It has been two weeks since I last posted, and I apologize for the week off. Last week was an especially taxing week, both emotionally and physically, and I took a week away from writing.
Now, though, I wanted to talk about something that I saw on television yesterday. I was, in fact, one of hundreds of thousands of people who saw it. I am referring to a baseball game, a game between the Houston Astros and the Pittsburgh Pirates.
This game started like any other. The ceremonial first pitch was thrown, both teams took batting practice, both pitchers warmed up in the bullpen. It was, however, in the top of the first that something changed.
After Astros first baseman Lance Berkman stepped into the plate, Pirates pitcher Chris Jakubauskas threw a 1-0 pitch. As Berkman took a mighty swing, the ball went flying straight into the head of Jakubauskas. The pitcher hit the deck while the ball flew back in the direction of home plate, over the head of the catcher.
As the play came to an end, the attention shifted from the game to the people playing. Trainers and doctors rushed the field to aid the young pitcher. It was one individual's actions, however, that was the most significant.
Lance Berkman reached first base to conclude the play, and instantly turned, approaching the mound. He was there the entire time the trainers were examining Jakubauskas. He was there when Jakubauskas took his first steps. And he was there when Jakubauskas arrived at the medical cart, patting the man on the shoulder and sharing some words.
Lance Berkman is paid to play a game. He is payed to go about his business and perform at a high level of skill and efficiency. Nowhere in his contract does it say you have to be compassionate to your fellow man. Nowhere does it require him to care about the other players. Yet, he, this baseball player, has shown in one moment more kindness and consideration for human life than most people do on a given day.
I found this to be especially moving because of the time at which it occurred. So many professional athletes play with a chip on their shoulder, a nasty attitude, and a selfish personality. It was especially refreshing and moving to see a man playing a game, but being able to put that game aside when more important things are at stake.
It is for that reason that Berkman is one of the best players in the game. Not because of his home run totals, or his batting average, but rather because of the size of his heart.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Picking up a good read
I have, in the past two weeks, found a new way to spend the first 45 minutes of my weekend. As a member of my congregation who attends services almost every Friday night, I am constantly handling the temple bulletin, but rarely ever looking through it very deeply.
It was on one particular Friday night that a member of the community gave announcements from the brochure, reminding everyone of the Torah study session that would take place the next morning. It was during spring break, a week in which I had slept a very large sum of hours, so I decided to cut my sleep short that morning and go to the 9 a.m. study session.
When I got there, I was the youngest member of the group. I was welcomed with open arms, making me feel instantly like part of this small, yet cozy, community.
As the other group members got coffee and mingled, the Rabbi entered, and began to lead the discussion based on the weekly portion.
Instantly I was amazed. The deep thinking and search for meaning was breath-taking, form the first lines of the Torah to the last sentence of the conversation. I was overwhelmed with the insight of my fellow knowledge-seekers, and felt as though this, THIS, was what Judaism, but more specifically, religious practice, was all about.
After the 45 minutes were up, everyone talked for a few minutes, and departed on their separate ways. I had enjoyed this so much that I was considering coming back the next week.
That is when the first rough patch showed up. After a week of homework, stress, and sleeplessness, I was faced with a decision: Give up an hour or two of sleep on Saturday morning, or catch up on the lost relaxation.
I finally decided that I would set my alarm and get up. I could sleep some other time, but Torah was waiting.
Again, I got to the group, and again we discussed, debated, disagreed, and deliberated on the best ways to interpret the words. What was most striking was that we all were reading from the same book, yet of the twelve people in the room, each was reading the black letters a little differently.
This was, quite possibly, one of the most meaningful events of my Jewish life to date. I have never been able to have conversations with such a range of ages and life experiences as I did in those two sessions. I was able to grow on a personal level, finding my own interpretation of the words, and yet grow as a member of the community.
Additionally, the ability to question what we are taught is a principal in Judaism that makes it so intriguing. In some religions, people are taught to simply "drink the coolaid" and not ask questions. Judaism, on the other hand, encourages people to question. In fact, Yisrael, the name that Jacob took up and would later lead to the name of our homeland, means "one who struggles with God" and is where we get our drive for debate and struggle.
I love these classes. I love the ability to find a place in my community. And I love the struggle. Especially, I love to know that I am not struggling alone, and that I am, rather, grappling with the same words that my ancestors have been discussing for thousands of years. That is what Judaism is all about.
It was on one particular Friday night that a member of the community gave announcements from the brochure, reminding everyone of the Torah study session that would take place the next morning. It was during spring break, a week in which I had slept a very large sum of hours, so I decided to cut my sleep short that morning and go to the 9 a.m. study session.
When I got there, I was the youngest member of the group. I was welcomed with open arms, making me feel instantly like part of this small, yet cozy, community.
As the other group members got coffee and mingled, the Rabbi entered, and began to lead the discussion based on the weekly portion.
Instantly I was amazed. The deep thinking and search for meaning was breath-taking, form the first lines of the Torah to the last sentence of the conversation. I was overwhelmed with the insight of my fellow knowledge-seekers, and felt as though this, THIS, was what Judaism, but more specifically, religious practice, was all about.
After the 45 minutes were up, everyone talked for a few minutes, and departed on their separate ways. I had enjoyed this so much that I was considering coming back the next week.
That is when the first rough patch showed up. After a week of homework, stress, and sleeplessness, I was faced with a decision: Give up an hour or two of sleep on Saturday morning, or catch up on the lost relaxation.
I finally decided that I would set my alarm and get up. I could sleep some other time, but Torah was waiting.
Again, I got to the group, and again we discussed, debated, disagreed, and deliberated on the best ways to interpret the words. What was most striking was that we all were reading from the same book, yet of the twelve people in the room, each was reading the black letters a little differently.
This was, quite possibly, one of the most meaningful events of my Jewish life to date. I have never been able to have conversations with such a range of ages and life experiences as I did in those two sessions. I was able to grow on a personal level, finding my own interpretation of the words, and yet grow as a member of the community.
Additionally, the ability to question what we are taught is a principal in Judaism that makes it so intriguing. In some religions, people are taught to simply "drink the coolaid" and not ask questions. Judaism, on the other hand, encourages people to question. In fact, Yisrael, the name that Jacob took up and would later lead to the name of our homeland, means "one who struggles with God" and is where we get our drive for debate and struggle.
I love these classes. I love the ability to find a place in my community. And I love the struggle. Especially, I love to know that I am not struggling alone, and that I am, rather, grappling with the same words that my ancestors have been discussing for thousands of years. That is what Judaism is all about.
Sunday, April 4, 2010
I'll Pass
This week marks the time when Jews remember our exodus from Egypt, celebrating with the holiday of Passover. Huge Seders, forty family members around one table, and more matzo than anyone knows how to eat is the way we Jews commemorate our freedom.
The most notable custom of observance, however, is the avoidance of bread, and other leavened products. It doesn't stop at bread, though, on the list of banned foods. Pasta, corn, anything with corn syrup, and anything that, oh, I don't know, tastes even remotely edible.
My brother hates Passover. Really, who can blame him? All of his favorite foods are banned. He has to go to three Seders, each lasting quite some time. He has to explain to his non-Jewish friends why he has to eat that flat, tasteless sheet of cardboard.
Passover is a holiday that is met with more complaining than I've ever heard. If God had heard the kvetching that the Jews would put up, God might not have passed over the opportunity to shut us up.
From a selfish, narrow-minded perspective, Passover sucks. But in the greater picture, it is probably one of the most meaningful holidays on the calendar. In our avoidance of leavened products, we are being more mindful about what enters our mouths, rather than just stuffing it with anything that crosses our path. By being aware of our own dissatisfaction with our food opportunities, we are better able to empathize with those who are hungry and who have no choice at all in what they eat. And by taking this one element out of our diet, we are able to form a connection, from generation to generation, ledor vador, between all of the thousands of generations before us who have had to fast in kind.
I am especially saddened when someone gives up fasting, after years of practice. I have friends who have kept Passover for many years, but decided this year that it just wasn't worth it, so they are chowing down on their sandwiches and other bread-filled treats. How can someone so simply abandon something that has been a fixture of our faith for, literally, five thousand plus years?
A week is a long time to change something so habitual as eating. You can't eat what you want at restaurants, can't have the freedom to blindly fill your mouth. Yet a week, in the grand sceme of things, really isn't a big deal. Gam Ze Yaavor, this too shall pass. Our ancestors were able to attain their freedom, something that we take for granted today. They wandered for forty years in the desert. We can't suffer for eight days?
The most notable custom of observance, however, is the avoidance of bread, and other leavened products. It doesn't stop at bread, though, on the list of banned foods. Pasta, corn, anything with corn syrup, and anything that, oh, I don't know, tastes even remotely edible.
My brother hates Passover. Really, who can blame him? All of his favorite foods are banned. He has to go to three Seders, each lasting quite some time. He has to explain to his non-Jewish friends why he has to eat that flat, tasteless sheet of cardboard.
Passover is a holiday that is met with more complaining than I've ever heard. If God had heard the kvetching that the Jews would put up, God might not have passed over the opportunity to shut us up.
From a selfish, narrow-minded perspective, Passover sucks. But in the greater picture, it is probably one of the most meaningful holidays on the calendar. In our avoidance of leavened products, we are being more mindful about what enters our mouths, rather than just stuffing it with anything that crosses our path. By being aware of our own dissatisfaction with our food opportunities, we are better able to empathize with those who are hungry and who have no choice at all in what they eat. And by taking this one element out of our diet, we are able to form a connection, from generation to generation, ledor vador, between all of the thousands of generations before us who have had to fast in kind.
I am especially saddened when someone gives up fasting, after years of practice. I have friends who have kept Passover for many years, but decided this year that it just wasn't worth it, so they are chowing down on their sandwiches and other bread-filled treats. How can someone so simply abandon something that has been a fixture of our faith for, literally, five thousand plus years?
A week is a long time to change something so habitual as eating. You can't eat what you want at restaurants, can't have the freedom to blindly fill your mouth. Yet a week, in the grand sceme of things, really isn't a big deal. Gam Ze Yaavor, this too shall pass. Our ancestors were able to attain their freedom, something that we take for granted today. They wandered for forty years in the desert. We can't suffer for eight days?
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