Keeping the Sabbath

 

I definitely do not mean to turn this blog into, “Look what I had for dinner tonight!” but I can’t resist. Our dinner tonight was so good and so lovely to look at—a Mediterranean chopped salad with marinated steak. Christian knows how to tenderize even the cheapest cut—tonight was skirt steak, and it was delicious, served with a bit of marinade to go over it. Grilled red bell pepper and onion, and fresh grape tomatoes, sliced baby cucumbers, feta, and pita chips, all drizzled with the marinade which was heavy in lemon zest. A delightful dinner, and as Christian pointed out, healthy.

Tonight there were just the three of us, Jacob being at camp. But the dinner was a bit fancier and a bit more work than any of us do during the week. That’s because we try to keep the tradition of Sunday dinner. When my kids were in high school, I often had fifteen or more at my Sunday dinner table—my kids, some of their friends, assorted friends of mine including the family of my goddaughter, and always, my brother and his two children. I sometimes ran out of menu ideas but occasionally splurged on leg of lamb or turkey roulades. Other times, it was a casserole, but I tried to make it special.

The sermon at my church this morning, delivered by my favorite minister and good friend Renee Hoke, was about keeping the sabbath. Renee began with her childhood memories—rushing to be on time for church, sitting through Sunday school, the ritual of the service, and then rushing home for the roast beef dinner that was in the oven all morning. My memories are a bit different.

On Chicago’s changing South Side in the forties and fifties, we attended St. James Methodist at 46^th and Ellis, because in the twenties my father, in osteopathic school, lived in a fraternity house at 48^th and Ellis. And, a preacher’s kid, he was a loyal attendee. When my brother was old enough to drive, his job was to deliver both of us to Sunday school and then go back home to get Mom and Dad for the eleven o’clock service. Truth is he dropped me off, went cruising (having sworn me to secrecy), and then got our parents for church. I never ratted on him.

But by the fifties, the face of the neighborhood and the church was changing. Neighborhoods in Chicago were segregated along fairly defined lines, and 47^th Street marked the division between black and white. North of 47^th was Bronzeville, a flourishing Black business and residential district. As kids, we knew not to go there—except for church. Our church was increasingly Black and, sad to say, increasingly hostile to the remaining white population. One Sunday Mom heard someone preach about the white man as enemy. She went home with a migraine and vowed never to go back.

I meantime had made friends with several girls who went to the United Church of Hyde Park,

United Church of Hyde Park

safely on 53^rd Street in the middle of the Hyde Park neighborhood, even then a bastion for intellectuals and a diverse population. I began going to Brownies and then gradually to Sunday school and the evening teen group, called for some unknown reason Tuxus. That group and those friends were the core of my high school life, and to this day I remain grateful for that group and that church. Many of my church friends are now gone, but I remain in touch with at least one. It was, quite simply, a marvelous teenage experience.

Meanwhile, back at home, we didn’t have the traditional roast beef—we’d probably been eating it all week. On Sundays Mom would fix “supper” instead of “dinner”—a spinach souffle (my favorite) or a cheese strata or even Welsh rarebit. In winter, she’d roll the tea table into the living room in front of the fireplace, and we’d have our supper there. Fond memories.

Today, all the Sundays of my life come back to me. I am a faithful churchgoer, albeit on my computer, though I keep vowing to attend in person (that takes family cooperation). And I feel the need to make Sunday dinner special—the Burtons feel it too, though not quite as fervently as I do. Yet today was a good example of how I keep the Sabbath—the eleven o’clock service in the morning, a nap in the afternoon, and Sunday dinner in the evening. And somehow, indefinably, Sunday always feels different to me than the weekdays. I think I take to heart the idea of rest, which I think is part of what Rev. Hoke was saying this morning when she talked about detaching—detaching from feeling we need to be in control, to worry about everything. Instead, she suggested delight—watching a hummingbird (that brought memories of my mom), watching a child’s delight (I have a whole warehouse of those memories). I am going to watchful now for sabbath delights—and just maybe tonight’s dinner was one of them.