That Yom Kippur feeling.

That Yom Kippur feeling.

It was one of those days that seemed to go on indefinitely, for ever and ever, a long, winding, tiring, emotionally exhausting day of silent prayer, mournful chanting, religious solidarity, beautiful singing, a choir with the sweetest of voices and then finally that indefinable something within the human soul that can neither be quantified nor explained. It simply sent a warm glow through you, goose bumps down your back and that extraordinary sense of achievement and spiritual well being that only holy Jewish festivals can make you feel.

Yesterday was the Jewish day of atonement of Yom Kippur when the Jews of the world congregate in that yearly gathering of repentance, sorrow, remorse and that clearing of the head known as absolution where we all devote 25 hours to fasting, praying and doing nothing, abstinence, refraining from all of the pleasures most of us take for granted. There was no eating, no drinking, no telly watching, radio listening, no physical or mental activity of any sort- just 25 hours from early evening Tuesday to the early evening hours of Wednesday.

For some of us this has become one of those customary Jewish rituals that we've become conditioned to. The truth is that from the moment you hit your teens and your barmitzvah has been observed and conducted in your local synagogue(shul) this is your lifelong obligation to which you feel entirely committed.

I have to admit that there were frequent points during my teenage years when the act of fasting every September or, as was the case last year in early October, became a daunting chore. On reflection though you did feel as fasting was one of those events in a Jewish teenager's life that was somehow very rewarding in as much that by the end of the day, you did have something to look forward to.

But while I was a kid I would bombard my parents with a series of incessant objections and groans about that ghastly prospect of horrible starvation and an oppressive sense of discomfort in the pit of your stomach. In a mood of constant protestation and dissatisfaction I would complain to my parents for hour on end, questioning the fast, promising that I would never be forced to do it every year against my will before just waving the white flag of surrender at 13.

And yet from 13 onwards I submitted to the alluring charms of no food or drink but only under sufferance. It became a way of life, something you felt duty bound to do because, as my mum frequently pointed out, fasting was good for you and would certainly not do you any long term harm. So resistance was futile and I willingly accompanied my parents to synagogue for that 25 hour marathon known as fasting.

Back to the present day. From late Tuesday evening to early evening Wednesday my family and I joined together in that mass communal get together where just for a short while we dropped everything, parked the previous year into some old building skip of yesteryear and just got on with the business of praying for forgiveness, a happy, healthy and sweet New Year before re-charging batteries for the year ahead.

As usual the Last Supper before the beginning of the New Year still seemed like a rushed, awkward moment in time and perhaps the most unpleasant meal of the year, a combination of desperate scoffing and ravenous munching in the hope that you wouldn't have to face indigestion or chronic pain. Still rather like any marathon once you were half way through there was no turning back. Might as well face the music.

By the following morning we were all ready for 25 hours of soul searching, solemnity, intense thinking, contemplation, rumination, dwelling and pondering, re-examining our consciences and just relishing the end of the fast. Throughout the day we embarked on our yearly expedition of standing up and sitting down rather like one of those fashionable Mexican waves at any sporting confrontation.

Now the realisation occurred to us that this is the way the whole day would proceed. It was the template for a day of reflective soul baring, cleansing and purifying, looking for divine intervention and then reading from our Days of Awe book. Suddenly you became patently aware of where you were and our utterly unconventional Yom Kippur location. This was no ordinary venue for the Jewish High Holy Days, a place for conventional and historical worship in the most unlikely of settings.

Yes folks my family and I spent the whole of Yom Kippur at Saracens rugby union club. So it was that yesterday morning the congregation of Finchley Reform Synagogue joined together for the morning, afternoon and evening of our lives with a whole procession of gorgeous prayers, delectable stories from the Torah, lengthy parables, moving passages from rabbis and yet more dramatic narratives of suffering combined with survival against the odds. It was drama and history told in exquisite detail.

But this was a Yom Kippur service with the most noticeable of differences. This was Yom Kippur at Saracens rugby union club. Saracens have been one of the most outstanding and consistently successful rugby union clubs for a good few years. In fact they have been European Champions so that has something to be proud of and shout about. Now though they were hosts to a huge Jewish community bursting at the seams with much more on our minds than prop forwards, rucks and mauls.

Apart from my personal 25 hours of praying and chanting, I couldn't help but notice and marvel at the magnificence of my surroundings. It was quite the most eye opening of all experiences and for somebody who so thoroughly enjoys both the watching and participating in sport, this was overwhelmingly rewarding. It was hard to believe that sport and religion had met in a head on collision of great minds thinking alike.

Wherever you looked there were paintings, cartoons, caricatures, trophy cabinets, England World Cup 1966 shirts hidden in glass cases and a cavalcade of sporting souvenirs and memorabilia. This was not a rugby union club, this was a veritable sporting museum devoted to sports related issues. And then as you walked down a floor or two you set eyes on the legendary cricket batsman who was Sir Donald Bradman, a glint in his eye, a finely honed athlete who once created havoc with the very best that English cricket could offer.

My eyes were though transfixed by the rugby union crowd paintings. Very rarely had I ever seen a collection of paintings so beautifully and accurately depicting a big sporting occasion. There were two paintings in particular that took my eye and just transported me to a specific time and place. In both crowd scenes there were fathers wearing working class caps, standing closely and happily next to their sons. You could just see the merest glimpses of smiles and a genuine sense of involvement on their faces.

All around me were dynamic paintings of rugby line outs, men leaping for their lives and wholeheartedly embracing the game they were playing for both club and, for some, country. There were framed photographs of today's generation of players holidaying in Barcelona, pictures of collective joy and a real sense of togetherness. There were cups and trophies, hastily scribbled signatures on photographs, amusing pictures and ones that paid a massive homage to sport.

In front of me there were rows and rows of seats and chairs methodically spread out across the whole of the hall that Finchley Reform Synagogue has now temporarily hired out for the High Holy Days. Normally this would be the place where Saracens players would mingle socially after a game, wives, husbands, girl and boy friends, children et all. Now though for one day only it had become converted into a religious shrine where the community would come together and think very deeply about themselves and the rest of the world.

During Yom Kippur day your whole body seems to go through the whole spectrum of emotions which can never be properly analysed or dissected. We arrived at roughly 10.45 in the morning with the first rumblings and pangs of hunger or thirst beginning to accumulate ever so slowly. For the best part of that hour or two before what would be normally considered lunchtime, most of us seemed to look at each other in the early signs of bewilderment. You're neither hungry or thirsty at all at this stage but you do know that this a day unlike any other throughout the year.

After a morning service of introductory prayers, blessings and chants the afternoon seemed to creep up on us quite pleasantly. Some of the congregation had decided to make their way home while a large majority of us stayed for the rest of the day. It was almost as if the whole key and tone of the day had been sharply changed for the better.  There was a sense of reinvigoration, a re-energised enthusiasm, a clearer perspective on what the day was essentially about. We had re-grouped, exchanged healthy banter and the topic of discussion was now, clearly, a different one.

The rabbis, suitably attired in white robes, shawl(tallit) and couples on their head, launched into a thought provoking series of sermons which were both highly entertaining, witty and maybe a tad provocative. But then where would a Yom Kippur be without its stirring sermons and rabbis in white robes not so much preaching to the converted but just testing our innermost reflexes? At some point throughout the afternoon I began to sit back and just relax, all the while absorbing everything that had already been said without quite knowing how to react.

Then after a brief shuffling of seats and adjustments of my shawl, afternoon had now rapidly given way to the soft serenity of late evening, the end of the afternoon undoubtedly but all the same very re-assuring. The late afternoon light was now beginning to fade almost reluctantly, a palette of blue skies and early autumn sunlight slowly replaced by  a pronounced shade of greyness and darkness.

Afternoon paid a fond farewell and evening had set in like the most joyous of revelations. I had never felt such  a huge sense of belonging to Judaism. The choir had quite stolen my heart and although I would never pretend to be the next big thing on Britain's Got Talent, it had been the most stirring, rousing and delightful of days.

Admittedly I have no singing voice whatsoever but this was a genuine chance to appreciate the richness and diversity that life can always offer, savouring the beauty of a Jewish choir, the cantor's reverential guitar and voice, soothing, trusting, warm and resonant. We were here to celebrate Yom Kippur and the final hour or two was upon us. With strength and purpose our voices blasted out to all points of the universal compass, pulsing through us, pumping out to all and sundry and sending messages of eternal hope and optimism.

Of course as Jews we were also here to sing the praises of Israel, that wonderful country that only craves peace and stability, where the call for love and understanding seems to be carried to every corner of the world. How the Israelis though have suffered throughout the ages and more so than ever the peaceful messages that have to be broadcast to every other troubled country have to be more relevant than ever as well.

And so we quietly chanted the prayer for the dead(Yiska). The entire congregation fell into an almost comforting silence, heads bowed, engrossed in private remembrance for lost and loved ones. Occasionally there would be a cough or a sneeze but then Saracens rugby union club shared their best wishes in a kind of mutual kinship while behind us the floodlights had now been switched on.

Behind us. the Saracens pitch had been bathed in an evening light show. There was something strangely incongruous about a very holy and religious day in the Jewish calendar playing out to a backdrop of rugby goalposts, corporate hospitality boxes and line out specialists. It hardly seemed possible that men with muscular shoulders and fiercely robust stomachs had kindly offered their home to  our Jewish community.

At roughly 10 minutes before 8 on a Wednesday evening in the year of 5779 the Jews were united as one. In a matter of seconds the shofar was blown loudly and powerfully across the whole of London and the rest of the world. This signified something very special, something upliftingly moving, touching the heart and soul, a sense that a summit had been reached and we were there to see it and experience it.

On behalf of all my Jewish friends and family let me take this opportunity to wish you all a happy, healthy and sweet New Year. This is your year, my year, our year and a year to be part of something very special in the grander scheme of things. We may wish passionately that the warmongers set on  complete destruction will realise what they're doing and put down their arms immediately. Life indeed is precious and never to be abused because the repercussions have become all too obvious down the ages.

So to all Jews who we love and respect, this is the time to settle our differences, resolve our dilemmas and just seize that day, week, month and year. And if anybody has got a salt beef sandwich which they don't particularly want then some of us would happily accept any leftovers. To quote Fiddler on the Roof to life to life l'chayim. Chag Semach and Shana Tova to you all. A happy and healthy New Year to you all. Bring on Succot.