The Home Run: Infinity in a Box
Rosh Hashanah I 5771 / 9 September 2010
Rabbi Daniel Cotzin Burg
See if you can decipher the following riddle: A man is on his way home. When he gets there, though, he sees another man who is wearing a mask. So, he turns around and runs.
Anyone guess it? Of course he’s playing baseball! We are coming to the end of another baseball season and I have to say, in choosing a new place to live, one looks to the familiar: those things to which one can relate, those things that make you feel “at home.” I have to tell you as a lifelong Cubs fan: When it comes to baseball, September in Baltimore feels suspiciously like September on the north side of Chicago. There is something about baseball, though, isn’t there? I remember as a kid taking the train to Wrigley Field with my dad on a summer afternoon, sitting on the edge of my seat just waiting to hear the crack of the bat and the utter exhilaration of a home run.
W.P. Kinsella, the author of Field of Dreams, was once asked what he found inspiring about baseball, why it captures people’s imaginations. Kinsella explained that he thought some of this was due to the very structure of the field. In many sports, the field is surrounded by boundaries, foul lines that contain and direct the action of the game. Think about the shape of a football or a soccer field, certainly a tennis court or a hockey rink. But baseball is different. Here the foul lines stretch out beyond the field. If Luke Scott or Nick Markakis pulls a long drive into the right field bleachers, it’s a home run, because, though outside the field of play, those bleachers are still fair territory. In theory, explains Kinsella, a baseball field stretches out toward the horizon, the range of the game limited only by the players’ capacity to hit the ball.
So, it is paradoxical, perhaps, that in a game with such infinite capacity the goal is simply to return to one’s point of origin. A “home run,” no matter how far one hits the ball, is simply the fastest way to run home. And in this sense, baseball is similar to the world in which we live. Real life contains few true strictures. Each day we are faced with countless choices, the significant and the trivial. And in a world of near infinite possibilities, most of us are seeking a place of comfort, of familiarity and peace. We are searching for home.
Many people have asked me, since arriving here in Baltimore, what it was about Beth Am that so attracted me to the place. There are many things of course: the proud history, the haimisha atmosphere, the tradition of free inquiry and expression, Beth Am’s rare ability to synthesize the intellectual and the emotional. And then, of course, there is this grand sanctuary space. But of all the things that have struck me about Beth Am, it is an intangible quality that I find the most rewarding: Beth Am really does feel like home.
So, Hevre, this Rosh Hashanah morning, I want to explore the idea of home. Let me ask you this: what makes a home a home? When you look about your house, what are those tangible reminders that you are in your place and not someone else’s? Perhaps you have some old photographs: of your parents or grandparents. Perhaps some more recent ones of your children or grandchildren. Do you have books: those you’ve read and those you are planning on tackling when you find just a bit more time? If a friend were to open a kitchen cabinet, would he or she discover those spices needed for that secret family recipe, or (as in my house) a stash of cookies or chocolate for “one of those days?” What makes your home different from other homes? I would suggest it is those things that represent the values, the experiences and, especially, the people that most impact your life. Your hat, you can hang anywhere, but not a picture of your grandmother.
There is a story told about Sender, the Shoemaker of Chelm. Sender is discontent with the routine, his life as poor a cobbler in Chelm. He doesn’t smile at people on the street so no one smiles back at him. The town butcher, the baker and others know him as a bit of a curmudgeon.
But Sender is filled with wanderlust, and he decides he needs a change. He decides to visit the great city of Warsaw. He doesn’t have any money, just a small bag of supplies, the clothes on his back and the shoes on his feet. He rises early, kisses his wife and sets off for Warsaw. As he walks, Sender is excited with anticipation: what would Warsaw be like? The people? The buildings? Would their shul be much different from the one in Chelm?
Sender walks for several hours and, arriving at a bubbling brook and feeling tired, decided that he will lie down for a nap. But, Sender thinks to himself: What if he awakes and has forgotten which direction is Warsaw and which is Chelm? Suddenly he has a brilliant idea. He will leave his shoes in the road with the toes pointing toward Warsaw. He does so and lies down for his schluf. Along comes a beggar who sees the shoes. He tries them on but they don’t fit. He puts them back but facing the wrong way – toward Chelm!
A little while later, Sender wakes up, refreshed, from his nap. He puts on his shoes, compliments himself for his cleverness, picks up his bag and continues on his journey. In a few hours, toward sunset, he sees a town in the distance. “Warsaw already!?” he thinks, “I must have been walking faster than I thought.” As he gets closer, he begins to notice a number of similarities between Warsaw and Chelm. The gates look a lot like the gates of Chelm. Entering the town, he notices the shul looks like Chelm’s synagogue. Sender sees a man who is a good likeness of his hometown baker and then another who looks like the butcher. Sender waves and they wave back, a bit surprised but with a cheery demeanor. Sender waves again: “Warsaw is just like Chelm, but the people here are so much friendlier! Here, I seem to matter.”
This continues until Sender arrives at a home that looks like his own home and discovers two children, who look just like his own, playing in the yard. They kiss him and say welcome home Papa! Then a woman who is a spitting image of his Pessel comes out of the house. “Welcome back, how was your trip? Now go wash up for supper.” Sender thinks that he must resemble this woman’s husband! He follows the strange woman into her house, and as he sits down for supper, he looks around and, for the first time in years, he finds himself utterly content. He thinks to himself, “If all the people of Warsaw look like the people in Chelm, I must meet the Sender of Warsaw who lives in this house!”
So Sender decides to stay. He goes to bed with a smile on his face. Tomorrow he will go to Warsaw-Sender’s shoe shop and make the most beautiful shoes for his customers – it was the least he could do. Just until his doppelganger returns. And, although he misses his own wife and children a bit, Sender the Shoemaker waits in his new home for the Sender of Warsaw to return. And, until this day, he awaits him still.
Sender discovers on his journey what most of us already know: that home feels like home not only when things and people are familiar, but when we feel engaged. Home is, ultimately not simply a place where we locate our things or our companions, but where we tap into that which is greater than us – where through those things and relationships, we feel a sense of purpose and meaning.
Beth Am’s beautiful slogan is “feels like home,” and it does, I think, for many of us, much of the time. But let’s be honest, some of us are new to this community. Some of us come more frequently than others. Some felt at home upon first walking through the door and some, even after many years, may still feel a bit like visitors here. So whether this place is already home or not yet home, let’s talk for a moment about how to make it feel more like home for all of us. I would suggest that it feels that way at those moments when we have not just an awareness of and fellowship with one another, not only when we are intellectually stimulated or emotionally engaged, but when, along with these and at least at some level, we are feeling the presence of God.
When the Beit HaMikdash, was destroyed, the synagogue became a mikdash me’at, a miniature sanctuary. In Temple times God had a house; we had houses. But for 2,000 years, God has been without a central abode. So God’s house and our houses have become synonymous with one another. For the past two millennia we have had a roommate. This is true in our homes, but it is also the case in our shuls. My friends, our congregation is named Beth Am, house of the people, but (with apologies to our neighbors to the north) it is also a Beit El, a house of God. Perhaps the greatest conundrum of post-exilic Judaism is the following: how do we put infinity in a box? How do we make room for all the bifurcated categories of Jewish life – sacred and profane, pure and impure, God and humanity – in the same spaces? Like baseball players, it seems, we are at once swinging for the fences and running home.
So how might we think of our shul as a place of shared occupancy – as beit am and beit El, as a house of the people and of God? One way is to remember that we often experience the divine through real connections with others, what Buber calls an I-Thou encounter. We all know that, in addition to finding God in beautiful places or things: in sunsets, mountain hikes, or long walks along the Delaware shore, the Kadosh Baruch Hu speaks to us in the human encounters too. And when we think of human encounters, we often first think of our homes where we might feel God’s presence in a child’s embrace or in the gathering of old friends and family around a wine-stained tablecloth.
All of this begs the question though: if we have a home, and if we can find meaning and even God there, why do we need to come to shul? Because, at the end of the day, our homes are our spaces. We may invite friends or family over for Shabbos dinner, our children may have a “play date” in the backyard, but there is a difference between sharing our space and a ‘shared space.’ At shul the field of play is larger. Look around you – this room has room enough for all of us. This is a place where we can come together because in a very real way – this place belongs to us all! And the power of shul is that while our individual approaches may differ, we all walk through these same doors. Coming home to Beth Am is about theology and geography – it is the place where God and we, from time to time, share a room.
So how might we cultivate this sense of “home?” How might we ensure that Beth Am truly feels like home for each of us and all of us? One idea derives from a concept in urban sociology called the “Third Place.” The basic idea is the following: home is the “first place” and work is the “second place.” But communities, cities in particular, are at their most socially vibrant and healthy when people have access to “Third Places.” What are some examples? Bars, parks and coffee shops are just a few. The form is malleable, but the idea is clear. Third places are places where people come together to create positive communal experiences and, at their best, to create meaning. They’re relaxed, dynamic and engaging. Professor Ray Oldenburg who coined the phrase describes it this way: “The character of a third place is determined most of all by its regular clientele and is marked by a playful mood, which contrasts with people’s more serious involvement in other spheres. Though a radically different kind of setting for a home, the third place is remarkably similar to a good home in the psychological comfort and support that it extends….”
Rabbi Hayim Herring, who introduced me to the concept, has suggested that synagogues, too, can and should be Third Places. Think about Beth Am. Our shul is not a bar or a health club – those places, though important communal gathering spots, are businesses. Their agenda differs from a synagogue and our definitions of “success” differ from theirs in some very significant ways. But like other Third Places, the synagogue is a place of comfort, a place of communal gathering, of relevance, of joy and meaning.
Cities across America, including Baltimore, have embraced Oldenburg’s concept and have endeavored to create more of these Third Places. This Rosh Hashanah, as we begin our first year together, let’s consider how our shul can be an effective Third Place, what Oldenburg calls a “home away from home.” In order to succeed, we should remember that “coming home” takes some effort. Sender the Shoemaker needed to leave home in order to find his way home again. In baseball, one needs to go on a journey, rounding three bases, before touching home plate. So, this New Year, let me suggest three ways, three “bases” if you will, that we might touch upon during our journey home.
We might begin with acknowledging the importance of Beth Am in our lives. Starbucks created a coffee house culture in America but it did so only because Americans bought coffee, sat and read the paper, smiled at strangers as they walked through the door. For our shul to be a Third Place, we must also buy into a concept: that in addition to our private spaces, our well-earned time away from the hustle/bustle of urban life, we need a communal space, a place for shared experiences, for prayer and study, for celebration and comfort – we need a Jewish place; we need Beth Am.
The second base, the second requirement for success, is to remember the lesson at the heart of America’s pastime: in order to reach home, we have to ‘step up to the plate.’ In the game of Jewish life, we are not spectators, we are players. And that means we must be willing to engage on any number of levels. This year of 5771 let’s, each of us, think of one additional way that we can contribute to our collective “home away from home,” at least one way we can help Beth Am to be the best kind of Third Place. Perhaps this year you will take a class or teach a class. Perhaps you will join a committee. Perhaps you will support our annual fund for the first time or the twentieth time. Perhaps you will attend services more often or try our newly reinvigorated young families’ offerings. Or perhaps you will volunteer with our terrific social action committee and engage in the sacred work of tikkun olam. Whatever we do, let’s see if we can build on our successes and engage just a bit more than last year.
If first base is to acknowledge the importance of our shul, and second base is to work, as fully engaged players, toward the betterment of the whole, then third base is one of re-framing, of challenging assumptions. If, for you Beth Am is primarily just that, a “house of the people,” think about ways that you can mark this place as a Beit El, a house of God. Swing for the fences, consider the way that Beth Am differs from other gathering places in your life. How will you ensure that a conversation at Kiddush lunch is different from one in the locker room at the gym? How might the way we react to an old friend or a newcomer differ because we are doing so in a house of God? If, on the other hand, for you Beth Am has primarily been a place to pray, if you tend to think of it as God’s house and not your own, then perhaps this year you will consider how you can celebrate the people of our shul – how you can better their lives and how they might impact your own. Are we reaching out to others, not just to say hello but to really get to know them? And are we open to what other Beth Am-ers have to offer us. Azeh hu chacham? “Who is wise?” ask our sages, “The one who can learn from everyone" (Avot 4:1).
Three bases, three places to focus our attention in this new year. Hevre, home is not, as the saying goes, simply “where you hang your hat.” Home is a place to find ourselves and to be found, a place to be inspired and a place to deepen our spiritual lives. This house of the people can also be a place where the infinite becomes accessible, where life is infused with meaning. As the father of two small kids, I read a lot of children’s books. One of my favorites has always been Where the Wild Things Are. I think as an adult, my suspicion had been that it is a book about imagination, about how the mind’s eye can take us on the most fantastic journeys, even within the confines of our bedrooms. But in reading this book again with Ellie and Shamir, I have come to realize what I think all children know intuitively: Max’s greatest journey is not one of escape, it is, at long last, the journey home. We all desire to feel loved and cared for and forgiven even when we have erred, to find our supper waiting for us when we come home.
In the year that has just concluded, Miriam, the children and I left one home for another. And in a strange city amongst strangers, we have begun to feel at home. This “Third Place,” this congregation, has become our place, and I hope it will be that for each of you as well. I honestly don’t know about the Orioles’ prospects for next year, but I have a great deal of confidence in our own. Thank you for inviting me to join you on this journey. May this New Year see our hearts opened, our minds engaged and our spirits uplifted.
Shana Tova!