Sabbath

The Soviet writer Isaac Babel opened his magnificent short story, "Gedali," with these words: "On Sabbath eves I am oppressed by a dense melancholy of memories. " The sentence captivates me, because on Sabbath eves I am oppressed by my own dense melancholy, a melancholy trimmed with memories of great peace and joy. My father's parents, Italian immigrants, bore eight children and raised them in Revere, Mass., near Boston. In those days, Revere - though only four miles from the center of the metropolis - was a mixture of gently rolling farmland, and neighborhoods of crowded houses with small yards.

THERE WAS a time in Philadelphia when "blue laws" prohibited selling anything on Sunday. Apparently, the idea was to remember the Sabbath and keep it holy. Didn't matter that some of us worship in places where they remember the Sabbath on Saturday or Friday - and keep that holy. Or that some folks are offended by keeping anything holy. The blue laws fell under the weight of these arguments, ushering in a new age when we were free to buy our buttons and bows on Sunday. When the wrath of God didn't come down on us, it just figured that someone would take it to the next step: Sunday sales of retail liquor.

A version of this article appeared in the Oct. 17 issue of The Inquirer. For nearly 4,000 years, the phrase has been a bedrock among observant Jews: "Remember the Sabbath day, and keep it holy. " The Fourth Commandment has the power to still storefronts, fill synagogues, and turn the sidewalks of some neighborhoods into a sea of black-garbed Orthodox Jews from sundown Friday to sundown Saturday as they fulfill the obligation to enjoy a day of rest. But ancient practice created a very contemporary predicament for the National Museum of American Jewish History, which will open its new building off Independence Mall on Nov. 26. And dealing with the sanctity of the Sabbath required a Solomonic solution.

Under ancient Torah law, Orthodox Jews are forbidden to carry anything - even a small child or a stroller - outside their homes on the Sabbath. That effectively means that many families cannot go out together from sunset Friday to sunset Saturday each week. For some Orthodox Jews in the Northeast, the modern solution is an eruv, a symbolic extension of the walls of their domains. They plan to accomplish this extension by attaching an inconspicuous but sturdy black string to utility and light poles surrounding their neighborhoods, including all or parts of Oxford Circle, Lawndale, Rhawnhurst and Fox Chase.

It is Friday night in the Holy City, the beginning of the Sabbath. The streets are deserted, the cafes are empty, the buses have all stopped running. But for Ronan Ohana, the night is young and made for boogieing. "I come here to forget everything," said the 19-year-old soldier, who had donned a fashionably slouchy black-and-white checked jacket for the night, as he took a break from dancing in the aisle of a glitzy discotheque in Jerusalem's new nightclub area. "I just want to think about the lights, the music, the girls.

For nearly 4,000 years, the phrase has been a bedrock among observant Jews: "Remember the Sabbath day, and keep it holy. " The Fourth Commandment has the power to still storefronts, fill synagogues, and turn the sidewalks of some neighborhoods into a sea of black-cloaked Orthodox Jews from sundown Friday to sundown Saturday as they fulfill the obligation to enjoy a day of rest. But ancient practice created a very contemporary predicament for the National Museum of American Jewish History, which will open its new building off Independence Mall on Nov. 26. And dealing with the sanctity of the Sabbath required a Solomonic solution.

Perhaps the stickiest issue of all surrounding the opening of the National Museum of American Jewish History last November was whether it would be open on Saturdays. On the one hand, Saturday is potentially the best-attended day of the week for any such institution. But on the other hand, it is also the Sabbath day for observant Jews; operating Saturday could be perceived as a sign of disrespect. But in Solomon-like fashion, a compromise was conjured: The museum is open Saturday, but because Jewish law prohibits cash transactions on Sabbath, tickets must either be purchased in advance, or with credit cards at the museum (the transactions are posted electronically the next day)

On a recent broiling hot summer afternoon, Rabbi Shlomo Caplan, dressed in a black suit, white long-sleeved shirt, gray tie, and with a black fedora pushed back from his forehead, stood in the middle of Wiltshire Road in Wynnewood. Above him, in the bucket of a cherry picker, electrician Jim Hober followed the rabbi's shouted instructions as he pulled a black nylon line through the branches of a tree. "That's good," he said. "Pull it up a bit. . . . Perfect! Good!" Arnold Koffler, coolly attired in sandals and a pair of shorts, strolled out of his house and watched for a few minutes before approaching the man in black.

Whatever happened to Sabbath? It used to mean Sunday for Christians and Saturday for Jews. It was the day taken off from work for religion - and for the rest that religion brought to people who took regular Sabbaths. It was not television and its dramatic replacement of our story with someone else's story. It was not "blitzing out. " It was not hiking, with its grand viewpoints and heavy breathing and body-changing, feel-good potential. Nor was Sabbath time to do errands or get caught up on our desk stress or pay our bills or visit our relatives.

On the Sabbath morning, David Epstein and three of his five children, ages 8, 5 and 3, walk from their home on Upland Terrace to services at the Lower Merion Synagogue six blocks away. Abiding by Torah law, Cheryl Epstein usually stays at home with her 2-year- old son and infant daughter. From sunset on Friday to sunset on Saturday, Orthodox Jews are forbidden by ancient Torah law from carrying any object beyond their domain. They cannot carry their babies beyond the walls of their homes; pushing strollers isn't permitted either.

Perhaps the stickiest issue of all surrounding the opening of the National Museum of American Jewish History last November was whether it would be open on Saturdays. On the one hand, Saturday is potentially the best-attended day of the week for any such institution. But on the other hand, it is also the Sabbath day for observant Jews; operating Saturday could be perceived as a sign of disrespect. But in Solomon-like fashion, a compromise was conjured: The museum is open Saturday, but because Jewish law prohibits cash transactions on Sabbath, tickets must either be purchased in advance, or with credit cards at the museum (the transactions are posted electronically the next day)

Freedom of choice has its limits In her remarks at the Plumstead Christian School, Sarah Palin declared her support for "freedom of choice" by stating, "Who should be making the decisions, what [children] eat in school" ("Cookie charge half-baked," Saturday). She was arguing for freedom of choice for those who wish to eat cookies and other sweets in public schools rather than having a state-imposed standard. Does her support for "freedom of choice" apply equally to women's rights?

A version of this article appeared in the Oct. 17 issue of The Inquirer. For nearly 4,000 years, the phrase has been a bedrock among observant Jews: "Remember the Sabbath day, and keep it holy. " The Fourth Commandment has the power to still storefronts, fill synagogues, and turn the sidewalks of some neighborhoods into a sea of black-garbed Orthodox Jews from sundown Friday to sundown Saturday as they fulfill the obligation to enjoy a day of rest. But ancient practice created a very contemporary predicament for the National Museum of American Jewish History, which will open its new building off Independence Mall on Nov. 26. And dealing with the sanctity of the Sabbath required a Solomonic solution.

For nearly 4,000 years, the phrase has been a bedrock among observant Jews: "Remember the Sabbath day, and keep it holy. " The Fourth Commandment has the power to still storefronts, fill synagogues, and turn the sidewalks of some neighborhoods into a sea of black-cloaked Orthodox Jews from sundown Friday to sundown Saturday as they fulfill the obligation to enjoy a day of rest. But ancient practice created a very contemporary predicament for the National Museum of American Jewish History, which will open its new building off Independence Mall on Nov. 26. And dealing with the sanctity of the Sabbath required a Solomonic solution.

On Friday evenings in Jerusalem, after the sun lies down to rest, the Jewish people close their shops and restaurants in preparation for Shabbat. From sundown Friday to sundown Saturday, technology and labor cease, and rest and religion commence. I was brought up in a very secular household, and tradition and rituals like this never played an important role in my life. So when Friday evening arrived on my first visit to Jerusalem, I'd forgotten how sacred the Sabbath is to religious Jews.

Not that you would call him svelte. By any means. But I ask Mitch Lipkin, 60 now, hasn't he lost some weight? "I lose some. I find some," he shrugs. He is leaning over the counter at Lipkin's Bakery (est. 1975, "before the Bicentennial"), at Castor and Rhawn, which is to say the deep Northeast, the streetscape tending to workaday two-story storefronts, or lower. A Pizza Hut sign looms at the corner, hogging the view. Such as it is. It has been 14 years now since I talked to him at any length.

Once upon a time - in the heavy-metal '80s - a little man with an operatic howl and extravagant lyrics took the reigns of the land's darkest band from its evilest ogre. Before this gets too silly, it was Ronnie James Dio who fronted Black Sabbath after Ozzy Osbourne split. While Tony Iommi's hammering riffs and "Geezer" Butler's lumbering thuds stayed gloriously glum, Dio lent the diabolical Sabbath Dungeons & Dragons-like esprit. Reunited now as Heaven and Hell, with ham-handed drummer Vinny Appice, they stood before a castle's rocks (seriously, that's their staging)

Moses' storied tablets get the sketch-comedy treatment in The Ten , a hit-and-miss omnibus inspired by the Ten Commandments and brought to blasphemous, surreal life by a game troupe that includes Paul Rudd, Famke Janssen, Winona Ryder, Adam Brody, Jessica Alba, Rob Corddry, Gretchen Mol, Justin Theroux and Liev Schreiber. Directed by David Wain, and written by Wain and Ken Marino - both of the '90s cult comedy gang (and MTV show) the State - The Ten handles its "shalts" and "shalt nots" in profane, irreverent, nutball ways.

Moses' storied tablets get the sketch-comedy treatment in The Ten , a hit-and-miss omnibus inspired by the Ten Commandments and brought to blasphemous, surreal life by a game troupe that includes Paul Rudd, Famke Janssen, Winona Ryder, Adam Brody, Jessica Alba, Rob Corddry, Gretchen Mol, Justin Theroux and Liev Schreiber. Directed by David Wain, and written by Wain and Ken Marino - both of the '90s cult comedy gang (and MTV show) the State - The Ten handles its "shalts" and "shalt nots" in profane, irreverent, nutball ways.

Kelvin Green is California University of Pennsylvania's best player. The 6-foot-6 Philadelphian can shoot, go strong to the basket, and rebound at either end. But no matter how clever a game plan Vulcans coach Bill Brown devises for today's NCAA Division II East Regional matchup with West Liberty State, he'll never find a way to get Green the ball. That's because the senior - though healthy and eager to perform in what would be his first NCAA tournament game - won't even be in the Wilson, N.C., arena when his team plays in that first-round matchup at 2:30 p.m. Instead, he'll be relaxing in a nearby hotel room, unaware of the game's score, undismayed by the incongruity of his situation, unconcerned by his absence on what should be the biggest day of his college career.