Just two words. Two, little words. And yet, they have been identified by a certain songwriter, as the hardest words.

When we were kids, our parents taught us that that these two words were like a magic elixir. You stepped on your sister’s foot? Say you’re sorry. You ate the last cookie without permission? Say you’re sorry. You broke Mom’s vase while playing ball in the house? Say you’re sorry. Not so hard, right?

But it turns out that saying “I’m sorry” isn’t the same as seeking forgiveness.

One day, in the very early days of my rabbinate, a congregant and her husband came to talk to me. It was clear that they were very upset and, it turned out, I was the cause. The woman’s father had recently died and I had not reached out to her. As the assistant rabbi, I was not involved in the funeral and I didn’t know the family well. Though I consider myself a thoughtful person, I don’t know why I didn’t convey my condolences to my grieving congregant. There was no excuse for my lack of attention to her. They were justifiably hurt, and they were very angry.

They weren’t lashing out; they simply wanted the opportunity to express their pain. And I sat there and listened. I just listened.

It was in that moment that I heard such raw pain and felt so ashamed that I had caused it and embarrassed by my own callousness. That realization pushed aside any feelings of defensiveness and made way for an apology. Not an empty “I’m sorry,” but a much more involved apology.

The tension-filled air weighed heavily on me. I took a deep breath. I thanked them for coming to me and for making me aware of what I had done. I made no excuses. I offered no justifications. I simply asked them for their forgiveness. I acknowledged that they might not be open to forgiving me yet. And I promised to work to rebuild their trust in me as their rabbi and be worthy of their forgiveness.

It was hard. It was so hard. But it was the only way to repair the breach.

Seeking forgiveness from another person demands that we turn inward, determine which of our behaviors were hurtful, and strategize how we might alter them. Once we have asked for forgiveness from the person we wronged, we must forgive ourselves. Such personal scrutiny is known as a cheshbon hanefesh.

How fortunate we are to have the annual gift that these Days of Repentance offer us. We have the opportunity to approach those whom we have wronged, specify those actions which we believe have caused pain and ask for forgiveness. Then, and only then, we should speak these words of remorse. This is the essence of what atoning is all about.

The apology expert, medieval Jewish philosopher and Torah scholar Maimonides, gave clear directions on how to make a heartfelt apology. He instructs us to verbally confess our mistake and ask for forgiveness (Mishneh Torah 1:1).

Contemporary conflict management experts say that the next step is expressing empathy. Show you understand why this was hurtful to them. Sincerity, empathy, and understanding are key to resolving conflicts and issues.

Another important step in the process is to offer to find a path that resolves the problem for both parties. You may not be empowered to resolve the issue the way the hurt individual wants, but you must try to the best of your ability to fix it now and for the future.

According to Maimonides, the process of asking for forgiveness doesn’t end with making a heartfelt apology. The next step requires a resolution. After expressing sincere remorse, one must resolve not to make the same mistake again. (Mishneh Torah 2:2).

Furthermore, according to Maimonides, we must do everything in our power to “right the wrong,” to appease the person who has been hurt (Mishneh Torah 2:9). Asking the person who we have hurt what we can do to ease the pain we caused is an essential part of this process. It’s uncomfortable to ask this but shows sincerity on our part.

Finally, Maimonides provides us with the ultimate teshuvah (repentance) litmus test: Act differently if the same situation happens again (Mishneh Torah 2:1). This final step is the definition of true teshuvah: When we are faced with the identical situation a second time and make the right choice, we know that we have truly repented for that sin.

It’s is a difficult process and there are no shortcuts. The good news is that we become better people through the process. Rav Yosef Soleveitchik, the preeminent Orthodox authority of the 20th century, taught, “Sin is not to be forgotten, blotted out or cast into the depths of the sea. On the contrary, sin has to be remembered. It is the memory of sin that released the power within the inner depths of the soul of the penitent to do greater things than ever before. The energy of sin can be used to bring one to new heights.”

May we come to understand the roots of our wrongdoing and the pain it has caused, find the words to reflect the genuine regret in our soul, and resolve to emerge from the experience as the person we strive to be.

Rebecca Einstein Schorr is a rabbi, essayist, special needs advocate and life-wrangler. Winner of the 2016 National Jewish Book Award for “The Sacred Calling: Four Decades of Women in the Rabbinate” (CCAR Press, 2016), Rebecca’s writing has appeared in Kveller, The Christian Science Monitor, The Forward, Tablet Magazine and other sites. Writing at her blog, This Messy Life, Rebecca finds meaning in the sacred and not-yet-sacred intersections of daily life. Engage with her on Twitter @rebeccaschorr.

The post After ‘I’m Sorry,’ the Real Work Begins appeared first on My Jewish Learning.

Our spiritual communities should be places of affirmation and validation. Yet when they miss the mark, they can manage to turn one’s search for fellowship and connection into a painful experience of alienation. Situations like these can present chances to do right by one another, as the Mishnah (Yoma 8:9) teaches, before seeking Divine atonement.

If a community has “othered” you unknowingly, you might choose to approach them directly. After all, if they do not know that they have hurt you, they certainly will not know how to right their behavior. They may think that Yom Kippur has helped them completely atone, not realizing they still had more interpersonal work to do. By sharing your negative experience directly, you could be facilitating a meaningful opportunity for them engage in teshuvah, returning to their best selves.

Alternately, you may not want, or be able, to become a “teacher,” expending precious emotional labor to help the offending community learn from its actions. Or perhaps the community has knowingly “othered” you. In such situations, “forgiveness” might entail a personal process of accepting their beliefs or actions for what they are, however painful, and permitting yourself not to associate with that community. Such “forgiveness” would thus manifest between you and yourself, or between you and the Divine, as you work to accept your feelings, your experiences, and your need to continue your spiritual search elsewhere.

However you proceed, know that you are not alone. There are spiritual communities that would welcome you, and that would welcome this type of feedback. At this time of renewal, may you have the strength to continue searching for a spiritual home that will welcome you for the fullness of who you are.

Rabbi Max Chaiken was ordained in 2018 at Hebrew Union College-Jewish Institute of Religion in Los Angeles, and he currently serves as the Assistant Rabbi at Congregation Kol Ami in West Hollywood, California.  He loves writing of all sorts — prose, poetry, and music, and enjoys taking long walks with his husband, Rabbi Danny Shapiro, and their dog, Oogie.

The post When a Congregation Makes You Feel Like You Don’t Fit In appeared first on My Jewish Learning.

Maybe we haven’t treated our bodies with the kind of compassion we deserve. Maybe we haven’t lived up to our own expectations, so far as our family or work or charitable obligations are concerned. Does Jewish tradition provide a roadmap for self-forgiveness?

As we strive to love others, we often forget to love ourselves. It is as if self-love is forbidden. But actually, it is commanded in the Torah. Love your neighbor as yourself (Leviticus 19:18) teaches that self-love is an imperative. As we deepen the love for ourselves, we deepen the capacity to love others.

We have so many regrets. There are so many times that we could have — or should have — chosen a different path or gone in a different direction. Every time we use the word “should,” we accuse ourselves of not doing our best. Guilt and regret are heavy on our souls. Imagine how much creative and loving energy we would have if regret and guilt did not weigh us down.

Love heals. It heals the wounded soul, it heals the relationships we cherish, it heals the world. Self-love strengthens our ability to be loving beings. And it takes practice.

Try offering this affirmation daily for a period of time. Forgive yourself and practice bringing self-love into your mind and heart.

God, thank You for helping me see

that each phase of my life is perfect.

that I have arrived,

that I’ve always been where I need to be

living perfect moments…

With Your help, I relinquish my need to judge.

Help me grow with love, acceptance, and curiosity.

Thank You for lighting my way for gently illuminating a path in the darkness…

Let it now be and always be

Yet another exquisite phase.

For the crimes against myself, I am sorry.

For all my slips and slides, I forgive myself.

Rabbi Karyn Kedar is the author of several books, including “The Bridge to Forgiveness: Stories and Prayers for Finding God and Wholeness” (Jewish Lights, 2011). This answer was adapted for My Jewish Learning from “God Whispers: Stories of the Soul, Lessons of the Heart” (Jewish Lights, 2000).

The post Learning To Forgive … Ourselves appeared first on My Jewish Learning.

There is a time to let go of grievances, and there is a time to pursue justice. Not everything can be or should be forgiven. Because recklessness with something as powerful as forgiveness does harm.

Deuteronomy 25:19 admonishes us not to forget the ways that Amalek attacked the weak among the Israelites in the desert. To reconcile with Amalek would be to treat these actions as acceptable.

When forgiveness is the only virtue taken seriously, distinguishing between good and evil looks like a sin. This makes it impossible to name injustice as injustice and to name abuse as abuse. And this makes it easy for evildoers to muddy the waters.

Pharaoh took advantage of this during the conflict leading up to the exodus from Egypt. He manipulated the situation so that the Israelites would be willing to forgive Pharaoh for enslaving them, but unwilling to forgive Moses for attempting to liberate them.

The first demand Moses made to Pharaoh was relatively modest. He asked only for the Israelites to be able to worship God in the desert. Pharaoh responded with disorienting retaliation. He instructed his overseers to stop providing the Israelites with straw for brick-making, so that they would have to gather the straw themselves in order to keep pace.

It was not physically possible for the Israelites to gather their own straw and still make the same number of bricks, but they wore themselves out trying. Their overseers beat them for failing to make quota. Even if the task was, objectively, impossible, they experienced it, subjectively, as failure.

When Israelite representatives complained to Pharaoh about the unjust punishment, he said they had only themselves to blame, telling them: “You are shirkers, shirkers! That is why you say, ‘Let us go and sacrifice to the LORD.’ Be off now to your work! No straw shall be issued to you, but you must produce your quota of bricks!”(Exodus, 5:17-18)

This gaslighting tactic worked. Because by pretending that the impossible task he had set forth was reasonable, Pharaoh forced the Israelites to doubt their own perceptions. The Israelite leaders left the meeting furious — not at Pharaoh, but at Moses and Aaron. And they said: “May the LORD look upon you and punish you for making us loathsome to Pharaoh and his courtiers — putting a sword in their hands to slay us.” (Exodus, 5:21)

This distortion continued and persisted into conflicts even years after the exodus from Egypt. Once freed, the Israelites were frequently angry at Moses for the conditions in the desert, and they expressed nostalgia for the conditions of Egyptian slavery. Even after centuries of harsh oppression, even en route to the Promised Land, the Israelites were tempted to reconcile and return to those who had enslaved them.

In one particularly extreme incident, the Israelites complained about lack of meat on their journey and said, “we remember the fish that we used to eat for free in Egypt, the cucumbers, the melons, the leeks, the onions, and the garlic. Now our gullets are shriveled! There is nothing at all! Nothing but this manna to look to!” (Numbers 11:5-6).

They yearned for the lost fish, and they forgot the price that they paid for them. But their willingness to forgive Pharaoh was no virtue. Abusers may convince their victims that calling out abuse is merely the abused party’s petty failure to reconcile.

Communities often help them by emphasizing forgiveness and reconciliation in situations in which justice would be the more appropriate priority. It is easy for bystanders to misunderstand what is at stake. That’s because from the outside, the pain of conflict is often more visible than the destructive consequences of reconciling with an abuser. Even well-meaning people will tell victims who try to extract themselves, essentially, “remember the fish that you used to eat for free, and go back.”

Jewish liturgy emphasizes the importance of remembering that we were slaves in Egypt. It seems from the biblical narrative that this is more easily said than done. In order to fight for liberation, it is necessary to know when to forgive and when not to forgive. We need to remember that the fish were not free.

The rabbinic literature offers us some guidance on the pitfalls of forgiveness. According to the Mishnah, “One who says, ‘I will sin, and then repent, I will sin and then repent,’ — does not have what it takes to repent. One who says: ‘I will sin, and Yom Kippur will erase it,’ — Yom Kippur will not erase it. Yom Kippur erases transgression a person commits against God, but transgression against another person, Yom Kippur cannot erase, until [the transgressor] makes things right with [the victim].” (Yoma 8)

Forgiveness can make a lot of things possible — and not all of those things are good. The possibility of forgiveness is not intended as a way to allow people to manipulate the system and harm others with impunity.

Forgiveness can erase many things, but it can’t erase the need for all conflicts. Sometimes, taking the side of the oppressed means withholding forgiveness from an oppressor.

Rabbi Ruti Regan is a feminist rabbi, a disabled disability activist, and a blogger at realsocialskills.org. She moderates the weekly #ParshaChat Twitter discussion of the weekly Torah portion. She’s on Twitter @RutiRegan; her website is rabbiregan.org.

The post Forgiveness Is Not Always a Virtue appeared first on My Jewish Learning.

The issue of forgiveness will arise at some point in most relationships. We need accountability as well as kindness, so it can be hard to know when forgiveness is right and when it is just “giving in.” It’s a challenge, especially, to teach children the importance of their own good behavior while helping them develop a flexible, forgiving attitude toward others.

Acknowledging our own wrongdoing can be painful, but Jewish rituals, especially around the High Holidays, provide a helpful framework. There’s less explicit guidance about granting forgiveness, even though it’s central to the mitzvot of not seeking revenge or bearing grudges (Leviticus 19:17-18). Judaism teaches us to forgive when a sincere apology is offered. But how?

If we look carefully, Judaism does seek to balance justice and mercy in daily life. We can learn a lot from a careful reading of the famous lines from the Book of Micah (6:8) in which God commands: “do justice (asot mishpat), love loving-kindness (ahavat chesed), and walk humbly with your God (v’hatzneah lechet im Eloheicha).”

To “do justice” means to take a specific action, related in the Hebrew to something like a court case. It’s necessary, but when it’s finished, it’s finished. By contrast, “loving loving-kindness” is unbounded by time, situation or relationship.

Embracing loving-kindness means you are not only generous-hearted, but you love being that way. This approach to life can protect you from staying stuck in your hurt and anger, lashing out vengefully and holding grudges. It means that even in the face of strong emotions, you can reserve a part of your mind for caring interest in another person.

When my now-adult children experienced overwhelming teenage anger over parental offenses, real or perceived, I would sometimes say, “Remember: I am a person.” Restoring their awareness of the other person helped take the edge off their anger and freed them up to be more forgiving. This wasn’t about calming down in order to be loving and thoughtful — it was about the power of love to keep anger in perspective.

The recognition of the other person as human may limit the intense emotions that place your own feelings above anything or anyone else. Indeed, Jewish tradition teaches that overwhelming anger can be akin to idolatry, in this case the narcissistic worship of the self.

“[O]ur sages said: ‘whoever gets angry is as if he worships idols’ (Zohar Korach daf 179, Rambam Deos 2:3, Shab.105b). This person gets angry at anything that is done against his will. He becomes filled with wrath till … his judgment is lost. … A man like this would destroy the whole world if he had the ability” (R. Hayim Luzatto, Mesillat Yesharim, 11).

Anger’s enormous power is not easily contained by rational thought. But its destructive force can be tempered by love, the mitzvah at the very center of Jewish practice. In fact, while Leviticus doesn’t specify a ritual to resolve grudges, it includes “love your neighbor as yourself” (Leviticus 19:18) in the same passage, directly linking love to forgiveness.

The willingness to temper your own outrage and anger out of respect for the other has another implication: By focusing on the offender as a human being, you create the emotional conditions necessary for that person to take full responsibility and to make appropriate amends. It therefore increases the likelihood of both forgiveness (mercy) and some kind of reparations (justice). This all sounds beautiful. But when we are deeply hurt, how do we maintain that loving perspective?

This brings us to the third item in Micah’s list: “walking humbly with your God.” For those times it’s hardest to conjure loving thoughts on your own, this prescription provides a paradoxical answer. It connects humility and strength. When our resources feel depleted, and we recognize our own limits, we can find support by tapping into something greater than ourselves.

“Walking with God” signifies the placing of values above our personal desires and, perhaps, even a sense of personal connection to the Divine. Living like this promotes inner strength, and we may also receive social support from others who walk a similar path. These factors can make us less vulnerable to the insecurities that arise when we’re hurt, and, in turn, they make it easier to forgive.

The word lechet, Hebrew for “walk” or “go,” is a form of the word used when God told Abraham, Lech lecha (go forth). Each of us has a personal journey. It is a great gift to be invited to walk that path with a sense of purpose and to draw strength from love, whether or not someone experiences that purpose, that love as related directly to God.

Focusing strongly on the question of when or whether to forgive makes us judges of the people who have offended us. By contrast, paying more attention to how we live and how we forgive can reinforce our sense of shared humanity and connectedness.

We can’t resolve the basic tension between justice and mercy in the world, but we can transform the process of judgment and forgiveness by grounding them firmly in the context of a loving life.

Julie Hirschfeld, Ph.D., is a clinical psychologist who works with individuals, couples, and families dealing with parenting, relational or religious issues. She earned a doctorate at New York University and a master’s degree at Oxford University, and trained in marital and family therapy at the Ackerman Institute for the Family. With certification in Spiritually Oriented Psychotherapy and training from the Mussar Institute, she facilitates synagogue adult education programs using Jewish and Mussar resources for personal growth. She is the co-author of “Business Dad: How Good Businessmen Can Make Great Fathers and Vice Versa” (Little Brown, 1999), translated into seven languages.

The post How To Forgive Is Just as Important as When to Forgive appeared first on My Jewish Learning.

A story is told about an old Cherokee man teaching his grandson about life:

“A fight is going on inside me,” he said to the boy.

”It is a terrible fight between two wolves. One is evil — he is anger, envy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride, superiority, and ego.”

“The other is good — he is joy, peace, love, hope, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, empathy, generosity, truth, compassion, and faith. The same fight is going on inside you — and inside every other person, too.”

The grandson thought about it and asked his grandfather: “Which wolf will win?”

The old man replied, “The one you feed.”

Judaism teaches that when we harm others as a consequence of the evil impulse (yetzer ha-ra, in Hebrew), we must take responsibility, acknowledge the wrong, commit ourselves not to repeat it, and ask the aggrieved party for forgiveness. Without true repentance, or teshuvah, and forgiveness, we remain guilty.

This is true in our relationships and in society as a whole. Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel, the famous 20th century theologian, said: “We must continue to remind ourselves that in a free society all are involved in what some are doing. Some are guilty, all are responsible.”

John L. Rosove is Senior Rabbi at Temple Israel of Hollywood, the national chairman of the Association of Reform Zionists of America, and the author of “Why Judaism Matters: Letters of a Liberal Rabbi to His Children and the Millennial Generation” (Jewish Lights, 2017).

The post ‘Jewish Guilt’: More Than a Trope appeared first on My Jewish Learning.

As the High Holidays approach, how can I let go of the hurt and betrayal I feel when I think about — or hear him talk about — his political views?

As harmful and painful your grandfather’s political positions may be for your children to hear and experience, the most important lesson you can give your children in this fractured era is the idea that civil, respectful debate is the greatest strength and asset we have as a community and as a country.

Jewish tradition has given the world a model of sincere individuals conducting heated debates leshem shamayim — for the sake of heaven. Moreover, our Talmud tells us that when debate is stifled, the entire community suffers a much greater loss, and the Torah itself loses out.

We are a people of “arguing with God” (one explanation for the name Israel), and our leaders from Abraham to the Woman from Shunam, have demonstrated that even a perfect God, or a righteous prophet (Elisha), must be open to respectful debate. So with the blessing of our Tradition, engage with your grandfather as machloket leshem shamayim — quarrel for the sake of heaven. The stakes are higher than ever; our differing opinions are more caustic than ever; and, therefore, open, civil debate is more important than ever.

Rabbi Asher Lopatin is the former president of Yeshivat Chovevei Torah rabbinical school. He is the founder and spiritual leader of a new Modern Orthodox congregation in Detroit, Kehillat Etz Chayim, and is the founder of the new non-profit organization, The Detroit National Center for Civil Discourse.

The post When a Loved One’s Politics Feels Like a Betrayal appeared first on My Jewish Learning.

Retributive justice seeks, as the phrase connotes, retribution—punishment for a crime or misdeed. Restorative justice emphasizes reconciliation and takes into account both the needs of the victimized party or community, as well as the needs of the perpetrator. Systems of retributive justice might simply imprison a criminal for her crime; systems of restorative might require her, in addition, to participate in mediated encounter with her victim.

As Judaism spends a great deal of time exploring questions of ethics, politics, justice, and, indeed, the reality of human conflict, it is worth considering what Jewish tradition has to say about all of this. The answer, of course, is a great many things, as Jewish thought is anything but monolithic.

One of the enduring strengths of Judaism is its ability to speak urgently and passionately about important questions without enforcing univocalism or devolving into rhetorical chaos. This talent for productively embracing a variety of perspectives — a talent that, throughout human history, has been in rather short supply — links biblical authors, with ancient rabbis, with medieval Scholastics, with Spanish Kabbalists, with Halachic [Jewish legal] authorities, with contemporary Jewish philosophers in one magnificent discursive chain. Indeed, the Jewish conversation about how and when to mete out justice has spanned millennia.

Throughout that conversation, one of the more persistent points of tension is the apparent discrepancy between an oft-cited passage from Deuteronomy—“Justice, justice, you shall pursue” (Deuteronomy 16:20) — and another from Psalms, “Turn from evil and do good, love peace and pursue it” (Psalm 34:14). While these two visions of human obligation are not necessarily in conflict with one another, Jewish thinkers have long understood that the rigors of pursuing and enacting justice are not always in harmony with the pursuit of peace.

As is often the case when working out ideas, the early rabbis graft these divergent conceptions onto specific biblical personalities. Moses, who is a lawgiver and a rather stern person in general, becomes an avatar of Justice; his brother Aaron, who abortively tries to please the people by building the Golden Calf, becomes an avatar of Peace. Rabbi Hillel, in Pirkei Avot, enjoins us to “Be disciples of Aaron the Priest, loving peace and pursuing peace, loving human beings and drawing them close to Torah.” (Pirkei Avot, 1:12)

A later midrash (Avot De’Rabbi Natan, Chapter 12) develops this idea further, recounting a story about Aaron making peace between two friends who are locked in a bitter dispute. According to this tale, Aaron goes to each man in turn and tells him that his friend is wracked with guilt about his behavior. When the sparring men see one another next, each assumes that the other has taken full responsibility for the conflict; they embrace and move on as friends.

What is striking about this story, at least from the perspective of a tradition that generally prizes justice, is that it renders the facts of the dispute unimportant. In reconciling the friends, Aaron makes no attempt to understand the specifics of their conflict. Rather, he focuses entirely on bringing the conflict to an end, maneuvering (and, yes, manipulating) the men in such a way that both get what they need, that is, an implied admission of guilt from the other. Justice is not necessarily served, but peace is restored.

For contemporary advocates of restorative justice, Aaron’s approach is sorely lacking from our existing judicial and penal systems. According to psychologist Marshal Rosenberg, a prominent proponent of restorative modes of conflict resolution and the founder of the Center for Non-Violent Communication, human society has, for much of its history, labored under the false assumption that violence and transgression are normative and indelible. At the root of this assumption is the basic premise that the human creature is base by nature and in need of a rigorous rule for her will.

“The way you control people,” says Rosenberg, “given that our nature is evil and selfish, is through a system of justice in which people who behave in a ‘good’ manner get rewarded while those who are ‘evil’ are made to suffer. In order to see such a system as fair, one has to believe that both sides deserve what they get.”

This mode of justice and governance is effective when it comes to establishing order, but it is ineffective when it comes to avoiding future violence because it often ignores the unfulfilled human needs that are the root causes of conflict in the first place. One of the principles of restorative justice is the claim that most interactions that eventually devolve into violence do not start out that way. The idea that violent interactions are not endemic but, rather, aberrant, is a belief that opens out onto a more hopeful vision of humanity than those that we often associate with religious systems.

It is certainly true that discussions about ethics in the major Abrahamic traditions (Judaism, Christianity, and Islam), often emerge from cultures and situations in which retributive modes of conflict management are the norm. This is accompanied, as Rosenberg and others suggest, by a somewhat dim view of the human creature, which goes hand in hand with the mainline presumption that human beings need the divine legislation in order to reign in their baser tendencies. The whole drama of the High Holidays, at least from a traditional vantage point, makes little sense absent the conviction that our behavior matters and that somewhere, somehow, someone is not only keeping track, but is also ready to hold us accountable for the moral balance of our ledger. It is hard to imagine a more retributive image than that of God opening the Book of Life and the Book of Death and inscribing names in each. And in this respect the midrash about Aaron offers a vital corrective counterpoint.

Along these lines, another important voice, from a rather different corner of Jewish tradition, is that of Isaiah Horowitz, an early-modern, Eastern European mystic. In Shnei Luchot HaBrit, his monumental treatise on ethics and kabbalah, Horowitz develops a similarly restorative vision of justice in the context of human relationships:

Peace between husband and wife is of great value, for the divine name, Yah [Yod-Hei, i.e. hokhmah-binah/tiferet-shekhinah] dwells between them…and should they experience conflict, God forbid, the divine name is erased and, by removing the Yod-Hei from the words “man” [Aleph-Yod-Shin] and “woman,” [Aleph-Shin-Hei] they are each transformed into “fire” [Aleph-Shin]. (Shnei Luchot HaBrit, Sha’ar HaOyityot, Derekh Eretz, 39)

The engine that drives this passage is the elaborate, mythological architecture of the “Godhead” in Kabbalistic thought, a baroque symbolic system that pictures divine reality as a conglomeration of balanced polarities. As is commonly the case among Kabbalists, Horowitz imagines these polarities in gendered (and heteronormative) terms. By removing the name of God — that is, the letters Yod and Hei — from the Hebrew words for man and woman respectively, both words are transformed into “aish,” the Hebrew word for fire. Absent the peaceful inscription of the divine name, harmony goes up in flames.

One of the most striking aspects of this teaching, is that it presents the “normal,” resting state of human interaction as one of harmonious balance, imbued with the presence of the divinity. Conflict between people is not only avoidable but is also, strikingly, non-normative. Conflict — pace Hobbes — is not a fact of nature, but rather a departure from our deepest selves. Broadening this vision to embrace not only married pairs, but also the whole range of human relationships yields an inspiringly positive vision of who we are and can be. As Horowitz writes elsewhere, “Thus all Jews must pursue peace, in order to be one with peace and to completely and flawlessly resemble their creator, for the name of God is peace.” (Shnei Luchot HaBrit, Aseret HaDibrot, Sukkah, Ner Mitzvah).

(Rabbi Benjamin Resnick is the rabbi at Congregation Ahavas Achim in northern Massachusetts. He was ordained at the Jewish Theological Seminary in 2015, and he is currently pursuing a doctorate in Jewish mysticism. He has written for the Forward, Tablet, Modern Judaism, and the Journal of Inter-Religious Studies. He also co-hosts a podcast on contemporary spirituality called “While We’re Here.”)

The post How Forgiveness Can Be Restorative appeared first on My Jewish Learning.

According to the proponents of what are known as “process-based models” of forgiveness (or “emotional forgiveness”), forgiveness should be understood as a process in which a person does away with negative feelings — such as hatred, anger, hostility, resentment and desires for revenge — that he or she is experiencing towards someone.

In contrast, the proponents of “decision-based models” of forgiveness (or “decisional forgiveness”) explain forgiveness as the cognitive decision not to let the negative emotions that one feels towards someone influence one’s outward behaviors towards that person. This finds expression in the statement of “I forgive you.”

In other words, a process-based understanding of forgiveness demands that you emotionally forgive the person, which may take a considerable amount of time and effort on the part of the forgiver; a decision-based understanding of forgiveness requires that you forgive on a cognitive-behavioral level, which takes place when one decides and says “I forgive you.”

There is a markedly similar disagreement among Jewish legal authorities as to how to define forgiveness. According to the Chazon Ish (Rabbi Avraham Yeshayahu Karelitz, 1878–1953) and other rabbinic authorities, the concept of forgiveness should be viewed as something that has to take place on an emotional level — ensuring that one does away with negative emotions that are felt towards another, which may require some time and effort on the part of the forgiver.

By contrast, Rabbi Yosef Engel (1859–1920) and other rabbinic authorities were of the opinion that forgiveness occurs when one says the words “I forgive you” (or “I forgive so-and-so”). Even though Jewish law is most definitely concerned about the negative emotions that one feels towards others — and offers mechanisms to deal with such emotions, for example, through respectful and sensitive dialogue (see Maimonides, Mishneh Torah, Hilchot De’ot 6:6–9) — these authorities maintained that when it comes to forgiving someone, we should focus on the actual declaration of forgiveness.

Why Forgive?

Judaism offers specific guidelines as to when one should grant forgiveness and when one need not do so. (In my book, “Fundamentals of Jewish Conflict Resolution,” the section on “When One Is and Is Not Obligated to Forgive” is useful background.) In situations when it is appropriate to forgive someone, the potential benefits of forgiveness are manifold. They include:

Social and Relational Benefits: Research has shown that forgiveness can significantly contribute to positive social interactions, and can play a pivotal role in the formation and maintenance of happy and healthy relationships.

Emotional Benefits: Through forgiveness (either by way of a “process” or “decision”) one overcomes resentment, anger, hatred, hostility, rumination, desires for revenge, and other negative feelings, thoughts and behaviors. The repercussions of whether or not one is walking around in life with resentment, anger, hatred, hostility, rumination, desires for revenge and the like are enormous. The presence or absence of these elements may have a profound impact on one’s emotional states, psychological functioning and quality of life. (See Pesachim 113b, where the Talmud offers an extremely forceful, pithy description of the emotional suffering of “angry people.”)

Health Benefits: Researchers have found correlations between forgiveness and various factors that may contribute both to one’s mental and physical well-being. One such factor, which has been a major focus of researchers, is the relationship between forgiveness and stress. There is an ever-growing body of research that indicates that forgiveness may be helpful in reducing levels of stress, which, in turn, may have significant repercussions on one’s mental and physical health. (See Megillah 28a, where one of the Sages attributes his longevity to, among other things, his being a forgiving person.)

Character Development: Forgiveness is also inextricably intertwined with a vast array of middot (character traits). These would include both positive and negative traits, such as empathy, perspective-taking, tolerance, patience, humility, narrow-mindedness, hard heartedness, intolerance, anger, arrogance, and being harshly and unfairly judgmental. It is particularly noteworthy that the Talmudic sages characterize someone who is unforgiving (in cases when it is appropriate to be forgiving) as lacking in compassion and as exhibiting cruelty (Yevamot 79a and Bava Kamma 92a).

Societal Benefits: Forgiveness helps promote peaceful and harmonious coexistence, and it helps to forge strong, cohesive and thriving communities. (See Maimonides’ explanation for the mitzvah of not bearing a grudge; Mishneh Torah, De’ot 7:8.)

Spiritual Benefits: There are some very significant spiritual benefits inherent to forgiveness. Forgiveness is inextricably intertwined with a number of biblical commandments, such as “You shall not hate your brother in your heart” (Leviticus 19:17), “You shall not take revenge,” “You shall not bear a grudge,” “You shall love your neighbor as yourself” (Leviticus 19:18), and “You shall walk in His ways” (Deuteronomy 28:9), from which we may derive that just as God forgives sins, so too should we follow His example and be forgiving (see Avraham ben HaRambam, “The Guide to Serving God,” page 97). One also fulfills a specific mandate of Jewish law that requires one to grant forgiveness. (See Shulchan Aruch, Orach Chaim 606:1, and Choshen Mishpat 422:1.)

The Talmud (Rosh Hashanah 17a) teaches that when an individual is forgiving and overlooks the offenses that were committed against him, God will reciprocate in kind by forgiving and overlooking that person’s sins. (See Mishnah Berurah 606:8.)

Kabbalistic sources discuss the “spiritual harm” that is incurred when one is angry. The Zohar (2:182a) cites the biblical verse “He who rips apart his soul in anger” (Job 18:4) as indicative of some of the spiritual harm that an individual may suffer through anger. Assuming that anger plays a major role in refusing to forgive, these sources may be highly relevant when considering the spiritual consequences of refusing to grant forgiveness.

Forgiveness, when appropriate, can serve as a concrete and powerful expression of one’s emunah (belief, or faith) and bitachon (trust) in God. In forgiving those who have wronged us, we can demonstrate that we believe that ultimately it is God who is “running the show,” that He loves us and wants what is best for us, and that, even though it may not be readily understood, and may even be beyond our comprehension, ultimately all of the hardships that we have encountered in our lives are, in some way or somehow, for our benefit.

Further Reading:
“Fundamentals of Jewish Conflict Resolution,” by Howard Kaminsky (Academic Studies Press, 2017), pages 299–405.

(Howard Kaminsky is a research fellow at the Pardes Center for Judaism and Conflict Resolution, and serves as a mediator for Community Mediation Services in Queens, NY. He has an EdD in religion and education from Teachers College, Columbia University and rabbinic ordination from Mesivta Tifereth Jerusalem. He is the author of “Fundamentals of Jewish Conflict Resolution: Traditional Jewish Perspectives on Resolving Interpersonal Conflict,” published in 2017 by Academic Studies Press.)

The post How We Benefit By Forgiving Others appeared first on My Jewish Learning.

Dr. Josef Mengele conducted human experiments on approximately 1,500 sets of twins — among them, Eva and her twin, Miriam. The young girls were subjected to tests six days a week. On Monday, Wednesday and Friday, they were taken, alongside 50 to 100 other pairs of twins, to a freezing room where, naked, every part of their body was measured and compared to that of their twin. On Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday, blood was taken from the twins’ left arm, while substances were injected into their right arm.

When an injection caused one of Eva’s limbs to swell, and resulted in a rash all over her body and a high fever, she was taken to the hospital barracks. There, she she saw other patients who seemed more dead than alive, and she saw the corpses of dead children on the latrine floor. Falling in and out of consciousness, Eva promised herself that she would be reunited with Miriam. After two weeks her fever broke and she was returned to the regular barracks and her twin.

Had Eva died, Mengele would have killed Miriam with an injection to the heart and conducted comparative autopsies, they later learned.

In January 1945 Eva and Miriam were liberated from Auschwitz, two of only about 180 children to survive at the camp. They never saw their older sisters or parents again.

At age 16, both girls went to what was then the British Mandate for Palestine. After Israeli independence, Eva rose to the rank of sergeant major in the Israeli army. In 1960 she met and married her husband, also a Holocaust survivor, and they settled in Terre Haute, Indiana. They have two children.

Mozes Kor gained international attention, when, on the 50th anniversary of her liberation from Auschwitz, she publicly forgave Hans Munch, a doctor who had worked with Mengele at Auschwitz. She penned and signed a statement she calls “Declaration of Amnesty” while they stood together at gas chamber ruins. The declaration granted “amnesty” to “all Nazis who participated directly or indirectly in the murder of my family and millions of others” and “to all governments who protected Nazi criminals for fifty years, then covered up their acts, and covered up their cover up.”

Since then, Mozes Kor says, she has been freed by forgiving the people who did evil against her. She has also earned the enmity of other Holocaust survivors, who say that the horrors perpetrated on them by the Nazis are unforgivable offenses.

In 1995 Mozes Kor created Indiana’s only Holocaust museum, called CANDLES, which stands for Children of Auschwitz Nazi Deadly Lab Experiments Survivors.

Excerpts from My Jewish Learning’s interview with Mozes Kor are below, and have been edited for length and clarity.

On why she decided to forgive the Nazis:

I never really made a decision. I stumbled on it.

Mozes Kor had seen Dr. Hans Munch mentioned in a 1992 German documentary about the Mengele twins, and in 1993 went to interview him herself.

We were sitting outside, Dr. Munch went inside five times and each time brought out a pillow for me. I said ‘Dr. Munch, what are you trying to do?’ He said, ‘I want to make sure the metal chair you’re sitting on is comfortable for you.’ A Nazi doctor worried about my comfort? It didn’t compute.

I was hoping to get some inside information about the experiments and how Auschwitz worked. I asked him, ‘How did the Nazis function in a place like that? As a human being there, how did you live your life? When work was done, how did you cope?’ He said that most Nazis in Auschwitz got drunk every night — that was their way of coping. Only he and Dr. Mengele didn’t drink [and the two became friendly]. Mengele justified his killing and experiments by saying, “They would have been murdered anyway — I will at least keep them alive for a while.”

I heard myself say “Dr. Munch, did you ever walk by or go inside a gas chamber, did you know how they operated?” He said, “Yes, yes, yes. This is the nightmare I live with every day of my life.” When everybody was dead he signed a death certificate how many people were killed every time the gas chamber was operating.

I asked him to go with me to Auschwitz and sign a document about the operation of the gas chamber. So if I met somebody who was a [Holocaust] denier, I could have an actual document with witnesses I could shove in their face, and he immediately agreed.

I was very excited. [When I] came home to Terre Haute and wanted to give him something as a gesture of my thanks. I knew the idea of thanking a Nazi doctor was crazy. So I never told any friends or family. I didn’t want him to just give him a thank you card, but something meaningful. For the next 10 months when I had a few minutes free, when I was cooking or doing laundry, I would ask myself “How can I thank Dr. Munch?”

The idea popped into my head: an Auschwitz survivor giving him a letter of forgiveness. What I discovered was life changing — that I, a survivor of Mengele experiments, had the power to forgive.

In 1995 Mozes Kor traveled to Auschwitz with her son and daughter for the 50th anniversary of its liberation. Munch gave her a paper documenting what he had seen while working in the Nazi camp, and she gave him a “Letter of Amnesty.”

We signed the document at the ruins of gas chamber at Birkenau 2. I read mine and signed it, and immediately felt that all the pain I carried around for 50 years was lifted from my shoulders. The souls of millions of people [murdered there] were my witnesses. I immediately felt very free, emotionally liberated by the idea that even I have power over Joseph Mengele, and he cannot do a single thing to change that.

Soon after, Mozes Kor was at the U.S. Holocaust Memorial Museum. She recalls Michael Berenbaum, a scholar who served as director of the museum’s Holocaust Research Institute, giving her a hug and kiss and then saying, “I hate you for that forgiveness. According to Jewish tradition the perpetrator must repent and ask for forgiveness’ for it to be given.

I said, “Do I remain a victim for the rest of my life?” It gives the perpetrator power and I have no power over my life. That is absurd. I decide when I forgive. Maybe this Jewish tradition should be changed. We should never wait for the perpetrator to ask for forgiveness. It is the victim’s right to forgive whenever they want.

On feeling angry:

It is very, very difficult to be an orphan. I was angry with my parents that I, as the youngest in the family, somehow found a way to survive and that my parents could not. Then I felt guilty.

When I forgave the Nazis I forgave my parents, too. I forgave them for things they didn’t do. My father wanted to emigrate to Palestine in 1935 with my uncle Aaron. They spent a month there to see if they could find a way to make a living. My mother had four little girls under 5. She refused to go, so we remained.

I had to forgive my mother for not going. My father was not exactly the model father. He beat me every day. Not Miriam. My parents were hoping for a boy. My father was ultra-Orthodox and wanted [a male child] to say Kaddish for him. Miriam was born first. I arrived the greatest disappointment to my father. When I was five my father said to me “Eva, you should have been a boy.” I knew somehow it wasn’t my fault and I said so, and my father got very mad at me. For the remainder of my time at home my father found every day an excuse to belt me. I learned to outsmart my father. I learned to defy him. So when I got to Auschwitz I had four-and-a-half years of experience how to do it. I was not a scared kid.

Her advice for someone who struggles with painful feelings of being hurt and feels they cannot forgive the one who hurt them:

Ask yourself a question: Are you tired of hurting and suffering? If the answer is yes, who can help you? Can I forgive in your name? The answer is no. Take a piece of paper, a pen, and write a letter of forgiveness to the person or persons who hurt you. Do not give it to them or mail it to them because that is a toxic relationship. Once you can write and feel it in your heart that you have forgiven, you should feel a sense of liberation from the burden you’ve been carrying around.

Editor’s note: Eva Mozes Kor passed away in 2019.

Debra Nussbaum Cohen is an award-winning journalist in New York City, daughter of a German-born Holocaust survivor and author of “Celebrating Your New Jewish Daughter: Creating Jewish Ways to Welcome Baby Girls into the Covenant” (Jewish Lights, 2001).

The post The Nazi Victim Who Forgave Her Perpetrators appeared first on My Jewish Learning.

The two monks glanced at one another because they had taken vows not to touch a woman. Then, without a word, the older monk picked up the woman, carried her across the river, placed her gently on the other side, and continued on his journey.

Two more hours passed, then three, and finally the younger monk could not contain himself any longer. He blurted out, “As monks, we are not permitted a woman. How could you then carry that woman on your shoulders?”

The older monk looked at him and replied, “Brother, I set her down on the other side of the river. Why are you still carrying her?”

While it is not a Jewish story, I think of it often when I consider teshuva (repentance), forgiveness, and the baggage we carry.

In our tradition, the onus of forgiveness falls on the one who is seeking it if you have wronged someone, it is your responsibility to ask forgiveness, and to change your behavior to make it clear that your apology is sincere. When the process works, teshuva creates the opportunity for deep repair and renewal of relationships.

But what happens when it doesn’t? What happens when — come Yom Kippur — you are waiting for someone to ask for your forgiveness, and then they don’t? Maybe you are a survivor of abuse, domestic violence or sexual assault. Maybe you feel betrayed by a friend or a mentor. Must you forgive?

Maimonides seems to push the limits of forgiveness, suggesting that:

When one person sins against another, [the victim] should not harbor hatred and remain silent. … Rather, it is incumbent upon them to speak [to the assailant] and to say, “Why have you done such and such and why have your sinned against me [by doing] such and such? … If the [aggressor] repents and asks for forgiveness, he must forgive. The forgiver must not be cruel.” (Hilchot De’ot 6:6)

With full disclosure, I am deeply uncomfortable with this text; I think it could be dangerous and damaging in a number of situations. Sure, there might be a scenario in which Maimonides’ advice could open up a meaningful dialogue and path to reconciliation. But far more often, I think this sort of interaction would open up emotional pain and distress. Nowhere in the Jewish legal tradition does it suggest that, in cases such as abuse, it is up to the survivor to open the dialogue with his or her perpetrator.

Rabbi Moshe Halbertal describes an opening of dialogue as forgiveness that precedes forgiveness. He explains that it is an act of grace that does not obviate the need for real teshuva, but rather makes it possible. Nor is it required or expected according to Jewish law, Halbertal goes on to say.

Atonement, in Jewish tradition, requires accountability. While we are obligated to forgive the perpetrator who has apologized and started the hard work of behavioral change, when those two elements are not present, we have no obligation to forgive. But, as with the monks above, we may choose — through our own internal work — to eventually let go.

(Rabbi Sari Laufer is the director of congregational engagement at Stephen Wise Temple in Los Angeles. A cum laude graduate of Northwestern University Rabbi Laufer was ordained by Hebrew Union College-Jewish Institute of Religion, Los Angeles in May 2006. Prior to coming to Wise, Rabbi Laufer spent 11 years as the assistant and associate rabbi at Congregation Rodeph Sholom in New York City.)

The post Must We Forgive Someone Who Hasn’t Made Amends? appeared first on My Jewish Learning.

While I’m not exactly a digital native, I confess that I love the near-constant access to quick snapshots of people’s lives (or at least the parts they want to show), the ability to check in briefly or to reconnect after long periods of time. But each year, in advance of the High Holidays, I am reminded of the limitations of digital friendships; each year, I am reminded of the question a beloved mentor posed, also back in 2005, in response to a mass email I had sent.

At the time I was a rabbinic student en route to Mississippi to do volunteer work right after Hurricane Katrina, and I sent this painfully earnest email to 100 or so of my nearest and dearest. I wrote:

According to some article I read, these e-missives are the new “in” way to send Rosh Hashanah wishes, and I don’t want to miss a trend or anything:-)…

If, in the past year I have hurt you in any way—by word, by deed, or by slight- please accept my sincere apologies. I ask that you are able to grant me mechila (forgiveness).

Soon after, one of my dearest mentors wrote back:

Your request for mechila was among the most heartfelt I have read–but sometime I would love to discuss with you the whole question of asking for unspecific, generic forgiveness.

I’m not sure we ever had the discussion, but his words resonate with me to this day, not only because of what he said, but because of how he modeled the dialogic process of teshuvah, or repentance. Rather than simply telling me that my apology wasn’t sufficient, he allowed me to reflect and probe my behavior, a necessary component of teshuvah.

One of the central premises of teshuvah is summarized in a teaching from the Mishnah about Yom Kippur.

For transgressions between a person and God, Yom Kippur atones. But for transgressions against another person, Yom Kippur cannot atone until they have appeased the other. (Mishnah Yoma 8:9)

In other words, if you have wronged someone, it’s on you — not on the holiday itself — to make it better. And Jewish tradition is fairly clear on how that should happen.

Maimonides, whose work on teshuvah in his Mishneh Torah forms the basis for much of our understanding, begins with the assumption that the initial act of apology is verbal and it is specific:

It is, moreover, essential that his confession shall be by spoken words of his lips, and all that which he concluded in his heart shall be formed in speech. (Mishneh Torah, Hilchot Teshuvah 2:2)

My teacher, Rabbi Richard Levy, writes:

Before the High Holy Days, some of us customarily approach acquaintances and say, “If I have done anything to offend you in the past year, I ask your forgiveness.” While this custom is a literal fulfillment of an halachic requirement, it fails to fulfill the halacha’s (Jewish law) real intent: to move us to reflect on a year’s interactions and to begin a real process of [teshuvah], of turning away from thoughtless, cruel actions toward a better path. The confession to our friend is not the end of this process, but, as Maimonides notes, only the beginning.

Furthermore, it places the onus not on us but on others, pressuring them to forgive us even when we have demonstrated no regret for specific wrongdoings.

The expectation is that we not only seek out those we have wronged, but that we apologize for the specific act for which we are asking forgiveness.

“I’m sorry,” we might say to our spouse, “for all the times that I buried my face in my phone to avoid a challenging conversation.”

“I’m sorry,” we might say to our children, “for not heeding our own advice and counting to 10 when we got frustrated.”

“I’m sorry,” we might say to a friend, “for taking so long to respond to your phone call.”

Maybe we told an inappropriate joke — or did not speak up when someone else told one. Maybe we laughed at one at a friend’s expense. Whatever it is, our tradition says that true repentance requires us to face our misdeeds head on. Because if we cannot acknowledge what we have done, how will we go about changing our behavior? How will we know when we have changed?

Now, all of these rules were written long before the advent of social media, and I don’t think Maimonides and his disciples could have imagined sitting before a screen, writing a general request for forgiveness to dozens or hundreds of “friends.” But Maimonides and those who came after him did understand living in community, and thus the power of a public apology. In his same work on teshuvah, Maimonides writes:

The penitent who confesses publicly is praiseworthy, and it is commendable for him to let the public know his iniquities, and to reveal the sins between himself and his neighbor to others, saying to them: “Truly, I have sinned against that man, and I have wronged him thus and such, but, behold me this day, I repent and am remorseful.” (Mishneh Torah, Hilchot Teshuva 2:5)

So, if you want to blast your wrongdoings — directly and honestly — over social media or in a mass email, go for it. But do not confuse asking for blanket forgiveness with real and genuine apology.

Teshuvah, in Jewish tradition, is a process. Behavior changes require that we acknowledge, specifically, what we want to change, and also that we engage in the real and deep work to effect those changes. Anything less, our rabbis teach, is like entering a Jewish ritual bath while eating a cheeseburger.

None of us is perfect. We know our patterns, our stressors, the buttons we push; we know that we have and will miss the mark with loved ones, friends, and colleagues. But if we are going to enter a new year with a clean(ish) slate and repaired relationships, it is up to us to start the process.

But make it real, make it genuine, make it personal. FB Messenger it up. Lean into DMs. Or phone calls. Or do it face-to-face. Just don’t ask someone to forgive you without telling them what you are asking forgiveness for.

Rabbi Sari Laufer is the director of congregational engagement at Stephen Wise Temple in Los Angeles. A cum laude graduate of Northwestern University Rabbi Laufer was ordained by Hebrew Union College-Jewish Institute of Religion, Los Angeles in May 2006. Prior to coming to Wise, Rabbi Laufer spent 11 years as the assistant and associate rabbi at Congregation Rodeph Sholom in New York City.

The post This Rosh Hashanah, Try Picking Up the Phone appeared first on My Jewish Learning.