When I think of the Sabbath, I picture Sunday memories of my Christian childhood in Greenville, South Carolina. I can see my little white socks, freshly bleached. I can feel the sweat pooling under my patent leather shoes in the summer heat. I can smell the Crockpot pot roast that my mother had prepped early that morning. I can feel the hard wooden pews pressed against my back as I waited for the long sermon to be over.
I’ve always been...
