CHAPTER 7
Catechesis
Teaching Your Kid about God
OOH! Remember your first kiss? Remember your game-winning homer in Little League? Remember when Ann, the super-sweet and super-pretty blonde cheerleader, was so nervous reading her paper in tenth-grade English she didn’t know her skirt had hiked up, showing her undies in front, and your teacher, Miss Cesario, had to tip-toe up and quietly tell her, which made all the boys, including you, furious?
Yes, you do. Of course you do.
Here’s another! Remember Dad teaching you how to light a barbecue, which got a little out of hand and kind of exploded? Remember Mom storming outside, shooting Dad a look from the Dark Ages, and telling you, as she dragged you back inside by the ear, that it was positively the last barbecue-lighting you were going to witness for the rest of your life (although you kept sneaking out for them)? Remember how good the burgers were, even though you were pretty sure the weird taste around the edges was lighter fluid?
Yes, you do. Of course you do.
All right! We’re all warmed up! How about this one!
Remember your first prayer? Remember Dad teaching you to look around church or temple each time to let it sink in: “This is a good place, a holy place”? Or the time you really began to think you didn’t just believe in God, you knew Him?
No, you don’t. Of course you don’t.
Shouldn’t prayer cancel out all other memories? (Except for Ann’s underwear; I mean, come on.) But most of you still don’t know. Did Dad teach you to pray? Have you taught your own children? Breath out, calm down, come with me, and we’ll find out together.
I have good memories of my temple in childhood. It wasn’t built yet when we moved out to Long Island from Brooklyn when I was three, but all the other new families were just like us, and my parents joined immediately and signed up for every way they could help as soon as we got there: planning, building, cleaning, committees, furniture, everything.
So I guess you could say there was a congregation before there was a temple, and everyone chipped in and bought a small house and we used that. All the services and classes were held in that house while the regular place was being built, and all the members participated. Crowded, but so what? I liked that little house. I can still see the handfuls of students in the tiny bedroom classes and the writing on the blackboards, and hear the stories and the liturgy.
The whole neighborhood was new itself and still being built, and the trees were thin and little, but so were we. I guess I didn’t know much at the time, but it seemed to me it was just the right place to build a temple as we were building ourselves.
I made a lot of friends there, and we learned everything together. We played a lot of ball; we all started looking at the girls like, well, girls, at the same time; and we all pitched in, too, fixing and storing and carrying. This kept going long after the temple was finished, with bar mitzvahs and classes, and Kiddush after Saturday services where I first learned to love herring. And it went all the way up to me valeting cars at all the weddings for several years before I went to college. That’s right, I said several years. Guests used to laugh when I brought their cars around and shout, “Look at this one! He doesn’t even look old enough to have a license!”
That was more correct than they would want. I didn’t look old enough because I wasn’t. None of us had licenses. Whenever a guest in a suit and his wife in a gown pulled up to an affair in a car with a stick shift and went upstairs smiling and waving, we would all wave back and then instantly run to call up every other carboy who wasn’t working that day, and we’d all ride our bikes to the temple and learn how to drive a stick. Sometimes it was a Nomad wagon with three on the tree, and sometimes it was a Corvette with four on the floor, but it made no difference to us. The guests didn’t notice their cars had fifteen extra miles on them when they came out flush from the big party, and the caterer never said anything. (I think God will mention it, though, at our Big Meeting someday. I think He’ll want me to explain just one more time how driving a “borrowed” car wasn’t stealing. Ah, well.)
We did so much in that temple. Every time there was a war on Israel, we would all get together in the sanctuary and pray, and then raise money for an ambulance, or medical or military supplies, right there, and the rabbi would pass the news on to us from the pulpit. You know, folks, this was years before any place like CNN or Fox News, and I remember how close we all felt to get the news together. Who was wounded, who was missing, who was killed—news has never felt that real since. I think I’d like to experience news that way again, with everyone all together.
I learned to pray at that temple from my father, and that’s the point. He’s the one who taught me. The best lesson was always being at services with Dad. He and Mom are passed on now almost twenty years. Every Saturday I would go early with Dad, and we would plop ourselves down as close to the front as we could get, and when my mom and sister would join us later, I’d get up and move to the back or stand along the wall.
Here’s another reason it was special, though. Dad was self-taught. He never grew up knowing Hebrew or ritual, but a lot of my mom’s relatives wore black hats, and Dad started teaching himself, which is actually kind of amazing. It’s not an easy language, but he learned everything. Sure, his pronunciation was off and he wasn’t very rhythmic, but I loved hearing him, and he wanted my mother to see, and he wanted my sister to see, and he wanted our neighbors to see, and he wanted God to see.
There was an extra-special reason, too: He wanted me to see. No one had taught him, and he wanted to teach me. He wanted his son to respect him for praying well and knowing what to do, and I did. He wanted to be a father who taught his son.
Showing your children what you look like with prayer on your lips and building a home that reflects your beliefs are very important things to do. This is how you teach.
If there’s a God (and, by the way, there is) He probably won’t care how many card tricks you taught Junior, but He might care quite a bit what you taught your kids about Him. Your kids will learn how to teach their kids and—who knows?—many years from now you might just get a nice, comfy cloud thrown in up there from God.
Pop prayed with his heart, but everyone in temple always knew he was there, because there was one tiny problem: He was completely tone deaf and couldn’t sing a lick.
I’m telling you, folks, not a lick. Nothing wrong with that, and he wasn’t shy and loved to sing out with the congregation, but at the end of the day—and at the beginning, and in the middle, too—I’ll bet he never hit one note right, not even close. How bad? Sharp blasts of a foghorn across lonely midnight water would sound nicer to you than Dad praying.
One of our famous family stories was how Daddy, the sweetest man I ever knew, saw the singer Vaughan Monroe in a restaurant, got up from our table, knelt down behind Mr. Monroe with a big smile, and sang the first few bars of “Racing with the Moon.” Monroe turned to my father and said, “You make me feel very secure.”
Yes, Dad taught me to pray. He taught himself, and then he taught me.
He taught me how to see and feel the synagogue. He taught me that you can always talk to God, but in temple He’s much closer, so you don’t have to shout.
Dad didn’t have a good voice, but he’d always say, “God hears me, and He knows what I’m saying, and that’s all that matters. Just make sure He hears you, too.” Then he’d always smile. Always.
So listen up, all you red-blooded guys. You want to teach your kids manners and study habits and how to hit a curve? Fine, but these things mean nothing—nothing—if you forget your first job. And your first job is to teach them how to pray. “Make sure He hears you, too.” Let your little boy see you close your eyes and speak to God, and let him know you mean it. Teach him that your church or temple is not a candy store or a sneaker shop. Teach him to understand what’s holy. Teach him to stop before entering the sanctuary and think, This is God’s house. We built it, but it’s God’s. We printed these prayer books, but they are God’s. When we sing, it’s really God’s voice, not ours. We come here to listen, but God comes here to speak. These walls are like the insides of a fine violin: They’ve absorbed much over the years, but they are still shiny and smooth and waiting for you.
Hey, don’t fidget. There’s a lot more to—all right, fine, if you have to pee, make it fast and come back, because teaching the kids to pray was just your first job, and you have three of them. Now it’s time for number two, and here it is: They know how to pray, but they don’t know where.
You can watch baseball on TV, but think about how much better it is to go to the stadium with your kids, walk through the tunnel into the sunlight, look at that green field, and watch their faces light up.
Every place is good for a prayer, and everything good is worth a prayer.
Seeing your new baby for the first time, or nine months before when you made that baby, or at a Pop Warner game when your kid’s playing hard, or getting to the bathroom at the train station just in time? (And I do mean just in time.) Say one there. No better time for a glance heavenward and a thank-you.
Everything, everywhere. You and your wife have been planning to go out to dinner for a long time, right? Just the two of you, and you can’t seem to get it done. You’re tired, or working, or the kids have a game, and the one night you and she finally plan ahead and get a sitter…. Well, you kiss the kids goodnight, drive to a quiet place down the block for a meal, an hour and a half alone, and the waiter puts two cocktails down in front of you? Good Lord, folks, isn’t that a fine moment to look at each other, smile, clink glasses, and then look up and raise your glasses again, and say “Thank you” to the guy who gave it all to you, the One who’s really watching the kids? Can anyone not see that?
Sitting at your desk, walking along a city street, snoozing on a park bench on a sunny day, perched on a stool at the counter of a good diner when the cook puts a big plate of breakfast down in front of you, noticing a scantily clad girl in a bar and seeing her wink at you as you dash over to beat the rush? (Just kidding about the girl in the bar. I wanted to see if you were still listening. Besides, God understands these things. I think.)
Yes, pray everywhere, and they don’t have to be long ones, and not just for you. If an ambulance roars past with the siren on, say one for the guy they’re saving. If someone in rags is picking things out of a garbage can, say one for him. If high school kids are strolling by laughing and happy, say one for them. These are all good places.
But not the best places. Let’s start with the ones in all the books. They’re not the best, but they’re close. The kind even God sees and says, “Wow.”
For instance, if you’re Catholic, I would think going to St. Patrick’s in New York would be very moving, or the Cathedral of Notre Dame in Paris, or St. Peter’s, or the Hagia Sophia, or hundreds of others that will take your breath away. Not just the huge and artistic ones, either. There are thousands of humble, brick-and-mortar churches in small towns and on country roads with a sun-worn priest in each, all waiting for you to stick your head in and sit down.
If you’re one of the many denominations of Protestants, there are so many magnificent churches across America and internationally, and you’ll never go wrong visiting St. Paul’s in London (or anything else with Christopher Wren’s name on it). Again, though, I think the simple churches on town squares and country roads with their white, wooden towers have the greatest pastors, and real warmth and light. God loves the fancy ones, but I think He has an extra-special place for these.
If you’re Jewish, go to Israel. It’s that simple.
There are many religions we’re not getting to, and I’m sure they have fine places, too.
Now forget about them. All of them. Forget who they’re named after, forget where they are, forget who the guest speaker is, forget the gold or the cinderblocks or the feathered fans.
Think of one thing: You. Yourself. Your church, your temple. Your family. Your seat. Your prayer. You’ve been a member there for more than long enough. It’s yours. That seat is your property, yes, but you are that seat’s property, too. The seat belongs to you, but you belong to it, and think about this: You belong to that sanctuary just as it belongs to you. You belong to that prayer.
Think of all the people who were in that seat before you, and say “Thank you” to them and wish them well wherever they are. Tell them you’re happy to be part of the group. Tell them you will say a good prayer.
Look down at yourself and be grateful you took the time to shower and put on good clothes. Your seat and your God deserve to see you at your best. Look around the sanctuary and feel what a good room they have made. Say how glad you are to be there. You’re not the only one. God approves of it, and He approves of all those who’ve tried so hard in that seat. He knows them all deeply and has watched them and judged them. So be humble, but be grateful out loud for being allowed to come to such a holy place.
The whole place is the same in there. The pulpit belongs to you, and you belong to it. The walls and the banners and the priests and the ministers and the rabbis. You own them, and they own you. Acknowledge it and say “Thank you.”
Thank God. Thank Him again and again for your health and the health of those you love. Thank Him for those you love who are with Him in heaven, and thank Him for making that love real forever, because it is. Those souls, your parents and loved ones, are watching you and smiling, too. Smile back and tell them you love them. They are as real as you are.
This is all a very good way to start a prayer. Don’t feel guilty or silly that you’re not concentrating, because you are. Stand and sit and pray with the congregation, but with every other second, pray and think and smile and be grateful. Practice makes perfect, and you won’t be perfect, because no one is, but the more you pray in that seat, the better it gets, and these thoughts and prayers on your own are the perfect way to begin. And you know what? That’s a big part of how to pray. Which brings us to the why.
Here’s the important part: It’s all about God, but then again, maybe it’s not. Not all. There’s a reason God made the world and made us. He’s perfect, but He wanted more. He wanted someone to watch. He wanted family. So He created more. He created us. We are the more. God not only wants our hearts and souls to be right, He needs them to be. It’s all about God, yes, but that one tiny fraction left? That’s us, and that’s the way He meant it to be. We need to pass and succeed, but here’s something you probably don’t know: He needs us to pass the tests and be good enough to get to Him. One without the other is not complete.
God is everything, but we are the magic dust that makes it come to life.
That’s the start of how you know Him.
Give in, give up, and believe. It’s far easier than you think. Say what’s in your heart and don’t be afraid you’re going to look stupid. Here’s a big secret: You know who looks stupid right now? You. You won’t look stupid when you pray, but even if you do, hey, you’re already praying, so who’s going to say anything?
You were shy before you asked your wife out on a date when you met. So what? Now you’re married and have kids. You were shy when you went on a job interview. So what? Now you work there and make a good living for your family.
You get the point. Don’t be shy talking to God. Tell Him the truth, since He knows it anyway. Tell Him you’re afraid, you’re worried, you’re happy, you’re sad—tell Him everything that’s in your heart. Stand up, look up, and reach up. Then tell Him you want to be part of His team. Remember, He knows everything. He’s just waiting for you to try, and He’s already smiling with His arms out for a hug.
He’s right there. Where? There. Right in front of you. You will feel something the second you do it. One tingle grows into two. You may not see anything or feel anything. Again: So what? Maybe you’ll feel something the next time. But you do feel something! You feel great that you tried. And you’ll never be afraid to do it again.
That’s the most important part. You didn’t know if you believed before you prayed? What are you talking about? You just told Him your greatest desires. You just spoke out loud and were honest. You just smiled and looked out and said, “Thank you.”
Guess what? You believe. Don’t be afraid. You believe. Just a little to start, but that grows, and you’ll know it every day. You didn’t love your wife the first time you saw her, but that grew, and now you do. God is much the same way.
All you have to do is want to. All you have to do is try.
It’s exciting, though. You don’t know what you’re doing? Yes, you do. You’re open to Him. You’re waiting for Him. And it’s going two ways! He’s waiting for you, too! You’re way past belief. You chatted. You did it. You not only believe …
You know. You know Him. You know God. Yes, you do. God knows every single thing about you, doesn’t He? Of course He does. And you know every single thing about Him, don’t you? Sure you do. There’s an old, big book you have in your house, or you can pick it up in any bookstore. It’s a Good Book, and it’s waiting for you.
That book is also in every hotel room in America. You know that book. You know the start of your belief. Say hello in front of your mirror when you’re getting dressed and ask for help. Say hello when you’re watching the sun set and give thanks.
Here’s something amazing: The greatest, most godly men and women in history were just like you, and they were afraid, too, but now that you’ve reached out and tried, you’re just like them.
So. Where are we? Right where we started? Oh, no. You know how to start praying, and you know how to pray, and you know how much is waiting for you. Good.
You know how to find the great places in the world to pray, and you know how every simple place is great, too. But now you know about the cherry on top. You know how to sit down in your own church or temple and begin. You know that seat is the greatest place in the world to pray. It’s yours now. Good. Plus, you know there’s a God waiting for you. You know He’s listening. You know Him.
You know how, you know where, and you know who. So teach yourself. And teach your children.
If your parents have passed away, they’re in heaven. Think about them, and talk to them, and remember. I’m looking forward to seeing them. That’s where it all starts.
Remember: Make sure He hears you, too.
Mom? My mom’s love flowed through our house like Niagara Falls. She scrubbed us and taught us to behave and was so smart she seemed to know everything. I loved her then, and I love her now. But Dad?
Oh, my daddy. He always sang “The Star-Spangled Banner” at ball games, loved dogs as much as they loved him, and he always had a big smile when coming in the door after a hard day’s work. But how I wish I could hear that good man pray again.