Holy Disruptions

In Days of Awe, the Nobel laureate S.Y. (Shai) Agnon recorded a story about an ignorant young boy who could not read Hebrew or pray. One Yom Kippur, this young boy’s father brought him to the synagogue of the Baal Shem Tov, where “the boy sat in the House of Prayer all Yom Kippur without praying, because he did not know how.”

The boy loved to play his flute; unbeknownst to his father, he had brought it with them to the synagogue, even though playing an instrument is forbidden on Jewish holy days, and repeatedly asked to play it. The father tried to restrain his son, but the boy managed to wrest the flute from his pocket during Neilah and blew it loudly, shocking the other worshippers.

Neilah is the closing prayer of the holiest day of the year. The Baal Shem Tov finished, and instead of offering rebuke, he shared a powerful sentiment:

“This child does not know anything but by dint of his seeing and hearing the prayer of Israel all of this holy day, the prayer’s holy spark kindled a fire in him and the flames of his longing burned higher and higher until his soul nearly expired. Because of the strength of his longing, he played the note of his heart truly, without any distraction, for the sole sake of the Name of God… and by this means all the prayers were lifted up.”

There are many variations of this tale, and yet all of them end on this note: the disruption of this unknowing child, so pure of heart, allowed the congregation’s prayers to reach God.

I have always loved this story.

Partly because of its central theme: that the clear, honest voice of the child is the one God wants most. The Talmud records Reish Lakish’s expression that “the world only exists because of the breath of schoolchildren.”

Children view the world differently. Attention, awe, and distress are more accessible to children than to adults. Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel connected youthfulness with the state of radical amazement: “My lips are constantly astonished, heartfelt-mute / Like a child stumbling upon an ancient shrine.”

Sometimes I try to imagine looking at the world as a child again. I have the great privilege of watching my daughter experience this world she is learning to live in, and she has moments of clarity that leave me speechless. We walk past a homeless man crying for help, and I look down, away; she asks me why we don’t help him. I tell her I can’t play right now because I’m working; she asks me why I have to work.

Why, why, why. There is nothing but naked truth with a child.

Life’s Disruptions

But I love the story for another reason, too. We are so quick to condemn or dismiss the disruptions of our lives. This is true for those of us with young children, but it’s also more broadly true of our interactions with the universe. When the bus is delayed, or the customer service representative is unhelpful, we become aggravated and resentful: this is not what we want, this is a waste of time, this is not what our lives are for.

The people praying in the Baal Shem Tov’s synagogue may have found the boy’s flute call disruptive. Many were likely in a state of deep concentration, pleading with God on this holy day. To have that kavanah (intention) pierced by the sound of a flute was undoubtedly unwanted and aggravating.

But these disruptions can remind us that the world is bigger than our personal priorities and needs, that the world does not revolve around our grievances.

Perhaps these two ideas are really one. Children are themselves holy disruptions. They interrupt our routines, our assumptions, and our certainty. In doing so, they invite us to see the world differently.

Can we reframe these interruptions and begin to see them as moments of opportunity? Can we look away from ourselves and toward the world around us?

That’s what I’ll be working on this year.