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Rabbi's Corner...
Kol Nidre Forgiveness 5770
Rabbi Lucy H.F. Dinner
Temple Beth Or
Kol Nidre 5770
September 27, 2009
Can We Forgive
“God speaks in whispers.
silent brushes of wind
and circumstance that get your attention
and ask you to take notice.
There is so much that I do not understand:
How to sing when I am choking.
How to forget.
How to remember.
How to discern the blessing within the pain.
How to heal so that I may
hold on to greatness and grandeur.
I hate it when all that has wronged me
rises up and snaps
like a leather belt, worn and practiced
injuring others, making me mean.
I really hate that.
It’s so sudden; I never see it coming.
Rather,
I wish for softness and stillness,
for the relinquishment of all that no longer matters.
I wish for goodness to linger like the scent of jasmine
on a hot summer day.
It’s enough already. It’s enough
resenting people and circumstances so far away
that even the scars have dulled with age.
Out there, beyond my small self,
is vastness and forgiveness and fortitude and love.
I long to fall gently into the arms of a loving world.
God speaks in whispers.
silent brushes of wind and
circumstance that get your attention
and ask you to take notice.”
(Karyn Kedar, The Bridge to Fogiveness, p. 50)
On Kol Nidre, “God speaks in whispers,” as poet, mystic, Rabbi Karyn Kedar so beautifully captures. We come here “to forget, and to remember, and to discern the blessing within the pain.” We stand this night unworthy, knowing that we are so apt to “rise up and snap, like a leather belt, worn and practiced, injuring others, making [us] mean.” And we pray on this night longing to hear God whisper, “silent brushes of wind, that ask [us] to take notice.”
God whispers, and within that wisp of the wind lays our hope to be renewed and restored. How can we turn away from that leather belt and into the soft arms that gently remind us that we can whisper too?
I. We Jews have a hard time whispering and forgiving.
Whispering does not come easy, nor forgiving for us Jews. We have good reason to put up our guard. Too many times our people have been crushed in cruel campaigns. Even now the enemy cries out that they will crush us into the sea. The guard that has been up for so many seasons for so many reasons, the one that girds and protects us, has turned into steel; until we cannot discern between that which is a real threat and that which is an ultimately, harmless misdeed.
Tonight we yearn for atonement, for forgiveness for our indiscretion, and yet, we ourselves find it so hard to forgive. In his book The Sunflower, Simon Wiesenthal asks tens of theologians, Jewish and non-Jewish, to weigh in on a wrenching case about forgiveness. One reviewer notes that though most of the theologians do not judge whether forgiveness is warranted in this confession by an SS guard, of those who do offer an opinion the Jewish respondents are much more reticent to forgive than the Christian writers.
This night is not the time to address whether forgiveness is possible or ever appropriate for the worst atrocity known to our people. Nor, do I address the unnamable pain that individuals have endured from abuse and other forms of violence. It is, however, time to address how steeling ourselves against the atrocities of our past, has steeled us against forgiving.
We have a hard time forgiving. The month of Elul that precedes the Holy Days and the nine days that has led us to this Day of Atonement are focused on seeking forgiveness from those we have harmed so that we might come before God in earnest teshuvah on this day. Seeking and granting forgiveness by command of this Holy Day is a good way to compel us toward that which we strive to avoid. Yet, forced forgiveness has to be the definition of oxymoron.
This summer a Christian colleague and I were discussing the High Holy Days and he asked me: “Do people really do that, do they actually go around seeking and granting forgiveness?” His straightforward question cast a fresh light on the High Holy Day liturgy that familiarly flows from our lips. The Yomim Noraim ask us to address not only our own offenses, but to be gracious in receiving others’ repentance and to be generous in accepting apologies. The fact remains that all too many of us hold on to those wrongs committed against us, collecting them like chips, only with nowhere to cash them in and no-one who wants to hear about that bounty.
Tomorrow before we confess our sins in the Vidui, we will recite the formula to forgive those who have wronged us: “I hereby forgive all who have hurt me, … whether deliberately or inadvertently, whether by word or by deed. May no one be punished on my account.” (GOR, p. 324). What are we really saying with this prayer? Does it make any difference to forgive from afar, though the offender has never sought that forgiveness? Perhaps, it helps us feel justified in seeking forgiveness on this Day of Atonement, when we have yet to right our own offenses. Nonetheless, can it really meet the standard that the Yomin Noraim demand of us?
Yom Kippur is widely successful as a day of introspection, and soul searching, but do we honestly approach it with forgiving hearts worthy to ask God’s forgiveness? Is the best we can do to wait until the last day and offer a collective prayer releasing all who have harmed us, and pray that they forgive us too?
Rabbi Neal Gold suggests that: “while seeking forgiveness from others may be hard, many … find offering forgiveness to be a hundred times tougher.” Do we have it within us to forgive? Rabbi Gold offers a short quiz to find out. Consider your own forgiveness quotient:
“(1) You find yourself running late to school or to work, and you’re driving as quickly as you can allow yourself. Then, suddenly, another driver aggressively cuts you off. What do you do?
(a) Lean on the horn, roll down the window, and gesture at the driver.
(b) Tap your horn and mutter darkly to yourself.
(c) Tsk to yourself, but don’t do anything.
(2) A basically decent person with whom you had a nasty personality conflict at a previous job shows up at your present company for an interview. The job is in a different section than yours; you wouldn’t be interacting with this person in your job. When the boss asks you your opinion – should we hire this person or not, what do you say?
(a) You tell the boss not to hire him.
(b) You say the person would do a good job, but mention that you had some personal issues with him.
(c) You know the person is a good fit for the job, and say so.
(3) You have a neighbor with whom you’ve argued unceasingly, over everything from noisy pets, to sloppy lawns, to your children stepping on his property. The neighbor has never been less than hostile and obnoxious to you. Then one day you spot that neighbor on the side of the road with a flat tire. The weather report says it is about to start pouring. What do you do?
(a) Smile to yourself, knowing that he’s getting what he deserves.
(b) Pull over and help change the tire before the rain comes.
Modeled on a quiz called, “How Forgiving Are You?” on www.beliefnet.com/section/quiz/
The quiz does not have “right” or wrong answers, but it offers a gauge of how willing we are to forgive. A few of us forgive and forget, or perhaps forget that the other needs to be forgiven at all. Still many of us carry a grudge like a badge of courage and consider relinquishing that grudge to be a sign of weakness.
Rabbi Gold believes that: “[Forgiveness] goes against the grain of everything that we expect or desire. We want crimes to be punished. We want wrongs to be righted. Forgiveness is, in many ways the opposite of justice.” (Adapted from Rabbi Neal Gold, Temple Shir Tikva).
III. A Penny for Forgiveness
That certainly applies to the criminal offenses that defy forgiveness, but does the same hold true of the running argument you have with your spouse about whether the recycling needs to be rinsed and separated before it goes in the bin or not? Forgiveness is not justice, but is it really worth holding out for justice when your good friend stood you up for lunch and was out with another friend instead? Many more serious offenses span the gap between a missed appointment and a crime. What of those who have trampled your good name, abandoned you in your hour of need, or betrayed your trust? Can we forgive those offenses, should we?
Does justice always equate with righteousness, or are there times when the most merciful answer yields the righteous solution? Rabbi Rami Shapiro translates the Wisdom of the Sages chapter 5:23:
Be strong as a leopard,
Light as an eagle,
Swift as a deer,
And brave as a lion
When carrying out tasks of righteousness.”
Justice may mean building walls and erecting barriers so you never have to touch the offender again. Yet, shutting out the other hardly qualifies as “brave as a lion.” Some find strength in holding an offense over another’s head, mentioning it time and again, as proof of their lacking. That may make one strong as a gorilla, but surely a leopard finds strength in more measured, refined responses. Others resume a relationship with their offenders only to fall prey to their transgression over and over. Not swift as a deer by any means. The road to righteousness rests on a delicate balance of justice and mercy.
The Talmud teaches that we should be generous in forgiving others when we are offended. It tells of Rabbi Eliezer praying for an end to drought to no avail. When Rabbi Akiba offers the same prayers the heavens overflow with rain. The students begin criticizing Rabbi Eliezer until a Heavenly voice declares: “It is not because Rabbi Akiba is greater than Eliezer, but because Akiba forgives when he is slighted and Eleizer does not. (Taanit 25b).
Rabbi Akiba was from Beit Hillel that favored mercy, while Rabbi Eliezer was from Beit Shamai that upheld justice. Both qualities are important for the administration of the community. For the adjudication of small slights tradition teaches that forgiveness is the appropriate measure, not harsh judgment.
Rabbi Karyn Kedar suggests that along that road to forgiveness and righteousness insight and understanding play an integral role. She illustrates with the following Hasidic tale about a young man who had been kidnapped by an evil tax collector:
“The young man’s wedding day was quickly approaching, and the community did not know what to do. They decided to pay the ransom, but the only one who could afford it was the miser who lived on the edge of town. Despite the warnings that the rich man never gave away any of his fortune, the rabbi went with his students to [the rich man’s] home to ask for money. He knocked on the miser’s door and told him about the lad who had been kidnapped… The miser was moved to tears and ran to get some money. When he returned, the rabbi saw that the miser’s clenched fist was shaking. Slowly, the miser opened his fist to reveal one small, dirty old penny. The rabbi took the penny and began to thank the man and bless him profusely: ‘May God grant you health and long life. May you live a life of joy worthy of heaven. May God increase your love of life.’
“The students of the rabbi looked at him as if he was crazy.
“Just as the rabbi was about to leave, the miser said, ‘Wait. You have touched me so deeply that I want to give you more money.’ He disappeared into his house and came back with another penny. The rabbi showered him with more blessings, and the miser soon gave another penny. And so it continued until the rabbi received all the money for the ransom.
“During the wedding celebration, the students asked why the rabbi had put up with such behavior. He answered simply that he understood what others did not. Remember the first penny and how dirty it was? That was because for years the miser had held on to it because no one would accept it from him. A penny was all that he had the strength to give, and yet people believed he was capable of giving more. The rabbi accepted his gifts as the miser was able to offer them, and he blessed his giving regardless of how much was being offered.”
Kedar explains that for her: “this was a [story] not about money, but about our expectations of giving and receiving.” (Karyn Kedar, God Whispers, p.41-43) . She shares how the story drew her to a conflict in her own life with a friend she had trusted and loved, who had disappointed her. He would not even respond to her when she tried to find out what happened. When Kedar heard this Hasidic story, it occurred to her: “He’s doing the best he can.” She took a step back and considered his behavior: “What if he wasn’t mean, angry, or even dishonest? What if he was doing the best he could?” She says: “I remembered his eyes that used to smile at me in friendship. I saw his stiffness as he now backed away from me. I imagined his fist slowly opening to reveal a dirty penny he had coveted for years. I was asking for unlimited time and affection, and he was handing me what he was capable of giving. Expecting more, I got angry and decided he was not a true friend. The more I pushed, the more he retreated. He was doing his best to give me his most.” (Ibid.).
We, who sit demanding justice and awaiting contrition from those who have offended us, may be overlooking the fact that they are doing the best they can. Perhaps we are the ones who need to be asking for forgiveness for our own swelling demands and indignation. When we rewind the tapes of those offenses, when we play them through the lens of their understanding, will it be so clear who is the offender and who the offended? This is especially true with those we come into contact with the most. We expect them to read our minds and when they do not we consider it an affront to our existence. We assign intentionality, assume conspiracy, and accept no explanations. We link one misunderstanding to another constructing a tower of culpability against our unsuspecting family, co-workers, or friends.
IV. Joseph forgives his brothers
The most famous story of forgiveness in the Torah is when Joseph’s brothers come down to Egypt seeking refuge from the famine. Joseph who had taunted his brothers with his dreams, Joseph who strut in his multi color coat gifted by Jacob to his favorite son, that is the Joseph whom Reuben sold into slavery so that his brothers would not slay him. Face to face with his brothers after all these years, Joseph’s first inclination is to toy with them, to seek revenge. Yet, in the end he could not do it. Joseph cries out to them: “And now do not be distressed or angry with yourselves because you sold me here, for God sent me before you to preserve life. For the famine has been in the land these two years, and there are yet five years in which there will be neither plowing nor harvest. … So it was not you who sent me here, but God.” (Genesis 47). Joseph comes to the stark realization that his brothers had done the best they could.
V. Conclusion Haadam olam katan, Haolam, adam gadol.
On my last trip to Israel, in the mystical city of Tzefat, I saw an intriguing sign hanging on the outer wall of a home. It read: “Each person is a small world. The world is one great person.” I have played that message over and over in my head, considering tens of teachings that emanate from it. I never could find quite the right setting for it until I came to the end of this message for this night.
Each person is a microcosm of the world. When we close ourselves off to one person we are closing ourselves off to the world. For the Mishneh teaches that: “to destroy a single person is to destroy the entire world.”
So, too, the world is one great person. Tonight your world and mine rests in the hands of one great person: that person who is big enough to forgive the sins that we have committed against them, and that person willing to accept the blame for the sins they once ascribed to others. The world rests in the hands of that generous person; the one who has the vision to discern that the world is worth more than an indiscretion, and worth more than revenge, and more than incessant anger. And the world rests in the hands of that person who humbly confesses that sometimes they themselves share the blame for the sins they once assigned to others. And the Mishneh is completed: “to save a single person is to save the world entire.”
“Out there, beyond my small self,
is vastness and forgiveness and fortitude and love.
[How] I long to fall gently into the arms of a loving world.”
AMEN
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