In classical Jewish literature, Saturday—Shabbat, the sabbath—is considered to be, “a taste of the world to come.”1 It is a whole day dedicated to imagining and acting out the peace that will come at the end of days. Some Jews eat luxurious meals or go on long walks unencumbered by worldly responsibilities, and some spend quality time with loved ones. And though it is a taste of the world to come, Shabbat is not meant to be so overwhelming a flavor that we forget ourselves and our obligations to our communities, the world, and the image of God that lives in each and every person. But it is a reminder that a better world is always possible.
In a Brookline park on an unseasonably warm December day for Boston, Ibrahim, Jassa, and I sat for Shabbat lunch. We enjoyed this taste as members of the Dignity Project community, a community dedicated to fully experiencing other peoples’ religious realities and seeking to understand perspectives and lives that might be foreign to our own. Ahead of time, I told the two of them to bring only themselves, a healthy sense of curiosity, and a good appetite.
After Shabbat services ended, I walked with my friend Amelia to the park and began setting up a picnic blanket filled with food for us to enjoy. Mustering up all my skills in table design, I put out the spread of hummus, borekas, roasted vegetables, challah, and more. As Ibrahim and Jassa arrived, we began with small talk and some deeper getting-to-know-you. As the meal progressed, I explained the finer details of the rituals associated with Shabbat lunch. Why do we salt the challah bread? The salt symbolizes the covenant between God and the Jewish people. What does it mean to sanctify the day before eating? We thank God for giving us the Sabbath day as a day of rest for everybody.
When we reached the grace at the end of the meal—Birkat HaMazon—Ibrahim and Jassa demonstrated the vitality and importance of the Dignity Project. I asked them to expound upon a line toward the end of the blessing: “I was young and now I’m old, but never have I seen the righteous forsaken nor their children begging for bread.” In my liberal Jewish world, I’ve always seen this line explained away as apologetics or as aspirational. When the Messiah comes, I can hear my middle school Bible teacher saying, we will live in such a world without hunger. Ibrahim and Jassa, however, surprised me with their readings. They both spoke steadfastly from within their Islam and Sikhism, respectively, and insisted that, If we are truly pious and righteous, then God will give us all that we need. I was floored, impressed, and deeply moved by the sincerity of their beliefs. It reminded me of the direct, intercessory role blessing can have—a concept that is often foreign to liberal Jews like me.
Working in the Dignity Project allowed me to participate in countless moments like this. Moments where my assumptions about my own faith, experience of race and class, and perceptions of the world were challenged by young people who are dedicated to pursuing their personal truths through vigorous, rigorous, and pluralistic means. In that Shabbat lunch, I was able to understand the Dignity Project for what it is meant to be—a taste of the world to come.