Toward the end of my senior year of high school, after being recruited to row for Princeton University, my dedication to Judaism was put to the test. Rowing nationals fell on Shavuot, and as president of my United Synagogue Youth chapter I was expected to attend services. Since my family had never celebrated Shavuot, I didn’t think skipping services was such a big deal. Missing nationals, however, was unacceptable—this was my last high school race, and my team needed me. After discussing the issue with my parents, I called my USY advisor and told her that I would not attend Shavuot services.
A few days later, my local Board of Jewish Education asked for my resignation as USY president. I was shocked. It seemed inconceivable to me that, after a full year as president, my decision to row was reason enough for me to step down. In a hearing with my rabbi, my advisor, and the head of the Board of Jewish Education, I tried to explain that Judaism and rowing were the two most important things in my life. By telling me it was one or the other, I felt they were pushing me away from Judaism.
Still, all three insisted that I could not be an observant Jew and a varsity athlete at the same time. By choosing to compete on a holiday, they said I was abandoning a part of my faith. “You’ve made your decision,” they told me. “You can’t have both.”
I asked my community leaders to look at the bigger picture: by telling committed Jews that they couldn’t be both competitive athletes and observant Jews, they were turning their backs on a large number of Jewish youth. If they forced us to pick between two things that we loved, what would happen if we didn’t pick Judaism? Ultimately, they decided that forcing me out of my presidency would do more harm than good, and I was allowed to finish my term. But the conflict forced me to seriously question my place within the Jewish community.
In my mind, religion and athletics had always been compatible. Growing up as a Jewish athlete who played in a Christian world, I watched my teammates use faith to push themselves further. When I was nine, my softball coaches had the entire team say a blessing before games. In high school, the Catholic crew team we raced against held hands and prayed. After years of seeing how Christianity seemed to embrace athletes, I realized for the first time that Judaism seemed to reject us.
Conflict between Judaism and athletics is nothing new. It dates back to at least the 2nd century B.C.E, when the Greeks conquered Jerusalem and attempted to Hellenize the Jewish people. For the ancient Greeks, athletics were a religious expression—a way to exalt the gods. Therefore, any Jew who joined the Greeks in the arena was engaging in blasphemy. According to the First Book of Maccabees, traitorous Jews built a gymnasium in Jerusalem and some even had surgery to reverse their circumcisions so they could play sports with the Greeks—a clear example of Jews choosing athletics over God.
When the Romans assumed power over Jerusalem in the first century B.C.E., they introduced gladiatorial combat to the athletic spectrum. This drew even more criticism from Jews because of its violent nature. One Jew, Rabbi Simeon ben Lakish, became a gladiator in order to support himself financially, but the Talmud describes how he ultimately opted for a life of Torah rather than a life in the arena. He could not have both.
Despite their religion’s historical rejection of athletic competition, Jews in the modern era have competed and succeeded in every athletic arena. But probably the most famous Jew ever to play sports is most revered by his fellow Jews not for what he did as an athlete, but for what he would not do. Sandy Koufax, a hall of fame athlete, refused to pitch in the opening game of the 1965 World Series because it fell on Yom Kippur. He was, and still is, celebrated by Jews everywhere because he decided not to play, even though he pitched on Saturdays and many other religious holidays. By abstaining from athletic activity on just one day of the year, Koufax came to embody a great Jewish athlete—one that chooses religion over athletics.
If athletic values seem to clash so strongly with Judaism’s religious values, why can religious Christians be athletes without the same fundamental problems? Princeton is a very religious campus, and many of my friends and teammates are involved in Athletes in Action (AIA), a Christian athletic fellowship. Through AIA, Christian athletes learn how to use their faith to help them succeed in athletics, and how athletics can help them to find God. Those of my teammates who are deeply involved with AIA feel strongly that by using the bodies God has given them to compete, they are further honoring God. Winning a game or a race is thus a form of praise for God. I share these beliefs, but Princeton has no fellowship for Jewish athletes. When it comes to combining play with devotion, Jewish athletes are on our own.
Maiya Chard-Yaron and Dina Schor want that to change. Chard-Yaron, a freshman on Columbia University’s softball team, and Schor, a senior on its fencing team, recently founded a coalition for Jewish athletes at their school. While this organization, the Jewish Varsity Athletes Coalition (J-VAC), does not attempt to address the conflict between Judaism and athletics directly, Chard-Yaron and Schor hope that it will make being an athlete easier for religious Jews on campus. They plan to help religious athletes keep kosher while traveling, and to find places for athletes who don’t want to travel on Shabbat to stay overnight.
“For me, this group brings together two of the most important things in my life: softball and Judaism,” Chard-Yaron says. “While it would be incredibly difficult to compete at the Division I level and observe every Jewish ritual, we want to help reconcile the two.”
Chard-Yaron, whose mother is Israeli and whose father is a rabbi, seems to have little difficulty reconciling them for herself. Her family always believed that Shabbat was a time to spend doing something you enjoyed—and Chard-Yaron enjoyed playing softball.
For Jeffrey Gurock, however, it is impossible to play at a highly competitive level without giving up a part of your faith. “Judaism and sports are antithetical,” says Gurock, a professor of Jewish History at Yeshiva University. He points to the Biblical division between Jacob and Esau — Jacob the callow youth, and Esau the physical laborer.
“In many ways, sports are an alternate religion,” Gurock says. “There is a sense of destiny and salvation in winning.”
Yeshiva U’s philosophy is that religious observance should take complete precedence over athletics. As a coach for the men’s basketball team, Gurock will only recruit athletes who refuse to play sports on Shabbat, and the university competes in Division III, where there is more flexibility in scheduling games. Gurock maintains that it is virtually impossible to be an observant Jew and play at an elite level.
“There are limits to what you can do,” he says. “Choices have to be made.”
Choices do have to be made. But I don’t believe the choice has to be between God and sports. After rowing to two national championships with Princeton, I can honestly say that I have never felt closer to God than when I crossed the finish line. Rowing enables me to use the body that God has given me, the body that was created in his image, to do something wonderful.
Trying to be a good Jew and a good athlete at the same time is hard, but not impossible. As Jews, we all must make decisions about which laws to follow, and which ones to let slide. I don’t know anyone who follows all 613 commandments. People pick and choose—some drive on Shabbat, but only to get to synagogue; some keep kosher, b
ut only in the house. I refuse to row on Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, and Passover—the three holidays that are most important to me—but I always race and practice on Shabbat.
Am I less of a Jew because of it? I don’t think so. My faith is stronger than ever. Sitting in a boat at the starting line, I begin to recite the “Sh’ma”: “Hear, O Israel—the Lord our God, the Lord is One…” As I chant the words in Hebrew, I feel calm and ready to race.
