Kick Higher

I felt bad for her at first.

We were barely five minutes into the Tae Kwon Do belt test, and the Master called her out by name. The test begins with everyone demonstrating basic kicks and blocks. Everyone there knows how to do them. Master M is looking for the quality of your form, and your energy. “Mary*” he said, in a stern voice. Mary is a young girl, not quite a teenager and not quite a little girl. “Mary, I am only going to say this to you once, and then I am going to ask you to leave.” Wow. Master M is usually not so hard on you, I thought. What could it be? “You have got to kick higher.” I got the impression, and later it proved to be true, that this was not the first time, he had called her out on this. Tae Kwon Do is a lot of kicking, and Master M always tells everyone to kick higher. But Mary had a persistent thing with what I would call wimpy kicks.

We continued kicking, and within just a few minutes, I saw him give her a very serious look, and tap his pen, impatiently. I knew without having to see it, that she was not kicking high enough and that the pen tapping was for her.

I felt bad for her.

My kids take TKD lessons too, and my heart would just sink if Master M had talked to either of them in this way. Was she really going to get dismissed from the test? Generally, in our TKD studio, you don’t get asked to test unless Master M thinks you can do it. The point is not to set you up for failure, but he sometimes reminds students taking the test, “This is a test, you CAN fail.” We continued to demonstrate our kicks.

Third time.

Master M asked everyone to sit down, and told Mary to stand in front of the table in the middle of the mats. “Show me your highest round house kick” he said. She kicked. “Show me your highest axe kick.” She kicked.

So, she could kick higher. What was going on? Why was she repeatedly kicking low and lazy?  This was not her first test ever, and she was certainly able physically to put her foot up to the proper height.

I felt a little less bad for her.

“I will give you every opportunity to succeed here. But I will also give you a shovel and let you dig yourself into a hole if that is what you choose. If you couldn’t physically kick any higher that would be okay. But its not that you can’t, its that you won’t, or at least aren’t.”

I was starting to see where he was going, and I felt my sentiment shift almost completely.

“I can only teach you how to do it. You must accept my teaching in order to actually move ahead” he said. I was done feeling bad for her. Not that I wanted her to fail, but I know Master M well enough to know that there is a life lesson in this moment, not only a technical lesson about the kicks of TKD.

“Sit down”, he told her. And then he turned to all of the students who were testing.

“It may seem to you, like it’s just a kick. No big deal” He began. “But it is not just another kick. It is a standard that you set for yourself. And every time you come to class, every time you spar, every time you test, you have to hold yourself to that standard. TKD is not about setting low standards for yourself in class or beyond. It is about reaching up to a higher standard, maintaining your best standard, and then trying to push higher and better.”

Amen Master M.

Mary finished the test. So did I. I must have told the story five times the next day; at our synagogue staff meeting, in my davening class, to friends. It made a strong impression on me, and I think there is a davenology message in it that is terribly important.

In our spiritual practice, in our prayer life, and our ritual life, we cannot set nor accept a low standard, or expect our teachers, rabbis and mentors to accept our unwillingness to reach higher, and strive to do better. When you pray, every time you pray, you must set a standard. You might think it is just another Shabbat service, or just another morning ritual, or just another opportunity to chat with your shul friends. But its not. Your spiritual life is at stake. So every time you pray, every time you come to shul, every time you practice your tradition, you must have a high standard of holiness and passion, and then every time you must strive to maintain that standard, and to work towards a higher and better way.

Kick higher.

*not her real name.

Is There A Jewish Way to Make a New Year's Resolution?

Though we were living in NYC at the time, my wife and I got married in Georgia. We both have family here, and it was a lot easier to get married in Atlanta than Manhattan. When we came down a couple of weeks before the wedding to get our license, we went to the county probate court and filled out the appropriate form. At the desk, as we handed in our completed form to the clerk who asked us to raise our hands and swear that the answers and information we had given were true. As a rabbi, I was intrigued. The Talmud discusses vows and oaths at length, and in general discourages people from making them. Our words have power and meaning, and it's best not to take oaths if they can be avoided. 

I was also fascinated by the fact that someone might lie on the official government form, but when asked to swear that they had told the truth in front of a government bureaucrat would suddenly get a conscience and be forced to tell the truth. I asked the clerk if anyone ever got to the desk and when confronted by the oath went back and changed their answer. Her response surprised me to say the least. She said: “Every day.”

Every day!

Now maybe she was exaggerating, but still. It wasn’t so surprising that someone would lie every day, but that the oath administered at the desk would deter them from lying. What is it about such a declaration that kept them so honest?

This morning in shul, we read the final chapter of the book of Genesis. In the final days of his life, Jacob makes arrangements for his burial, and asks Joseph, his son, to make sure that he is not buried in Egypt, but instead in the Machpelah cave that his grandfather Abraham bought as a family burial ground. Jacob, like many still today, wants to be buried close to his family. Joseph agrees, but Jacob, needing assurance insists that Joseph swear to him. Joseph’s word is not good enough. His father insists on a formally spoken oath, and without hesitation, Joseph swears.

In just a couple of days, millions of Americans will take a kind of oath. They will make New Years resolutions, and if past experience tells us anything, most of them will not be kept. We all know the typical oaths we make – lose weight, go to the gym, eat less chocolate, stay in touch with friends more. We never vow to do the unchallenging or the easy things. (I doubt anyone has to make a resolution to eat more chocolate, or go to the gym less often.) And perhaps just the making of a vow at New Years helps us to identify the things we want to do better.

I certainly believe that being reflective is important, and if you want to make improvements in the coming year, I think there is value to making a resolution. I have made a few in my time, but I must admit, they have not been my most successful commitments, and there is also a serious down-side to making an oath we are pretty sure we will break. Each time we promise or resolve to do something and then do not keep that promise we erode our self confidence and create an image of ourselves that is unable and too weak to keep our own word. And we get the bad kind of debilitating guilt that keeps us yo-yoing through our desired commitments.

At the beginning of the Jewish new year, on Kol Nidre night, instead of making promises for the year ahead, Jews practice an ancient and controversial ritual called hatarat nedarim – the annulment of vows. Recognizing the peril of hasty vows, the rabbis invented a way to formally “un-declare” your vow, and through words in a formal process, in public, you could undo the other formal public declaration you had made.

It seems to me that Kol Nidre specifically reminds us how bad it is to make formal, spoken vows, and how seriously we should consider the consequences of breaking these oral contracts. This underlying notion, that promises are too easily broken, also accounts for another Jewish tradition, the ketubah.

I am often asked by non-Jews whether Jewish weddings include vows like many Christian traditions. You know the scene in the movie when the minister says; “for better or worse, richer or poorer, in sickness and in health.” Jews do not really have vows in our marriage ceremonies. Instead we insist on a much more stringent kind of promise – a contract, a ketubah. This is a written document, signed and witnessed. It has real teeth; real consequences and specific terms, not simply a spoken promise. After all, if promises guaranteed results, there would be far fewer divorces in times of worse/poorer/sickness. Do you think your bank would accept a spoken promise to pay back the mortgage, or even a vow with your right hand raised. No way. They insist on a contract, and give it as much explicit consequences for violation as they can.

So what does all this have to do with my New Year’s resolutions?

I want to offer two suggestions about how to make better resolutions this year. First, if it is something you are not sure you will really be able to keep, then do not speak it out loud. Instead make a silent intention not a voiced resolution. Keep the idea to yourself and share it only with the One who knows all of our intentions. Create a set of pathways in your mind and spirit, but don’t fill out any public forms, or make a big deal about joining a gym. These kinds of internal intentions can be tremendously powerful, they can grow and gain strength in the protected atmosphere of our spirit, and they change us from the inside out without pomp or fanfare.

If you are resolving something more serious and you really need it to stick, consider putting it in writing. Make a contract with yourself. Actually write it out. Ask a friend or loved one to witness it, and give it some teeth to insure that you follow through in the moments of weakness that beset us all from time to time. Be as specific as you can be, and don’t let yourself off the hook too easily.

Mostly, be generous with yourself, and don’t set yourself up for failure. Quiet intentions, and contractual obligations can help us become what we really want to be. May this be your blessing in the year to come. 

8+7+6+5+4+3+2+1+8* = ?

8+7+6+5+4+3+2+1+8* = ?

The answer is 44. It takes 44 candles to fully share in the ritual of the Chanukah menorah. 44 times we light a distinct flame to make known the miracle of Jewish survival against all odds. I always try to get really nice candles – bees wax or hand dipped – to make the mitzvah more beautiful and to spread the joy more deeply. Sure the standard box has some tradition, but I really like the way special candles make me feel.

But this year, I am going to do something different, something to connect me with Israel and their celebration of Chanukah.

In the dark days of Hellenistic rule over the land of Israel, when the centers of Jewish life had been desecrated and turned into licentious and idolatrous symbols of Greek domination, a small group of young people stood up against the tide and brought about a victory and a resurgent pride in Jewishness. I often think of how different the outcome would have been without the heartfelt devotion of those brave few. If the bright and illuminating spirit of life and freedom had not burned in their young minds, and led them to face hardship and enemies with courage. If they had given in to the forgetfulness that the Greeks hoped would lead to the end of Judaism, and an assimilation of the Jews into “pop” culture. I think of the dedicated Zionists and Israeli soldiers and citizens who have struggled for more than half a century against hostile enemies set on our destruction, and how different it would have been had they not had the spirit of Chanukah in them as they stood like Macabees in modern times.

We still struggle to maintain our distinct and beautiful tradition against the tide of culture, and we still struggle in the land of Israel for our very survival. There are still destructive and immoral forces in our own nation, and resilient enemies on our borders in Eretz Yisrael. Perhaps our struggles are not so dissimilar? Perhaps the distance between us and our brothers and sisters in Israel is not so insurmountable? We are both struggling. And in the dark of this winter, we will each light 44 candles on the same nights to build a stairway of inspiration, resistance, dedication, self-improvement, and community renewal.

This year whatever candles you might be using, consider using special blue and white candles for at least one night, to acknowledge the continuing struggle for survival, and the need to remain victorious against the tide of forgetfulness.

* this last 8 is for the shammash candle used each night to light the others.

Understanding Abraham’s Decisions, Understanding Our Own

When we read the stories of Genesis it is often difficult to relate to the circumstances that our ancestors encountered. As a rabbi I tell people to try and relate to the characters, but this is really just another way of posing the same difficulty. The stories are not relevant to the kind of life we live.  Last week’s Torah portion, Lech Lecha, is a great example. In it Avraham faces numerous challenges, crises really, and not one of them is something any of us are likely to face today.

The first crisis, caused by a famine that sweeps him down to Egypt, sees Avraham faced with a terrible choice. He tells Sarah, his wife, to pretend to be his sister so that he will not be killed when Pharaoh sees how beautiful she is and desires her for his own. I don’t know about you, but this sort of thing never happens to me. I have never had to decide between pawning off my wife to a foreign ruler and the equally distasteful choice of the gun to the head. As moderns, we may be quick to criticize Avraham for such a callous act. It strikes us as horrible that he actually benefits from the encounter and becomes wealthy after subjecting Sarah to what must have been a forcible degradation at Pharaoh’s hand. How could he do such a thing? And how can I ever really relate?

Though never in such a position, most of us will, in time, find ourselves in a crisis that is defined by two equally terrible choices – lose/lose. Lie and give up your wife to another, brutal man, or die and have her taken anyway. What kind of choice is that? Seen this way, as a choice between the proverbial rock and hard place, perhaps we can relate to such a crisis even thought the particular details of our own dilemma will be more historically real for us. Have you ever faced a crisis where you had to choose between two terrible options? Would you not be compelled by such circumstances to choose the lesser of two evils?

Avraham’s second crisis is similarly distant from my experience, but also reveals a paradigm for decision making. When Avraham and Sarah emerge from the lose/lose of Egypt, they return to Canaan with renewed and new-found wealth. There, Avraham is confronted by another crisis when his herdsmen and the herdsmen of his nephew Lot get into a dispute over grazing rights. As a rabbi, I have a flock, but not THAT kind of flock, and I must admit that very few congregants I counsel are struggling with such a conflict. But, just as we will likely face a lose/lose moment, we will also likely face a conflict that can be resolved with a win/win choice. Avraham does not get into a fight with Lot, instead he recognizes that the best choice here is to give the choice to Lot, and to be happy when everyone prospers. He tells Lot there is enough for everyone and “if you go left, I will go right, and if you go right, I will go left.” Problem solved. Everyone is  happy.

Crisis number three comes when, again compelled by circumstances beyond his control, Avraham joins an alliance in a battle between Canaanite kings. As a tribal leader and clan chieftain, Avraham can’t easily sit on the sidelines and not take a side. But as a result of his alliance, his nephew Lot is taken captive and held prisoner far to the north. (That Lot sure does cause a lot of problems.) Again Avraham must make a choice, and this one is different from each of the previous two. Now the choice is not lose/lose, or even win/win, but rather whether or not. There is really only one choice, will Avraham rescue his nephew or not. It is the choice between action and inaction, and Avraham rightly chooses action. He forms a private militia of men, journeys rapidly into the conflict, and decisively acts to rescue Lot. Even at great risk to himself and his people, Avraham knows that he really has no choice. Lot is his family and must be rescued.

I’ve never been threatened by Pharaoh, or challenged to grazing rights, or had my nephew kidnapped, but like you, I have faced all three of these kinds of choices. There have been times when I had to choose between the lesser of two losing positions, times when I could humbly accept winning positions for everyone involved, and times when all that was really required was swift and decisive action. Avraham’s example helps us to understand our own choices and hopefully, whatever the situation, to make the right ones.

Marathons, Marksmanship, and Speed Davening

One measure of mastery in almost every creative human discipline is speed. Speed measures our progress in athletics, in music and performing arts, in martial arts, and in most traditional and contemporary spiritual practices. One of the areas we work to improve, whether we are athletes or rabbis, is how fast we can do something. Consider athletics. Nearly anyone who possesses even the most rudimentary basketball technique can dribble the ball a few paces, look at the basket, and shoot a lay-up. As you learn to play basketball at a higher and more advanced level, the pace at which you practice and regularly play increases accordingly. In practice, when you are running drills to pass, shoot, or dribble, one measure of your progress is how much faster you can successfully run the drill. The same is true in marksmanship. Consider the archer in an Olympic target contest. The contest is not untimed. Nearly anyone with the basic equipment and sufficient eyesight can deliver one arrow to a nearby target given enough time. The training undergone by most marksmen is designed to increase the speed at which the athlete can deliver the ballistic package to the target.

There is a steady and relentless effort to break speed records. There is always social pressure in religious communities among the regulars, to speed up the service. Ironically, these same people, who check their watches during prayer, to try and shave some time off the record, would be among the strongest resisters to any significant change that reduced the regularly practiced liturgy in favor of a shorter liturgy that was prayed more slowly and methodically. These people would not be distance runners or distance target shooters. Instead they are always running sprints and shooting contact distance targets.

All of this being true, speed is not always the best measure of mastery. This is because though speed can measure accomplishment and demonstrate ability, speed also blurs and hides the imperfections of our technique.

Speed works best for short-term goals. A sprinter has to be fast throughout the entire race, but a marathoner, whose goal is further away, must consciously slow down and set a more disciplined pace in order to succeed.

When the target is close, it is significantly easier to draw, aim, and deliver the arrow to the target. Here is the perfect example of how speed blurs a flawed technique and forgives our more fundamental errors in training. To deliver five shots to the target at five yards does indeed require a lot of practice, but it is relative easy compared to delivering those same shots at a great distance. Even the most accomplished marksman needs to go much slower when the target is far away. When the goal is close, or easy, or short term, our mistakes matter less. For the marksman this is a matter of simple physics and geometry. At 5 yards a small error in aiming or intention, a small change of heart rate or breathing, a rush of nerves or adrenaline, none of these translate to a significant difference in where the arrow hits. If you are just a little off, the distance of the target is more forgiving when the goal is close and short term.

At 25 yards, or at 100 yards, such a fractional miscalculation grows as the distance between the two lines of the angle gets wider and wider apart. Now, when targeting a distant goal, a small error of technique becomes a significant miss.

So too in any spiritual exercise. If our goal is short term, then our practice can be more forgiving of fundamental errors. In tefillah, a fundamental error is one that affects the level of meaning and self-discovery which are the vital goals beyond the level of simple recitation. If your goal is a short one, to master the recitation of the Hebrew, it certainly takes a lot of practice, repetition, focus and attention to accomplish this goal. But it can be done relatively quickly, and within 6 months the average person could, if they came to a traditional minyan everyday for shacharit services, become a capable short distance davener. They would become able to lead a morning service – to hit the target – at a speed that the regular daily daveners would consider slow, but which would, with time, continue to develop up to the standard pace for that community. Within a year such a person could become a capable tefillah “marksman” at 5 yds. I do not mean to say that this, all by itself, is not a worthy goal. Developing techniques in nearly any creative endeavor is incredibly valuable, and in a very real way contributes to the development and deepening of every endeavor we have.

But this cannot remain our only, or long-term goal. To become great daveners, we must see our practice as a marathon more than a sprint, as a life-long journey of self-discovery, not as a one-off obligation for today. We must take aim at a longer-range target – meaning and significance beyond our words – and we must work through our flaws and rudimentary techniques to refine and center our focus on deeper aspirations.

All Prayer is Inadequate

If the purpose of prayer is to accurately and adequately praise God, or even describe God, then we must admit that it will always fail. There is a paradox to all spiritual practice and to all prayer practice. we try to describe God - infinite and pervasive - in words made for our own finite and limited human experience. Just as an artist must paint an image from the three dimensional world in a two dimensional frame, so too the spiritual seeker must try to describe something profoundly true in an artificial frame. Even sculpture, though it has the benefit of three dimensions, can only capture a moment, frozen in isolation amidst the ever-unfolding reality that we inhabit.

Perhaps then, the goal of prayer is not to describe God, but to discover ourselves. What we explore is not the vastness of God Out There, but the intimacy of God Inside. As we become more adept, we are able to more convincingly approach and realize what is truly real in our life.

Every word of prayer is inadequate to describe the experience of God. Every painting and sculpture is inadequate to describe and communicate the reality around us. "Praised are You...", "Merciful One....", "God is good...". None of these are True with a capital T. But ironically they can, with practice allow us to begin to understand the nature of mercy, praise, and goodness.

The more we know, the more we realize that each word, meant to symbolize an aspect of our experiences, and each ritual act and each quiet meditation pales in comparison with the emotions and imaginations that they seek to reveal, provoke or describe.

Our recitations, repetitions, and exercises all reveal our limits even as they invite us deeper. The process of refinement and investment in these brush strokes liberates them from the shortcomings of habit and routine. We can invest each move and each word with meaning so that these inadequate words trigger the neurological jump to Davenology/Prayercraft, and in that they become powerful ways to enhance and expand our capacity for creativity.

It is in that creativity that we truly experience and encounter what we call . . . God.