As Clara and
I were preparing to move to Australia over two years ago, a colleague phoned to
welcome us in advance. This colleague
was an American rabbi who had also come to Australia to work some years before. Offering some insights as to what makes
Australia a bit different from the USA, she told me: “Australians are more
direct than Americans.”
“That’s good,” I told her. “I’m
married to an Israeli, so if there’s one thing I’m used to, it’s directness.”
“Well,” my colleague hesitated. “It
isn’t directness like in Israelis.”
Now there’s directness, and
there’s elliptical-ness, and not knowing how to differentiate between ‘types’
of directness unless she meant degrees, I filed the information away and
proceeded to fly to Australia. The truth
is that it didn’t matter much to me what she meant. Anybody who knows me, knows that I’m direct
and that I prize directness to the point of preaching frequently that it is a
virtue. In the communications ‘trenches,’
there is no greater gift you can give someone else than being direct and
letting them always know where you stand.
There is no greater gift…and no greater example when, like me, you’re a teacher
and one who aims to inspire people to behave in specific ways.
In my time here in Australia, I’ve
come to wonder exactly what my colleague was talking about. I haven’t found you Aussies to be very direct
at all. And when I’m direct with you,
you sometimes find that more than a little off-putting. But I don’t mention this to criticize you or
your lovely country, only to point out an important truth about what is
considered desirable and what isn’t here.
And directness certainly falls into the latter category.
If interpersonal communication can be
problematic, how about communication with the Deity? We Jews, generally, are challenged in that
area. As you know because I’ve told you ad
infinitum – or perhaps ad nauseum – that I spent years of my
rabbinate working as a military chaplain, in the trenches of interfaith
dialogue and cooperation. So I’m very
familiar with the different approaches of Jews, and Christians, to prayer. To Jews, prayer is like a song, with a set
script and melody. To Christians it’s
like a talk in bed. The song can be
uplifting, but it is seldom spontaneous or personal. The talk in bed is spontaneous and personal
to a fault. And it can be uplifting as
well.
In the fullness of our tradition both
kinds of prayer are important, but we Jews largely find the spontaneous kind problematic.
For some of us, it is a lack of belief
in a Deity who is listening for, and hearkening to us. For others, it’s simply embarrassment with a
practice that doesn’t feel natural. To
others, it perhaps seems inauthentic, something that alludes to our neighbours’
faiths.
I addressed this once in a pamphlet I wrote
for the Jewish Welfare Board. I called
it The ‘Problem’ of Prayer, and in it I addressed that various kinds of
prayer – including spontaneous prayer – are completely authentic to the Jewish
tradition. We would therefore do well to
make ourselves comfortable with all the kinds of prayer. And not just liturgical prayer.
The JWB rejected the pamphlet because
of the title, despite that I’d placed the word ‘problem’ in quotes. But never mind. It doesn’t change the fact that prayer is
indeed a ‘problem’ to many Jews. A
needless problem.
It wasn’t a problem to Moshe Rabbeinu –
to Moses our Teacher. This week’s Torah
portion begins in the third chapter of the Book of Deuteronomy with the
words: ואתחנן אל-י**ה באת
ההיא לאמור; “At that time I pleaded with G-d, saying…” The word ve’etchanan, ‘I pleaded,’ or ‘I
cried out’ is the key. Moses is telling
the people that he was unembarrassed to cry out to G-d in his anguish.
Most of us have mastered the
ability to express a range of emotions. When we meet someone who has not, who is as I say,
‘emotionally flat,’ we feel uncomfortable. It’s very true that we can e too emotional,
and many of us are at times. But for
better or worse – and largely for better – we’ve learned to express the various
emotions that we cycle through in the course of our lives.
We would do well to approach
prayer, our communication with G-d, in a similar manner. To learn to express different emotions as we
approach the Deity. To soar with elation
when elation is what we’re experiencing.
To offer quiet reflection when we’re feeling reflective. To be hopeful when we’re hoping for
something. And yes, to cry out in
anguish when our souls are anguished. Whether
it’s because of a relationship gone sour, or the death of a close companion, or
frustration over a personal failure. The
entire range of emotions are entirely valid expressions of our hearts when we
approach G-d. And we can be
spontaneous. A script is wonderful. But we can go ‘off-script.’ It doesn’t
make us Christian, or even Christian-like. Our ancient master taught us so long ago, and
the Torah recorded for posterity, this truth.
Sometimes, it is difficult to express the full range of emotions when we’re
limited by a script. It is not a bad
thing to be ready, when your inner spirit warrants it, to cry out in anguish. To do so is, after all, quite cathartic. And catharsis is very healthy.
Directness in the way we
communicate with one another is a good thing. It is always good to know where the other
stands. To not have to guess. In communicating with G-d, it is good also. It is good to be able to express ourselves
directly, and in the full range of emotions, and spontaneously as well as
according to a script. Some would pooh-pooh
the need to do so by invoking the principle that G-d knows what’s in our
hearts. Perhaps He does. But to express a wide range of emotions in
our prayer is catharsis of the highest, and most constructive degree. Let’s take Moses’ example to heart. Shabbat shalom.
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