In case you didn’t recognize that voice, that was the character Gollum from the Lord of the Rings, talking lovingly to the ring of power he’s stroking in his hand. If you’re familiar with the books or the movies, you know the story: Gollum started out life as a human being and stumbled on the ring through an accident of fate. The ring has extraordinary power, and though it has given Gollum long life, its power has intoxicated him to the point that he has spent centuries conflicted, miserable, alone—and basically unrecognizable as a person. (He looks more like a cross between a lizard and an ape.)
It’s not rocket science to figure out that the ring is a metaphor. It’s a symbol for our human intoxication with power. And the way it physically, psychologically, and spiritually deforms Gollum–that’s meant to hold up a mirror to all of us. I think the idea is to make us consider what in our own lives functions as our “precious”–what are the things we possess that now possess us?
If you google “Gollum memes,” you’ll find some answers. There are a lot of funny ones about coffee, for instance. If you’re like me, that nectar of the gods in the morning is definitely “my precious”–I’ll go a little crazy without it. But it doesn’t take long for the memes to get more serious. And, inevitably, the object in our contemporary lives that, for most of us, most resembles the Ring of Power is also something we hold in our hand, stroke with our finger, and gaze at for hours and hours a day: our phone.
I’m sure I don’t need to quote the stats. You know them already. Most of us spend far more time on our phones than we think is healthy, and there are lots of bad social effects that seem to be linked to that collective behavior: skyrocketing rates of loneliness, anxiety, and depression; lower levels of social trust; toxic politics. We don’t talk at restaurants anymore, we don’t go out with friends, and we can hardly pay enough attention to read a book. Yes, there are some good things too—I mean, if you put on the Ring of Power, you could be invisible if you were being chased by orcs, and that was good. But let’s be real: most of us would rather have a very different relationship with our phone than we do.
This isn’t a new topic on this podcast. But this week I want to give it special emphasis as part of our miniseries on Shabbat rituals. Our first three episodes focused on the key rituals of Friday night: lighting candles, making kiddush, blessing the meal. Today I want to talk about how we can practice Shabbat beyond those rituals, and especially how Shabbat can be a time to reset our relationship with technology in general, and our phones in particular. In other words, how not to become Gollum.
Before we get to how to do this, let’s spend a moment to understand why. The Torah was written thousands of years ago. There’s no verse where God tells the Israelites, “Don’t use your smartphone on Shabbat.” If you’re looking for a prooftext, I think you’ll find it more in how we’ve come to understand the spirit of Shabbat. We know we’re supposed to make Shabbat qualitatively different than the rest of the week. The Talmud even says that applies down to the way we walk, the way we talk, the way we eat—everything should be more purposeful, more mindful, more present.
For most of us in today’s world, nothing is as ubiquitous as our phones and all that connectivity. And so if we’re looking for how to make Shabbat different than the rest of the week, it seems like a pretty obvious place to start.
The idea of being without your phone for 25 hours, or even just for an evening, might be exhilarating, or it might be terrifying. So I’d ask you to pause for a moment and just see how that idea makes you feel. Are you excited or anxious, or something else? Why do you think you might feel the way you do?
My guess—and, not being right there with you, this is really just a guess—is that whatever you’re feeling, whether it’s a thrill or dread, has to do with a couple things. One is that our phones, our preciouses, provide us with a sense of control, and surrendering that control can feel really scary. On the other hand, our phones are also what make our lives feel so out of control sometimes, because we’re constantly available to other people and thus we’re constantly expected to respond to texts or snaps or tweets. And even though we may want to unplug from all that, there’s also FOMO if we do (for our older listeners: FOMO stands for fear of missing out), and that’s anxiety-producing in itself.
So here’s a practice and a ritual that can help.
To start, you’ll need to decide how long you’re going to try to unplug for. If a “tech sabbath” is a new thing for you, you may decide that putting the phone away from the time you light Shabbat candles until Saturday morning is best for you. Or you might try to go all the way from Friday night until Saturday night. Just be clear on your goal.
Also: See if you can get a friend or two to do this practice with you. It’s a lot easier to commit if you know you’re part of a team.
Choose a place you’re going to store your phone. Not your bedroom. Not someplace it’s going to be constantly staring at you. Turn off notifications. You might even make a special little box or bag you can put the phone in.
A note here: You may also have good reasons you need to be available–for a loved one you’re caring for, for instance. Use your best judgment, and make sure you let people know in advance that you’re going to be off your device so that you don’t cause them undue stress (and maybe you’ll even inspire them too).
Hold the phone in your hand. Notice how you feel internally. Close your eyes. Take a breath. As you exhale, try to release some tension.
Now, put the phone down in the place you’ll store it. Again, notice how you feel. Take a breath, and again, release tension.
And now, if it’s helpful, you might say the verse that’s part of the traditional Shabbat liturgy: For six days the Creator created, uvayom hashevii shavat vayinafash, but on the seventh day God rested, breathed, and was re-ensouled.
Breathe in, breathe out. Rest. Enter this oasis of holy time. Return to yourself. And realize, perhaps, what’s truly most precious to you.
Shabbat shalom.