Talk Ain't Cheap - of Tarof and Seichel

I’ve told this story before but I’m going to tell it again.  If our people can tell the story of leaving Egypt again and again, I can tell this story twice.

Shabbat morning, circa 1980.  My parents were getting ready for shul.  My mother came downstairs all ready and said to my father, who was eating breakfast, “what do you think about my new outfit?” 

He had been eating a piece of pastry, a babka, I think, and he took a minute to swallow before he answered.  Or at least that’s how I remember it, but my mother didn’t quite look at it that way. 

“I guess you don’t like it,” she said. 

“Of course I like it.  Whatever you wear, you look beautiful.”

“What do you mean, whatever I wear, I look beautiful?  So I guess you don’t like the outfit.  Just say it.”

And my father sat there, trying to digest the pastry and the conversation that didn’t go quite the way he wanted.

(Post script - I’m pretty sure they were both fine by the time they got to shul.)

I want to devote my comments to the importance and utter complexity of how we talk to each other. 

We are a talking species.  We define, defend, court, elevate and upbraid with words.

An essential component of the Passover ritual, in many respects the driving element, is the commandment והגדת לבנך  you shall tell your child, “this is because of what God did for me when I left Egypt.”

Sounds simple – you just speak to your child.  And yet.  If it were so simple, we wouldn’t have a whole haggadah filled with different ways to tell, and we wouldn’t have the four children who each need to be told differently and even once you tell them, it’s not clear what happens next.

I’d like to muse on how difficult it is for us to talk to one another, how the dynamic between the generations plays out, and what we can accomplish when we learn to talk to one another most effectively.

The rabbis said -  חיים ומוות ביד הלשון - the tongue impacts life and death.  I think they were on to something. 

A few weeks ago, I was speaking to someone, a great guy connected with our congregation.  He said, “I’m not so into tarof.  I prefer to be direct and to say what’s on my mind.”

For those who may not know, tarof is a phenomenon that has deep roots in Persian culture.  It is a way of speaking graciously, humbly, of elevating the other person and his or her worth while downplaying one’s own.

A website that I consulted gives the following example.  A person walks into a shop and after a few minutes is prepared to buy an article of clothing.  She asks the cost.  The shopkeeper will say, “it’s worth nothing” implying that you, the customer, are worth so much more.

The customer understands the dynamic, as does the shopkeeper.  It can possibly feel routinized, almost like a game, but the fact that both parties are willing to abide by the dynamic adds a gracious tone to what could otherwise be a matter-of-fact and even unpleasant exchange.

Related to tarof, I understand, is the concept of ruh dar vasee, being sensitive to the pride of the other, allowing the person to save face rather than feel diminished and defeated.

It’s not just a Persian concept.  Anyone who has watched Seinfeld knows about the “it’s not you, it’s me!” shtick.

Here’s out it works.  One of the characters on the show decides to end a relationship with a romantic partner.   The partner is upset and asks why the other is ending it and is told, “it’s not you, it’s me.” You’re wonderful.  I’m just not ready to commit.  I have issues I still need to work out.

As with tarof, it can sometimes feel deliberate and stilted and of course it can backfire. 

The partner says, “I don’t care what issues you have.  I love you no matter what and I’m prepared to stay with you.  What should we do about dinner tonight?”

But as with tarof, the potential is that it sets a stage of graciousness and concern.  The person being given difficult news, or entering into any sort of conversation for that matter, understands that there was an attempt by the other to be sensitive and mindful.

With that as the backdrop, there may well be a likelier outcome of understanding and, if necessary, forgiveness, known in Hebrew as m’chila, in Persian as gozasht.  If we feel that the other cares enough to be gracious, to be sensitive to us, then more doors are potentially open to finding accommodation.

I totally understand why someone would want to transcend tarof, to be direct and to say what’s on his mind.

But it's more complicated than that.  The wonderful part about living in the United States is that cultural norms that come from Europe and the Middle East come in contact with American cultural norms. 

How fortunate we would be if we could carefully consider how to maximize the integration of these cultural norms to the best possible effect.

There is definitely a trend in American culture toward direct communication that goes back to our founding.

The founding fathers were often rather blunt with each other and you know what?  That directness of speech, buttressed by a directness of action, may well have been responsible for the founding of our nation. 

But directness unmitigated by nuance and sensitivity can often do damage.

We’re familiar with the concept of pathological lying – someone lies all the time and just can’t help it. 

I recently heard someone talk of the concept of pathological truth-telling.  Someone tells the unvarnished truth, all the time, no matter how hurtful, because he thinks that this is the right thing to do.

The ancient rabbis knew that there were times to soften the truth, even tell a white lie if necessary, or times to let the truth sink in gradually instead of inflicting it like a sledgehammer.

I want to turn our attention to two areas to explore how the proper blend of direct and nuanced communication might yield the most positive results.

A month ago, I joined a Rabbinical Assembly meeting with Jarrod Bernstein, Director of Jewish Outreach at the White House.  His job is to act as the liaison between the White House and the Jewish community.

He started our meeting with a story.  He said that he shares an office with the director of outreach to East Asia and the Pacific Islands.  On a typical day, the other person’s phone rings two or three times.  His doesn’t stop ringing and at one point, he asked his office mate if he could help with some of the volume.

As we all know, the Jewish community is divided on many domestic and foreign issues, and so he truly has his hands full.

One of the things we spoke about, is how the current president communicates with the Jewish community. 

A few people present, myself included, made the following comment.  In terms of actual policy regarding Israel, Bill Clinton wasn’t so different from Barack Obama and yet the Jewish community had few doubts about his support whereas, to varying degrees, the Jewish community has doubts about the depth and sincerity of the current president’s support.

Bill Clinton said “I feel your pain” and people believed it.  He had a way of endearing himself, of conveying genuine empathy. 

A few weeks ago, in our ballroom, the Crown Prince Reza Pahlavi, son of the late Shah of Iran, spoke to a packed room on the occasion of the 20^th anniversary of SHAI, the Sephardic Hebrew Alliance.

He expressed his gratitude to the Jewish people, he graciously received a blessing from an esteemed member of the Persian Jewish community. 

He spoke of his desire to see democratic elections in Iran.

And, as Rabbi Adelson discussed last week, he urged that nuclear force not be used against the people or Iran.

After it was over, I spoke with a few members of our congregation about what the Crown Prince had just said, and we agreed that in effect, indirectly, he had appealed to a room full of ardent Zionists to use their influence to discourage Israel from taking nuclear action against Iran.

Now some may feel that that was not his intention, but the consensus among those that I spoke with was that it was.

In any case, here was a man who, by dint of his graciousness and his subtlety, seems to have been able to deliver a message which, if delivered by the current US administration, would have been received in an entirely different way.

The means of communication, the affect, the gesture, the sensitivity to the other – it all counts. 

"Please have a seat" and "sit on your 'you-know-what'" are the same, yet very different.

And now, from the international arena, I want to take us to our final stop, the family table.

The haggadah tells us how to respond to four children.  The suggestions are just the beginning of conversations, it seems to me; if we really set the teeth of the so-called wicked child on edge, if we really say, “this is for what God did for me when I left Egypt” and imply that he wasn’t included, and if we really stop there, then what’s going to happen to this child?

The super direct approach only goes so far. 

How about “One day, you may feel differently?”

Our children, our parents, our siblings and our life partners may disappoint us. We have to decide whether to sock it do them or to leave an opening by being a little gracious, a little sensitive.

We can challenge the people we love without lambasting them. 

V’higadta.  You should tell.  We can tell with love, with respect, with sensitivity.  We can even take a few extra words to say the same thing if those few extra words will preserve the dignity and humanity of the other.

Call it tarof, call it seichel, call it hagadah.  I pray that in 2012, in the United States, as Jews who bear a history of thousands of years of speech, we will find the right balance, the right words, to say what needs to be said in ways that will build bridges and actually even get heard.

Originally delivered on the First Day of Passover, April 7, 2012, at Temple Israel of Great Neck