Taking Time to Smell the Roses

Kol Nidrei 5761 (2000)

A colleague of mine was once in Italy for a rabbinical conference. He was staying in a hotel, and as he was heading for one of the conference sessions, he passed by the hotel lounge where, on a TV screen, he saw, of all things, a baseball game between the Chicago Cubs and his home team, the Atlanta Braves. It was about to start, so he couldn’t resist watching for a bit.

It was very exciting. The first Cub batter swung at the first pitch and grounded out. The second batter struck out 1, 2, 3. The third batter, on the second pitch, hit a line drive off the left field wall.

After the third out and before Atlanta came up to bat, he quickly jogged down to the room where the conference session was due to take place. There he learned that it hadn’t started yet, so he sprinted back to the lounge. But there he discovered that there were already two outs. And then the next batter grounded out on the first pitch. The first inning was over!

He looked at his watch: only five minutes had gone by and an entire inning was over. “What is this?” he wondered. Obviously this wasn’t a live broadcast, but what was going on? Was the film speeded up?

Within a few minutes, he discovered what was going on: the film wasn’t being speeded up, but the game was. The batters weren’t really swinging at the first pitch coming to them: the producer of the videotape had simply eliminated whatever he considered irrelevant, like ball one, ball two, or ball three. Only strikes were shown, and very few of them. Mainly, you would see the bat striking the ball, runners rounding third, action and excitement.

There were no conferences on the mound, no ball players chewing on whatever it is they chew. There were no worried looks, or nervous gestures, no slow-moving managers lumbering out to the mound to pull the pitcher. In fact, the relief pitchers didn’t even toss warm-up pitches: they simply appeared on the mound and started pitching.

The game, in other words, had been reduced to its highlights. But in the process it had lost its “taam, ” its taste. It was no longer real. It was no longer baseball.

As we know, life isn’t just a series of highlights, a series of great experiences. There are also the “in-between” times.

Have you ever been on vacation when it's rained, and you've had to change your plans and find something else to do? Often those are the days we remember the best; days on which we end up spending a lot of time with the other members of our family. Days on which, on the one hand, nothing much happens but which, on the other hand, an awful lot happens.

Yom Kippur is a day that we set aside to reflect on those "in-between" times. In fact, it’s a kind of “in-between” day itself. It’s a day different from any other. We don’t eat or drink, or socialize. It’s not a day on which we do things, a day on which we accomplish very much; but a day on which we reflect on what we do the rest of the year.

All of us here today are alive, but are we fully alive? "Our life is like a breath." That's what we say. Those words are in our liturgy. But what do they mean to us? This is a day on which we can focus on what is most essential about ourselves; a day to be in touch with how we’d like to behave, rather than how we usually do.

It's a day to focus on our relationships with those around us. How are we treating the other members of our family, the folks with whom we live? What about the folks with whom we work? Are we living up to our promise as human beings?

Erma Bombeck was a very popular columnist, a humorist who died a few years ago. In one of her last columns she listed various things she would have done differently had she had her life to live over again. She concluded by saying, “Mostly, given another shot at life, I would seize every minute... look at it and really see it... live it... and never give it back.”

Why does it often take us so long to realize such a truth? In a passage which we read from the Torah just a few weeks ago, we are told that when the Children of Israel were about to enter the Land of Israel, Moses says to them: “You saw what happened when we left Egypt, but not until today did you fully understand it.” Think of it: it took the Israelites forty years to “get it.” Why? Why didn’t they understand it right away?

The sixteenth century commentator Rabbi Moshe Heifetz explains, “One who is shown a miracle is often the last to appreciate it.”

What miracles have we been ignoring – for weeks, months, maybe years? Every day – in fact, three times a day – our liturgy puts words into our mouths: “Modim anachnu lach,” -- “We are thankful,” -- “al nisecha she-bchol yom imanu,” “for the miracles that present themselves to us every day.” I can’t think of a better reason to daven than to force ourselves to articulate those words.

When are we going to “get it” if not today? When are we going to seize those “in-between moments” and truly live?

In the Sunday New York Times Magazine, there’s a feature called, “What They Were Thinking.” Pictures of ordinary Americans, with brief interviews with them. One Sunday, there was a picture of a UPS truck parked outside a rather grim-looking warehouse. In the passenger seat was the truck driver in his uniform playing the trumpet. Here’s what he had to say:

I play the trumpet on my lunch hour. A lot of guys go get pizza, but I play the trumpet. People think I’m nuts. ... But if you’re not constant, you lose the sound, the essence, the spirit. What comes out is technically correct, but there’s no beauty in it. So two years ago, I did the math: an hour a day, 5 hours a week, 20 hours a month – I could do so many things with that time. I could learn French. I could do anything. Then I said, the trumpet! In the same month, a friend of mine died. We had been friends for about 10 years. I remember that she was so proud of me. She had always thought of me as a musician. I was thinking about her and kept playing to alleviate the pain that she died. Do you know Kafka? I don’t like his character the cockroach. He sees the world from that point of view through a screen. At one point, I felt like that. Don’t get me wrong, I really do enjoy my job. But we don’t have to be buried by our duties. The trumpet is my outlet to express myself, to let the world know that I’m not a cockroach even if I wear a brown uniform.

That’s a man who is alive.

Life is not like that speeded-up baseball game. In life, we make mistakes, we stumble and fall, we fidget around. Life includes many in-between moments, which make it what it is. Life also includes, God willing, a series of Yom Kippur days on which we can focus on what really matters and re-direct our lives. Yom Kippur gives us the promise of teshuvah, allowing us to be other than who we have been.

Rabbi Akiba taught the following in Pirkei Avot: [Everything is a loan against a pledge].... The shop is open. The shopkeeper extends credit, [the ledger book is open, and there is a hand writing it all down.] Whoever wishes to borrow may come and borrow. But the collectors go round everyday and exact payment from people, with their consent or without it, and they have a reliable record, and their accounting is accurate. [And everything is ready for the feast.] (Pirkei Avot 3:2)

“Ptach lanu sha’ar, b’et neilat sha’ar, ki fanah yom.” Tomorrow evening, just before this day ends, we’ll recite those words: “Open up a gate for us, even as they’re closing. The day is waning. The sun is low. The hour is late. A year has slipped away.”

This day offers us a gift: the gift of feeling the preciousness of life and discovering the path to truly live it. May we make the most of it. Amen.