Ernesto Sirolli is a special kind of management consultant. He helps guide communities to fulfill their own passions, to achieve the most success possible with their own ideas.
In a TED talk that he gave, he told a funny story about when he was in his twenties and he traveled from Italy to the Zambezi valley in Africa as part of a relief organization, the goal of which was to help the African communities grow food.
So they traveled to Africa and arrived at the valley which had beautiful soil, good sunlight, but no agriculture. The Italian group set themselves up, had brought Italian seeds with them, said to the locals, we want you to show up and we will tell you how to plant the seeds and have successful agriculture.
The locals by and large did not show up. The relief organization offered them with money to show up. A few showed up. They planted tomato seeds. Over the next months the plants grew and produced big, beautiful tomatoes, bigger than any produced in Italy. The Italians were so excited.
The tomatoes were just about fully ripe. Everyone went to sleep.
During the night, 200 hippos emerged from the river and ate all the tomatoes. The next morning, one of the locals said to one of the leaders of the relief agency, this is why we don’t have agriculture in the valley.
The leader asked, why didn’t you tell us about the hippos?
And the local said, you never asked.
Sirolli told this story to illustrate how easy it is not to ask and not to listen, but of course, how important it is to ask. How important it is to listen.
I want to challenge us to think carefully about our own lives, about all the times that we approach our loved ones - our spouses, our parents, our siblings, our children - with plans and expectations - without asking them what they think, what they want, what they need, or where the hippos are.
It’s so much easier not to ask, not to listen. We - like the Italian relief organization - mean well. We’re trying to help, after all. And yet. When we don’t ask, when we don’t listen, things don’t go so well. I’d like to explore that.
In this morning’s Torah reading we reach a climax where Joseph finally reveals his identity to his brothers. Joseph and his brothers were not the finest communicators, certainly for years of their relationship. Joseph and his brothers don’t ask and they don’t listen throughout much of their interaction with one another.
Towards the beginning, Joseph shares his patronizing dreams with his brothers. At this moment he does not have the self-awareness, the maturity, to say something like, “odd dreams, bros, don’t you think?” He doesn’t ask them anything, he just tells them his dreams. Jacob is annoyed, and says, You mean to tell me that I and your mother and your brothers are going to bow down to you?
This doesn’t seem to phase Joseph. He doesn’t ask, he doesn’t seem to really listen.
And the brothers are also capable of not listening. They throw him into a pit and go have lunch.
The brothers later will feel remorse for not having listened to his cries.
When they are down in Egypt, standing in front of Joseph but not recognizing him we are being punished on account of our brother.
אשר ראינו בצרת נפשו בהתחננו אלינו ולא שמענו
Asher ra’einu b’tzarat nafsho b’hithan’no eleinu v’lo shamanu.
Because we witnessed his anguish and did not listen.
In the Torah - the word shomeah doesn’t just mean to hear. It means to be mindful, to pay attention, in this case to the anguish of another human being.
Slowly the brothers are learning how to listen, how to be mindful, how to pay attention.
When Judah speaks to Joseph, he forces Joseph to pay attention - not just to him, but to the anguish of his father which Judah conveys.
It’s easier not to listen. Not to pay attention. Not to dig too deep. There’s a large space between “Hi sweetie, how was your day?” And “How satisfied are you with your life?” We tend to ask the first, we don’t necessarily ask the second, not with spouses, not with siblings, not with children. Do we want to give loved ones the genuine invitation to reflect on their lives?
Maybe yes, but maybe no, especially if we fear that their responses might threaten our own sense of how things should be.
I’m reading a well-written novel by Jhumpa Lahiri called The Namesake about a couple who immigrate to the US from India and have two children. The novel is primarily about the older child, tracing his life from childhood through adolescence and into adulthood.
There is a heavy burden of cultural and emotional expectation weighing on him and he pushes back - sometimes thoughtfully, sometimes carelessly.
One fascinating aspect of the novel is the way that the parents listen to him and don’t listen to him as he discovers his own voice.
The first time I saw Fiddler on the Roof I was a child and I loved it and sang all the songs, but I have to tell you, when I saw it recently (in Yiddish - great production) as a parent, it was a very different experience. I was keenly connected emotionally to the perspective of the children but even more so to the perspective of the parents as their children found their way in the world, often at odds with what the parents wanted and expected.
When we want children to be outgoing and they are shy.
When we want children to be focused and they are dreamy.
When we want children to do a, b and c and they are more interested, or inclined, to do x, y, and z.
Are we able to listen, to be mindful, to pay attention to who they actually are and who they are becoming?
Sure it can be easier not to ask, not to listen, but there’s a cost to not asking and not listening.
At the most extreme, it can contribute to alienation, depression, addiction, self-harming behavior. There’s a big price we pay when we are forced into a mold that doesn’t quite fit who we are.
If we are more concerned with what the neighbors think than with helping our loved ones discover a path that is authentic to who they are, then we should take a hard look at ourselves and wonder if we are doing the right thing.
We are often so anxious about what will happen if we ask, if we listen. I mean, who knows what our loved ones will do, right?
For what it’s worth, as the young man in the Jhumpa Lahiri novel has experiences that take him outside of the cultural and emotional framework of his parents, he finds his way back to them - not exactly the way they imagined or hoped, but in his own authentic way.
Same with Tevye and Golda’s daughters.
It’s hard to love without smothering, to parent without patronizing, to ask and to listen, rather than to lecture and assume.
But it’s harder still to deal with the aftermath of all the questions that we didn’t ask, all the anguish and all the dreams that we didn’t pay attention to.
This past Monday was the 8th day of Hanukkah and I read from the Torah that reading. It was a long reading, much of it describing the gifts that were brought for the dedication of the mishkan, the ancient sanctuary. Silver bowls, gold labels, incense. And sacrifices of oxen, rams, goats and lambs.
At the very end of the reading, we read the following:
ובבוא משה אל אהל מועד לדבר אתו וישמע את הקול מדבר אליו
Uv’vo Moshe el ohel mo'ed l’daber ito vayishma et hakol meedaber elav
When Moses would go into the place of meeting he would hear the Voice speaking to him.
How easy, I imagine - with all the princes, all the gold, all the silver, all the oxen and rams and goats and lambs - to forget what the whole purpose of this sanctuary was. It was to be a place to go and listen. To go and hear the Voice.
With all of our distractions, with all of our anxieties, with all of our resentments, we can forget the essential, definitional, transformative act of listening.
Joseph and his brothers slowly learn how to ask and how to listen.
And so must we.
Originally shared with the Temple Israel of Great Neck community on December 15, 2018
In a TED talk that he gave, he told a funny story about when he was in his twenties and he traveled from Italy to the Zambezi valley in Africa as part of a relief organization, the goal of which was to help the African communities grow food.
So they traveled to Africa and arrived at the valley which had beautiful soil, good sunlight, but no agriculture. The Italian group set themselves up, had brought Italian seeds with them, said to the locals, we want you to show up and we will tell you how to plant the seeds and have successful agriculture.
The locals by and large did not show up. The relief organization offered them with money to show up. A few showed up. They planted tomato seeds. Over the next months the plants grew and produced big, beautiful tomatoes, bigger than any produced in Italy. The Italians were so excited.
The tomatoes were just about fully ripe. Everyone went to sleep.
During the night, 200 hippos emerged from the river and ate all the tomatoes. The next morning, one of the locals said to one of the leaders of the relief agency, this is why we don’t have agriculture in the valley.
The leader asked, why didn’t you tell us about the hippos?
And the local said, you never asked.
Sirolli told this story to illustrate how easy it is not to ask and not to listen, but of course, how important it is to ask. How important it is to listen.
I want to challenge us to think carefully about our own lives, about all the times that we approach our loved ones - our spouses, our parents, our siblings, our children - with plans and expectations - without asking them what they think, what they want, what they need, or where the hippos are.
It’s so much easier not to ask, not to listen. We - like the Italian relief organization - mean well. We’re trying to help, after all. And yet. When we don’t ask, when we don’t listen, things don’t go so well. I’d like to explore that.
In this morning’s Torah reading we reach a climax where Joseph finally reveals his identity to his brothers. Joseph and his brothers were not the finest communicators, certainly for years of their relationship. Joseph and his brothers don’t ask and they don’t listen throughout much of their interaction with one another.
Towards the beginning, Joseph shares his patronizing dreams with his brothers. At this moment he does not have the self-awareness, the maturity, to say something like, “odd dreams, bros, don’t you think?” He doesn’t ask them anything, he just tells them his dreams. Jacob is annoyed, and says, You mean to tell me that I and your mother and your brothers are going to bow down to you?
This doesn’t seem to phase Joseph. He doesn’t ask, he doesn’t seem to really listen.
And the brothers are also capable of not listening. They throw him into a pit and go have lunch.
The brothers later will feel remorse for not having listened to his cries.
When they are down in Egypt, standing in front of Joseph but not recognizing him we are being punished on account of our brother.
אשר ראינו בצרת נפשו בהתחננו אלינו ולא שמענו
Asher ra’einu b’tzarat nafsho b’hithan’no eleinu v’lo shamanu.
Because we witnessed his anguish and did not listen.
In the Torah - the word shomeah doesn’t just mean to hear. It means to be mindful, to pay attention, in this case to the anguish of another human being.
Slowly the brothers are learning how to listen, how to be mindful, how to pay attention.
When Judah speaks to Joseph, he forces Joseph to pay attention - not just to him, but to the anguish of his father which Judah conveys.
It’s easier not to listen. Not to pay attention. Not to dig too deep. There’s a large space between “Hi sweetie, how was your day?” And “How satisfied are you with your life?” We tend to ask the first, we don’t necessarily ask the second, not with spouses, not with siblings, not with children. Do we want to give loved ones the genuine invitation to reflect on their lives?
Maybe yes, but maybe no, especially if we fear that their responses might threaten our own sense of how things should be.
I’m reading a well-written novel by Jhumpa Lahiri called The Namesake about a couple who immigrate to the US from India and have two children. The novel is primarily about the older child, tracing his life from childhood through adolescence and into adulthood.
There is a heavy burden of cultural and emotional expectation weighing on him and he pushes back - sometimes thoughtfully, sometimes carelessly.
One fascinating aspect of the novel is the way that the parents listen to him and don’t listen to him as he discovers his own voice.
The first time I saw Fiddler on the Roof I was a child and I loved it and sang all the songs, but I have to tell you, when I saw it recently (in Yiddish - great production) as a parent, it was a very different experience. I was keenly connected emotionally to the perspective of the children but even more so to the perspective of the parents as their children found their way in the world, often at odds with what the parents wanted and expected.
When we want children to be outgoing and they are shy.
When we want children to be focused and they are dreamy.
When we want children to do a, b and c and they are more interested, or inclined, to do x, y, and z.
Are we able to listen, to be mindful, to pay attention to who they actually are and who they are becoming?
Sure it can be easier not to ask, not to listen, but there’s a cost to not asking and not listening.
At the most extreme, it can contribute to alienation, depression, addiction, self-harming behavior. There’s a big price we pay when we are forced into a mold that doesn’t quite fit who we are.
If we are more concerned with what the neighbors think than with helping our loved ones discover a path that is authentic to who they are, then we should take a hard look at ourselves and wonder if we are doing the right thing.
We are often so anxious about what will happen if we ask, if we listen. I mean, who knows what our loved ones will do, right?
For what it’s worth, as the young man in the Jhumpa Lahiri novel has experiences that take him outside of the cultural and emotional framework of his parents, he finds his way back to them - not exactly the way they imagined or hoped, but in his own authentic way.
Same with Tevye and Golda’s daughters.
It’s hard to love without smothering, to parent without patronizing, to ask and to listen, rather than to lecture and assume.
But it’s harder still to deal with the aftermath of all the questions that we didn’t ask, all the anguish and all the dreams that we didn’t pay attention to.
This past Monday was the 8th day of Hanukkah and I read from the Torah that reading. It was a long reading, much of it describing the gifts that were brought for the dedication of the mishkan, the ancient sanctuary. Silver bowls, gold labels, incense. And sacrifices of oxen, rams, goats and lambs.
At the very end of the reading, we read the following:
ובבוא משה אל אהל מועד לדבר אתו וישמע את הקול מדבר אליו
Uv’vo Moshe el ohel mo'ed l’daber ito vayishma et hakol meedaber elav
When Moses would go into the place of meeting he would hear the Voice speaking to him.
How easy, I imagine - with all the princes, all the gold, all the silver, all the oxen and rams and goats and lambs - to forget what the whole purpose of this sanctuary was. It was to be a place to go and listen. To go and hear the Voice.
With all of our distractions, with all of our anxieties, with all of our resentments, we can forget the essential, definitional, transformative act of listening.
Joseph and his brothers slowly learn how to ask and how to listen.
And so must we.
Originally shared with the Temple Israel of Great Neck community on December 15, 2018
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