches of a new atmosphere and language starts to break apart upon entry.

There is a state—of mind, spirit, body—where all of this makes sense. Where the Ramban’s secret is perfectly clear, and the entire Torah comes into singular, crystal focus. This is also the state where fulfilling the Jubilee not only becomes possible, but natural. It is the end of all exile, the ultimate indwelling. In this state there is no true other. We see clearly that our own wellbeing and that of others, including the earth and all its creatures, are one and the same. This state of transcendent oneness cannot be conveyed in words, but it stands as the remedy to all exile, the ultimate form of service and the destiny of humankind, should we choose it.

I wish I could say more, and hopefully I will. But for now, if we contemplate these ideas, we may come to merit comprehending them…

Peaceful Sabbath,

Jonathan

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I’m gonna let you in on a little secret; actually, a great secret. But not quite yet.

It’s an abbreviated week. This evening the holiday of Shavuot, the Festival of Weeks, begins. I’m on my way to celebrate and teach. Because of other obligations, I haven’t had time to prepare something for you yet this week. The remainder of today, tomorrow and Saturday will be taken up with festivities. So, this week what I give you is a promise.

Tonight, we commemorate the receiving of the Torah (Hebrew Bible) and the Ten Commandments. If you think you know what that means, what the Torah is, I urge you to think again. For the past four years, I have been pursuing an answer, aiming to solve a riddle. Nachmanides, the great scholar, philosopher and kabbalist, in his extraordinary commentary on the Torah, points to what he called one of its greatest secrets. According to him, this is a secret that Moses himself, who we traditionally say wrote the entire Torah, did not know.

I have spent the past few years struggling to comprehend what Nachmanides was driving at. I can’t say that I fully understand what he wrote, but I have gained a deeper feeling for it. The commitment I make to you is, by sometime next Friday, June 5th (b’h), I will begin the process of unpacking this secret. I will endeavor to share, to the best of my abilities, some of the truths Nachmanides was pointing towards. I make no promise that it will change your life; I only promise to speak my truth about it.

Until then, may the light of revelation shine upon you.

Peaceful Sabbath,

Jonathan

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All week long I’ve been planning to write about something else—Adam and the fiftieth. But now I want to talk about paradox.

Paradox—two seemingly opposite, apparently mutually exclusive phenomena being true simultaneously. Or something like that.

For a while now, one of my takes on the story of Adam and Eve is that in the Garden they lived in a pre-paradoxical state. They saw only their oneness, their unity. They were merged with the divine and with one another. They saw no other, no multiplicity.

After eating from the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil, Adam and Eve entered a state of paradox. Suddenly, they could see otherness, separateness. Reconciling this manyness with the unity they could now only remember became the source of great confusion. Living in a world of reason, they could no longer see how two could possibly equal one. It didn’t made sense, and still doesn’t, for these two seemingly opposite, apparently mutually exclusive possibilities to be true simultaneously.

The objective—of spiritual practice, of Torah, of humanity—can partly be characterized as a shift into a post-paradoxical state—where we see two, yet know one, and hold these two truths simultaneously and without conflict.

Why am I writing about this now? It’s Thursday evening, actually really early Friday morning. I’ve just been outside doing my practice, dialoguing about my day with, for lack of any truly appropriate terminology, God. I’ve had a long, challenging day. There were several stories percolating in my mind about situations with other people. This hasn’t been the case recently. Mostly, I’ve just been in a place of blessed union (not ultimate union, but still blessed). Going into the dialogue this evening I felt confused, agitated, concerned. After clearing away the cobwebs of identification with my stories, I came back to the recognition that everything coming my way is for my own good, that literally everything that comes towards me is a gift, beckoning me to awaken. I return feeling present, connected and blessed.

It struck me how one set of phenomena can lead to two such disparate results. On the one hand, I can get completely trapped in my stories about events, their impact and consequences. This, evidence seems to indicate, is the general state for most of us. On the other hand, knowing the stories fully, moving through them, understanding my relationship to them in the deepest sense, the same events can help lead me to clarity, truth and greater peace.

The great kabbalist Rabbi Isaac Luria, the Arizal, said that in Egypt (where we just were 15 days ago) the nation of Israel had reached the 49th level of degradation. According to this view, had we remained slaves for even one more instant, we would have fallen to the 50th and suffered complete spiritual death as a nation. As we know, we turned things around, 180, and reached instead the 50th level of purity at Mount Sinai. One circumstance, two opposite directions.

This challenge, and opportunity, is the paradoxical universe we face still today. As we move through this time of year, counting the fifty days of our journey from Passover—physical, emotional, psychological and spiritual slavery—to the ultimate freedom of our encounter with the divine, I pray that we can find the strength, as a species, to not turn from the great challenges we face, but to confront them head on. I pray that we come, all of us, to fully grasp the pain of a world plagued by violence, hunger and ecological destruction, and that we move through these crises to see them as terrible gifts, urging us ever more intently to awaken to our true nature—many-faceted beings who, to survive and blossom, must come to comprehend and embody our fundamental and astonishing oneness.

Peaceful Sabbath,

Jonathan

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I’ve been thinking about free will lately. I just came back from an event called Pesach in the Desert. A wonderful time spent with about sixty like-minded people in the spare, hot wilderness far to the east of here.

I offered a class on one of my favorite stories from the Talmud, about Eliezer be Dordia:

Eliezer ben Dordia’s claim to fame was that he had slept with every prostitute on earth. One day, he heard of one more prostitute. She lived in a distant land at the edge of the sea, a perilous journey, and charged several hundred gold dinars for her hire. But this was his life, his reason for being, this was who he was, so he somehow collected the money and set out to meet her.

He traveled across seven rivers to the edge of the sea. He gave her the money, and they went into her chambers. Just as they were about to do it, to consummate, she let out a loud fart. She looked him directly in the eye. “That,” she said, indicating her release, “has as much chance of going back to its source as Eliezer ben Dordia does of going back to his.”

He ran from her room and into the hills. He sat between two mountains. “Mountains and valleys,” he cried, please intercede for me in the heavenly court and beg for my forgiveness!” “Sorry,” they replied. “We cannot bear true witness for you. We too are unworthy. We cannot do it.”

“Heaven and earth,” Eliezer ben Dordia pleaded, “intercede in the heavenly court on my behalf and beg for my forgiveness!” But they too claimed to be unworthy and unable. He next turned to the Sun and Moon, then to the stars and galaxies, with the same result.

Finally he proclaimed, “I understand, it’s all up to me.” He put his head between his knees and he wept. At the end of an hour, his soul left his body and a voice came from the heavens, “Rabbi Eliezer ben Dordia has been accepted into the World to Come.”

Hearing this, the great Judah Hanassi remarked, “Some of us, it takes an entire lifetime to gain the merit to enter the World to Come. Eliezer ben Dordia did it in one hour of weeping, and he gets called Rabbi.”

*

Certainly a perplexing tale to find in a code of sacred law, the story of Eliezer ben Dordia bears interpretation on many levels. But I’d like to focus on just one for now.

The last words we hear from ben Dordia are, “I understand, it’s all up to me.” This is, in a way, his final lesson.

We tend to think of free will in the abstract. It seems to me that way at least. In my tradition, Judaism, and I imagine in others, free will is a fundamental, bedrock principle. Yet rarely do we seem to confront what that truly means; we bump around life, going from place to place, activity to activity, work, eating, sleeping, mostly in a kind of fog. But what free will actually means is that at every given moment, this moment, any future is possible. We literally have the freedom, always, to choose whatever world we wish to create. This is true for us as individuals, and as a species. From this point on, we can build whatever is deepest in our hearts. All we really need to do is, like Eliezer ben Dordia, wake up to the true depths of our freedom.

At this time of year, as we move from the energy of slavery and make our way towards the promise of freedom, I pray that we find the strength to see the full scope of our free will, and ultimately that we come to exercise it in the service of building a world of peace, justice and freedom for all people, all creatures and the earth.

Peaceful Sabbath,

Jonathan

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Hi folks;

As many of you know, the time leading up to Passover (Pesach) can be just about the busiest time of year. There are many preparations to make. In light of this, the posting this week is brief. It’s a poem I wrote a few days ago. What it lacks in rhythm and meter, it makes up for in brevity:

what is Pesach?

birth
beginning
possibility

an opportunity
to leap across boundaries
and come home

pesach is the threshold
of this bridge
taking 49 steps
to cross

inward and out

the far side
deep within
the fiftieth

gateway
to another world
either direction

though it looks like we left there
long ago
we stand in the middle
still

our only responsibility
to shift the balance
in this moment

if we take one step
towards love
now
here

the entire world will tip
to one side
and blossom

I wish you all true freedom; exodus from whatever holds you back as an individual, and an easy passage through the desert of change for us all, along with quick entry into a world of our most highly realized potential.

Peaceful Sabbath,

Jonathan

please note: because of the holiday, next week’s posting may not appear until Friday. I’ll try to make it Tuesday if I can…

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We live in a pretty frenetic world. Most of our waking lives are spent going from one thing to the next. Rarely do we take the time for true, unalloyed stillness.

This lifestyle is a reflection of our inner state, our mental busyness. As much as we might like to think that others are responsible for organizing the world in such a way that we’ve got to run, to some degree we all play a role in perpetuating this way of life. To fully assume our responsibility as a species—to live in harmony with one another, all species and the planet—we must cultivate greater stillness in our lives: inner and outer.

These two dimensions of stillness are mutually reinforcing: Inner stillness—cultivated by meditation, prayer, dance, yoga, simple quiet sitting, walking in nature, etc., helps us to become outwardly still. As I write this, I realize the irony that all of the “activities” I just listed are outwardly rather still. Nevertheless, cultivating greater inner stillness expands our capacity to be outwardly so beyond those moments when we specifically practice it. The same goes for integrating outward stillness into our lives in a broader sense, and the influence this has on inner stillness. Turning the phone off, reading instead of watching tv, lingering over dinner, leaving the car at home, taking a bath…These outward choices, which don’t necessarily constitute any kind of meditative practice, nevertheless increase our connection to inner stillness. Like water, wearing away stone, they have an effect.

I just spent a few days in civilization, and it brought me face to face with the challenge before me. How do I translate my ideas into meaningful words when those ideas depend almost entirely on a foundation of stillness, of silence? The kabbalists identify four levels of understanding or wisdom. The deepest of these is called “sod” (pronounced sode), meaning secret. It’s not secret, however, because no one will tell you. It’s secret because no one can. This is the area of understanding that can better be characterized as experiential, rather than intellectual.

I’m new to the blogosphere. In fact, I originally had no intention for Global Sabbath to be a blog. But until I learn to say what I feel to say in a way you can hear, this is the shape my work is taking. I’m told that to truly survive in the blog world, I need to post at least weekly. This is difficult news for someone who spends days at a time in silence, and who would almost always rather stand in front of a redwood than sit in front of a computer. But I’d like to be a responsible citizen of this new realm, so here I am.

So what can I say? I’d like to make an experiential request: Find an hour this week; just an hour. Do your best to get yourself into a place in nature that has little to no sign of human shaping. Go alone, or if you must go with others agree to spend the time in silence. Walk, sit, write, reflect…just be there. If you want, let me/us know how it goes.

Until next week.

Peaceful Sabbath,

Jonathan

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Welcome UrbanMan-ites. I just posted this site about a month ago. Being somewhat reclusive, and just a bit gun-shy, I’ve yet to do much publicizing. The Urban Man’s radio essay describing me as a bearded Jeremiah figure has certainly boosted traffic.

So what are you getting yourself into? Jeremiah? Maybe. The point is, yes, as the Urban Man reported we’ve got to slow down as a species. Our current lifestyles are unsustainable. Physically and spiritually. We can print more money and pump it into the system to boost the economy, but that’s not going to make the earth a bigger place. It’s not going to create more wood, steel, land and water. Our monetary fiction will just become increasingly dissociated from the world as it truly is.

Ultimately though, this outer disconnect is a reflection of something deeper, something we all carry around with us. We’re not truly living to our potential as a species. And that potential, that gap between where we are now and where we could be, can best be described as a spiritual, rather than a technical gap. We have everything we need to create the world that deep down most of us truly yearn for—a world without hunger, violence and ecological destruction. We have all the information and know-how. What we need is the desire, the will, the vision.

I am not, as the Urban Man suggested, aiming to have everyone keep the Sabbath as it has traditionally been kept, with a day off every week from driving, money, work…But I am hoping that we can begin to live by some of its deeper principles, principles that encourage us to slow down, stop and reflect. And, once we’ve taken a deep breath and had a clearer look around, to share the gifts of this planet more fairly, to recognize that we all came into this world naked and crying and that ultimately, this gift is here for all of us.

This, this sense that the earth is here for all of us to enjoy, and that to truly enjoy it we’ve got to slow our consumption and cultivate a little contentment with what we’ve already got, is the essence of the Sabbath. This site, globalsabbath, is dedicated to exploring how we might integrate these principles into our lives and world. We’ve got some big plans for globalsabbath. I hope that you urbanites will find some resonance here, maybe subscribe, and come along for the ride.

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The Sabbath is a powerful metaphor for how we can heal this planet and build a better future for ourselves as a species. The chronicler of the book of Genesis, far from simply reducing the origins of this world to a manageable sequence of events, was tapping into a truth that resides deep within the human subconscious. Part of the reason the biblical creation story is so memorable is not just thousands of years of effective marketing, but because it speaks to a core dimension of who we are and what we’re doing here on earth.

This is why the Sabbath is at once breathtakingly simple, so straightforward even a child can understand, yet at the same time vastly multi-dimensional, so much so it can take a lifetime to fully comprehend its depths and meaning.

This forum, this space on the web, is devoted to bringing to light some of those deeper dimensions. Regrettably, most of us seem to have settled with the six-year-old version of the Sabbath and dismissed it as mythological fantasy. This is deeply unfortunate. Perhaps the clearest way to see why is to step back and take wide-angle view of our world, to look at ourselves not as nations and economic unions, but as a species. In doing so, we can begin to see that the solution to all of the great challenges we face as a species—climate change and environmental destruction, war and other forms of violence, poverty and hunger—can best be understood not by what we need to do, but by what we need to stop doing.

In the case of climate change and environmental destruction this is self-evident. We need to stop filling our atmosphere with greenhouse gasses, stop tearing down forests, polluting rivers and pumping harmful chemicals into our soil. Sure, we need to do some other things to offset the costs of stopping these activities, but evidence indicates that even with alternatives, such as new forms of energy, we’ll still need to reduce our activities, our human industry, to a significant degree. In other words, either way we’ve got to slow down, and in many instances eventually stop altogether.

When it comes to war and violence, the principle of stopping is similarly straightforward. We’ve got to stop killing one another. Certainly we need to address the underlying sources of conflict, but these too can best be addressed not by doing, but by undoing, as we shall explore.

In the case of poverty and hunger, it may be less clear-cut to see how not doing is any solution, but it is no less true. Roughly 80 percent of the people who suffer from chronic hunger in our world live in rural areas where agriculture is the main occupation. In other words, they live around food. The problem is, the poor have been pushed off productive land and into the margins. They have, by and large, been cast aside by wealthy landowners. People who suffer from hunger are not lazy. They are more than prepared to feed themselves. In order to end the lion’s share of hunger in our world, we need to stop preventing them from doing so. Again, we will obviously have to do something to offset some of the costs of shifting from our current inequitable system, but the underlying objective remains to stop denying the poor access to productive resources.

Okay, so there’s a lot we need to stop doing. But how can a paradigm that’s thousands of years old possibly help us to achieve this? So “God stopped”, what’s that got to do with us?

[For more, please see: The Revolution will be Spiritual—[basic overview, part two]]

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[Note: I’ve used the G-word in this post. This is simply to explore the meaning of the first Sabbath and its relevance for today. No belief in God is necessary or encouraged.]

According to tradition, the Sabbath is the culmination of creation, the destination. Like any good designer the divine began with the end in mind. In other words the Sabbath, far from being an afterthought, can be seen as the very purpose for the world’s existence. The way I like to put it is, “God wasn’t pooped.” Like any good parent, the divine was modeling behavior. Just as parents who want their children to grow up looking both ways before crossing the street will do so themselves, so too the divine was showing us that it is essential for us to stop one day, that stopping is part of the makeup of the universe.

But what does this mean? How does the Sabbath work in a deeper sense? What would it look like in practice and how is it relevant today?

These are some of the central questions that I hope to address in this forum. For now, let’s take a quick look at what “God” actually did on that first Sabbath. Not surprisingly, “Shabbat” (the Hebrew origin of Sabbath) is the word used to describe the divine’s activity or condition on that day. Shabbat has three primary connotations: to sit, to dwell, and to return. Okay, so God sat and dwelled. But returned? Where was there for God to return to after only six days of creation?

As I said in my first post on this site, the Sabbath unfolds in three primary layers—the daylong weekly Sabbath, the yearlong Sabbath, and the Jubilee—that express the underlying principles of the Sabbath to increasingly intensified degrees. There are two primary dimensions to fulfilling these ideals: The actual practice of them, and; the spiritual state necessary to do so. The Sabbaths, slowing down and eventually stopping our harmful impact on this world and one another, will ultimately entail an incredible degree of selflessness on the part of each of us. These visionary standards cannot be actualized by rote. The only way to attain them is to undertake the spiritual transformation necessary for their fulfillment.

Further, for those of you who may worry at this point that I could be steering towards some kind of proselytism, the benefits of these principles are not limited to any particular set of beliefs or customs. It is we, us humans, who are the common root to all of the crises we see in the world. To transform our world and realize our true potential as a species, we must transform ourselves, all of us. What was God “returning” to after only six days? In creating the world of form, God was creating the possibility of mistaken identity. With form came the risk of thinking that this is it, that there is no more going on in the world than meets the eye. God was returning from multiplicity to a state of transcendent oneness, returning from the dangers of the illusion of separateness. Whatever name you wish to apply to the oneness, it is the central delusion of our separateness that keeps us locked in a world where some live in wealth that surpasses that of some nations, while others have so little they die daily by the thousands from simply not having enough food to eat.

Ultimately, healing our world will require healing the spiritual misapprehensions we all share. The central message, vision and method of the Sabbath are designed to bring about this very transformation. It may be difficult to imagine our world organized around Sabbath principles that aim to slow us down enough to achieve true selflessness. As members of consumer society, it’s probably not even the world we’d choose. But it may just be the world we need.

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