In the Christian tradition, weeping is commendable. Jesus wept over Jerusalem and at his friend Lazarus' death. In a habitual reversal of conventional wisdom he is also credited with saying, 'Blessed are they who weep and mourn.'
It is no wonder, then, that Prime Minister Morrison, who makes no secret of his Christian faith, should have wept, and later acknowledged his tears, when seeing the plight of Rohingya refugees held in Myanmar. His self-revelation, however, was strongly criticised from two sides.
Many who were appalled by the sufferings inflicted on people who seek protection in Australia under a policy for whose design and administration Morrison was responsible, saw his reported tears as hypocritical. Others criticised him on the grounds that such expressions of feeling are out of place in public officials. Their office requires a toughness that will not be shaken by empathy for those affected by policies in the national good.
Both Morrison's response to the suffering of refugees and his critics' varying responses to his tears merit reflection, not because the incident was of high significance in itself, but precisely because it is so ordinary. Most of us, recalling our own behaviour whether expressed in tears or in dismissal of them, would be forced to say, 'There despite the grace of God went I.' For that reason the incident is worth teasing out.
Philosophers and teachers of good writing make a useful distinction between sentiment and sentimentality. It may be helpful in this case. The distinction, of course, can be used in self-serving ways, because it is not neutral but is value laden. Sentiment is generally regarded as good. Sentimentality is always seen as bad. Because sentimentality is a pejorative word, people accused of it will usually try to deny the charge.
As is the case with most such opposed terms, the difference between sentiment and sentimentality has been defined in a variety of ways. The most helpful description is based on whose feelings we focus on when confronted with the situation of other people, whether fortunate or pitiable.
When we focus on the feelings of others, enter them and respond to them directly, we may talk of sentiment. But if we focus on our own feelings, assessing how we should feel and respond and adjust our emotional response accordingly, that would be called sentimentality. Our feelings do not enter the lives of others but separate us from them. Our interest ultimately lies in getting our feelings right, not in responding to the experience of the person who occasions them.
"It is no coincidence that those most opposed to sentiment in public life are often the most committed to policies of social control."
The classical example of sentimentality understood in this way is the ogre headmaster of school stories who tells the boy whom he is beating, 'This hurts me more than it hurts you.' The sentiment is entirely self-focused and self-regarding with a manifest lack of empathy with the experience of the boy. It would be regarded as hypocrisy, perhaps hiding darker motivation.
It is understandable that Morrison should be accused of hypocrisy when he simultaneously weeps for the plight of some refugees held in punitive places while being responsible for the infliction of similar pain on refugees who are Australia's responsibility. But the accusation suggests that there is a clear and necessary disjunction between being moved in an overseas refugee camp and being rigorous in administrative decisions about people in Australia's care. That needs to be established.
The criticism of Morrison might also suggest that the alternative to sentimentality is the kind of toughness which dismisses sympathy and any expressions of fellow-feeling in public life as soft-headed and inappropriate. All sentiment is out of place in the formation of a realistic political policy.
Whatever the merits of this mindset, and I believe them to be few, it is not really the opposite of sentimentality but another form of it. The rigorous determination not to be moved from a course of action by weighing its human consequences may arise from a self-regarding focus on one's own response and out of fear to empathise with others. It is a response, not to sentimentality, but to sentiment of any sort which might weaken one's control of the situation and of oneself. It is no coincidence that those most opposed to sentiment in public life are often the most committed to policies of social control.
Tears can reflect many things: sympathy, as in the Gospels, or the loss of purpose. But the absence of tears can also reflect many things, sentimentality among them.
Andrew Hamilton is consulting editor of Eureka Street.
Main image: Prime Minister Scott Morrison during question time at Parliament House on 26 November 2018 (Photo by Tracey Nearmy/Getty Images)