Not some far-off realm of reward. But this: being alive enough to notice the good. Being close enough to someone you love to witness their becoming. Being present enough to realize you’re in the middle of something sacred. Right here. On the bleachers. With the smell of leather and dirt and bubblegum in the air.
I used to think heaven was somewhere you went. Now, I wonder if it’s something you choose to notice.
There’s something holy about this game. Not in a dogmatic sense. But in the way it shapes a young soul. Baseball teaches discipline, repetition, and trust. Trust that your teammate will back you up on the play. Trust that your coach believes in you. Trust that if you work hard enough, something good will happen. Maybe not today. But soon.
And the field itself—it’s holy, a cathedral of grass and dirt. A sanctuary with foul poles instead of columns, with chalk lines instead of pews. There’s a hush before each pitch, like the quiet before a prayer. A rhythm to it, like liturgy. A return, inning after inning, like the rhythm of Shabbat, like the cycle of the Jewish year—every season bringing us back to the same place, asking: Who are you becoming?
Judaism teaches that holiness isn’t found only in synagogues or scrolls. It’s found in time. In presence. In attention. Even—especially—in the everyday. Maybe even in a Little League game at dusk.
Tonight, I noticed:
— The way the sun hit his bright red hair under his cap.
— The way the coach put his arm around the kid who struck out.
— The way the whole field paused, breath held, on a long fly ball to center.
There’s no big moral here. Just a quiet reminder. That it’s easy to miss what matters while looking for something better. That sometimes joy is shy, and you have to stop moving so it’ll come closer.
That holiness is often found where we least expect it.
And that a baseball field on a Tuesday night might just be more spiritual than all the sermons I’ve ever given.
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