When I was 10, my parents enrolled me in Little League. I had never played baseball before, but in my very first game, my very first at bat, I hammered a triple to left, driving in two runs.
It was the last hit I would ever get.
But I remember the breathless thrill of rounding second base to the cheers of the crowd. It was No. 2 on my list of all-time most amazing personal athletic moments (there are only two on the list).
I’m no athlete and never have been. One of my favorite quotes is from the wiseguy who said, “Whenever I get the urge to exercise, I lie down until the feeling passes.”
But I do admire athletic achievement, even in realms beyond sport. To me, Rabbi Yehuda Ferris of Chabad House of Berkeley is a spiritual athlete of Olympian proportions.
Watching him daven, I stand in awe of his ease and fluency with Jewish prayer. Ferris possesses a muscular kavanah (concentration) I cannot hope to emulate.
That’s because, as much as I claim Judaism as a spiritual home base, I remain a benchwarmer when it comes to faith. Like so many Jews, I struggle with the suspension of disbelief.
How can we claim God exists when exhibit A is a book written thousands of years ago? How can Jews keep addressing a God who doesn’t address us back, who calls into being the splendors of the universe but can’t stop a German psychopath with an idiotic moustache and bad haircut?
It seems much easier to disbelieve. But disbelief is a belief, too. It requires faith in the dry certainties of science, in the delimited scope of the human eye.
I watch Ferris at prayer, eyes closed, swaying from side to side, reciting the Amidah at warp speed. Why does he pray so fast? Wouldn’t it be better to take it slowly, to savor the words?
Perhaps this is how a spiritual athlete struts his stuff. Perhaps a first-string davener prays at high speed because he is already up to speed with God. Electricity flows at the speed of light. What could be more electric than Ferris at prayer?
Now we’re getting into physics, a subject I know little about. But I do know the closer one approaches the speed of light, the more time appears to slow down. The famous hypothetical example is that of space travelers who circumnavigate the galaxy at near-light speed. By the time they return home, the ship clock says only a few weeks have gone by, but on Earth decades have passed and everyone the voyagers knew has long since died.
Maybe there’s a parallel with Ferris. The faster he prays, the slower runs his “ship clock.” He may blaze through the words, but in his neshamah (his soul) time stands still.
Which reminds me of my No. 1 all-time most amazing personal athletic moment. I was 24, frolicking at a huge private picnic in the mountains west of Los Angeles. Over at the swimming pool, my friends and I signed up for an inner tube relay race, finding ourselves pitted against much stronger teams.
I didn’t think we had a chance.
But once the race began, our team kept up with the pack. I was the last of our four racers, the anchor leg, and when I plunged into the pool, I felt possessed by a desire to win that far exceeded the importance of the event. Nearing the half-way point of that last lap, I was paddling hard but couldn’t quite catch the leaders.
Then my teammate at the edge of the pool cried out to me, “Slow down!” Somehow I understood what he meant. I deliberately slowed down, and yet, amazingly, sped up. By relaxing my arms, I actually paddled faster, and in a photo finish, our team won the blue ribbon.
It was one of the highlights of my life.
My friends hauled me out of the pool, cheering and hopping with joy. I collapsed on the concrete, exhausted, the hot summer sun already drying the dripping beads of water on my back.
As far as I’m concerned, a great miracle happened there. And I remember what happened next. I, the great doubter, the faithless one, silently thanked God for the victory.
Dan Pine lives and kvetches in Albany. He can be reached at [email protected].