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July 10, 2021
Author(s): Rav Hazzan Aliza Berger,
Parshat Matot-Masei
July 10, 2021 – 1 Av 5781
My Heart’s Song
with Rav Hazzan Aliza Berger
Temple Emanuel, Newton, MA
This year, everyone is talking about Naomi Osaka. At 23, Naomi Osaka is one of the best tennis players in the world. Literally. She is a four-time Grand Slam champion and the first Asian player to be ranked number one in the world by the Women’s Tennis Association. In May of this year, Naomi made the bold decision to skip a press conference for which she accepted a $15,000 fine, and then to skip the French Open and Wimbledon all to protect her mental health.
At the time, Naomi explained that she has struggled with depression. She shared that questions at press conferences sometimes cause her to spiral into depressive states and harm her game. In response, the sports conglomerate explained how she was wrong. They fined, threatened her if she continued to refuse, told her they knew better than she what was best for her and claimed they are committed to supporting the mental health of their athletes.
In other words, because these officials and organizers don’t experience crippling mental health challenges, they assumed Naomi’s experience was just like theirs. They thought about what it would be like for them to attend a press conference, they thought objectively about what happens at press conferences, and they arrived at the conclusion that Naomi’s needs were excessive and in violation of her contract. They did not consider that her reality might be different. They just punished her.
And while we’d like to demonize the tennis establishment, while we would like to say can you believe they won’t be flexible at all, can you believe what they’re doing to her? the truth is that we fall into the same patterns and paradigms all the time.
We too interpret the world based on our own experiences. We think that our emotions, our reactions and interactions, are predictive and instructive. We think that other people are just like us.
We see a young adult who has just graduated and ask them what their plans are for college or for their future, remembering our own newly graduated experience. We don’t consider that they might not know; that they are feeling deeply anxious about their future. We don’t realize that our question normalizes the idea that everyone else has their life together except for the young person in front of us.
We cause pain inadvertently. Our goal is to love, to support, and to be helpful. We are following the golden rule—treating others as we would like to be treated. But there’s a problem. The golden rule assumes that everyone is the same. That what I want and like and need is the same as what you want and like and need. The golden rule teaches me that my inner landscape, my experiences, and my preferences can tell me everything I need to support you. But they can’t. The golden rule isn’t always the golden standard.
This is something I feel very personally. Solomon and I have been married now almost two years. We had the incredible blessing of getting to celebrate our wedding right here with you, just before the world shut down. I remember that day vividly. Standing under the chuppah, looking into Solomon’s eyes, and thinking one year from now, we’ll be standing here celebrating a little one.
I thought then that building a family would be like planning a wedding. I thought we would have control. I thought that it would unfold according to our plan.
But that is not how it has been. Not at all.
I have learned so much over these past months. I have learned that we are not in control. That if and when we get to build a family, it will be up to God. Together, Solomon and I have become experts in areas we never considered before. We have learned how to navigate the ups and downs of trying—every month a burst of hope and grief and frustration and loss and then hope again. And we have learned how acutely love and care can hurt.
When I go to kiddush, or when we go to a family gathering or to friend’s home for dinner, our loved ones want to know how we are doing. They will see Solomon playing with kids, and he is beyond fabulous with kids, and they’ll say, “he’s so good with them. You guys should have kids!” or “nu, when are you going to have little ones of your own?” or they’ll see me speaking with someone who’s pregnant and say, “you better be careful, it’s catching!” Or worse, we go to a dinner party and I choose not to drink and suddenly the conversation stops—“whoa, are you pregnant? Oh, I had been hoping you would be pregnant!”
I know these comments come out of love. I have no doubt that for some couples, their biggest hurdle to building a family was their own readiness. For these couples, I know they think that putting a little pressure on us is helpful. And for others, I know they are just excited. They want to see us become parents. They have our best interests at heart. Only it hurts.
Lately, I’ve been thinking there is a deep reason our core prayer is the Shema. There is a reason tradition asks us to recite the Shema twice per day. It’s not just because that’s our credo, or because our ancestors said it. The Shema is central because it tells us exactly what we need to do to be the best we can be. Listen, Israel, the Shema says. Don’t imagine. Don’t make up stories. Don’t impose your truth. Don’t ask invasive questions. Listen. We may all be here in service to the same God, we may all be here working on the same project, but we are not all the same. Only God is one. We are many. Listen. Two times per day (at least) we remind ourselves that we do not know what other people are experiencing. We do not know what they want or how they want to get there. But we do know how to ask, and we know how to listen.
The other day, we went to a friend’s home for dinner. My friend took me aside, gave me a hug, and then said to me, “We’ve never really talked about this, so I don’t know what your experiences are or how these couple of years have been for you, but I wanted you to know that we’re pregnant. I did not want you to find out from someone else. It wasn’t easy for us at all, and if you ever want to talk about it, I’m here.”
When I was little, my Mom used to sing a Yogananda chant. Listen, listen, listen to my heart’s song. I will never forget you, I will never forsake you, I will never forget you, I will never forsake you (sung). I think that may actually be the Golden Rule.