The wonderful musical Fiddler on the Roof famously begins with the song “Tradition.” Each group in the shtetl – the papas, the mamas, the daughters, the sons – sings a chorus describing their lives.
“Because of our traditions,” Tevye explains beneficently, “everyone knows who he is, and what God expects him to do.”
We listened to this soundtrack a lot when I was little, and I never liked the “sons” part. They sing: “At three I started Hebrew school. At ten I learned a trade. I hear they picked a bride for me. I hope… she’s pretty.”
I asked my mother, “Isn’t that kind of shallow? They shouldn’t be so worried about what their wives look like, should they?” I was a pretty self-righteous kid. I was heavily into stories of the saints at the time, and had heard over and over that beauty is fleeting and God sees the heart, and that’s what really matters.
My mother, probably hiding a smile, said, “Well. . . it’s true that other things besides beauty matter, but it’s also normal for a young man to want his wife to be pretty, and there’s nothing wrong with that.” I did not like that! I wanted her to say that I was absolutely right, and incredibly spiritually mature for my age.
I also wanted her to say I was pretty, and I wanted to be pretty, and I wanted to meet a boy who thought I was so pretty, he would ask me to be his wife, and we could be like Tevye and Golde, except I would be pretty. Give me a break, I was like eight. Plus, it was the early 80s, and we were all very dumb.
My mother was right, though, of course. It’s great to have the highest of high standards, and to strive to dwell in a realm where body and soul are both exclusively and harmoniously ordered toward the good and toward service of God and each other. That’s how it’s supposed to be.
It’s also great to recognise that most of us simply don’t live in that realm. We have our moments, but there’s nothing especially holy about sneering at normal human desires and impulses, and there’s definitely nothing holy about pretending you’re holy. I eventually figured that out.
I am now 50, and to be honest, I thought I had gotten over this kind of spiritual snobbery. But a few weeks ago at Mass, I discovered I have not, because both the first reading and the Gospel bothered me a little bit.
The first reading told about Moses holding the staff of God up, and when the Hebrew soldiers could see it, they fought well, but when his arms got tired and he put it down, they started to lose.
I will confess, I always thought this was a little bit . . . gauche of God. Like, really? The magic stick goes up, the good guys win, and the magic stick goes down, so they lose? And the answer is to prop up the magic stick with extra helper guys, so the good guys win again? Could we not aim a little higher?
I had a similar feeling during the Gospel reading. It was the story of the persistent widow, who wants something from the corrupt judge, and he doesn’t want to give it to her. But she pesters him and harasses him and won’t stop asking, so finally he gives her justice.
I have always (yes, I am shameless) questioned Jesus’ judgment in telling us this parable. Can’t help but wonder if he really thought through the implications of getting us to associate him with a corrupt judge who only dishes out justice to get us to shut up.
Well, here is where I have finally landed. God knows perfectly well that, at least on one level, those two stories are a little bit shallow. They’re simple and easy to understand, and the point is delivered pretty bluntly.
It now occurs to me that that’s the point. I AM kind of dumb. I’m kind of gauche and shallow. I really need lessons delivered to me in a box labelled “Lesson inside!” I’m still basically eight years old, and have barely grown up at all, spiritually.
The biggest evidence for this? The fact that I was sitting there, getting snarky about the Bible. I really felt in my heart like what Moses did and what Jesus said weren’t nuanced enough for a spiritually sophisticated person like me, and maybe the Lord could have gone over it a few more times for another round of edits.
Who thinks like that? Dummies. Dummies who need really easy lessons.
If it sounds like I’m being mean to myself, I’m really not. I’m giggling as I write, because every once in a while I get a glimpse at how ridiculous I am.
The other week I got to adoration, said a few prayers, got annoyed at the whispering lady, and promptly fell asleep for almost half an hour. I didn’t even feel bad, because I’m a big dumb baby and loving fathers are always happy to sit there for an hour while the baby takes a nap in their lap. Loving fathers enjoy it, even.
So, I hope God enjoys me being dumb, because it doesn’t seem likely to change anytime soon. The best I can do is keep showing up, reading the stories of the saints, listening to scripture at Mass, sitting through adoration and remaining conscious if possible, and occasionally enjoying a little laugh together with God at my expense.
It occurs to me that Tevye wasn’t really wrong, when he sang the “tradition” song about what everyone ie supposed to do in life. It’s not always as simple as “everyone knows who he is and what God expects him to do!” (and Tevye learns this lesson in harder and harder ways throughout the show.)
But sometimes it actually is that simple. We have the ten commandments. We have the beatitudes. We have the Great Commandment. Sometimes we can really trip ourselves up making things more complicated and elevated and sophisticated than they need to be (or even can be), and before you know it, God’s not even in the picture, because we’re so focused on the nuance of it all. So, don’t do that. As often as you can, keep it simple, and don’t forget how dumb you are.
I hear they picked a saviour for me. I hope he loves me.
No, I know he does.
