Turning Towards Forgiveness
Many, many years ago the sun was setting on Yom Kippur eve and the holiday was just about to begin. A group of Hassidim, or fervent adherents of a particular rabbi, approached their spiritual leader, Reb Moshe Leib Sassover and essentially asked: “How do we do Yom Kippur right?” “What’s the ideal way to observe this holiday?” “If we are going to be really pious Jews, what should we do?”
To their surprise he looked up and said, “Leave here. There is a nearby shtetl on the outskirts of Lviv with a certain tailor named Hayyim-Shmerl. His house isn’t much to look at. Never mind this. Watch and learn. He will show you what it is to observe Yom Kippur the right way. He will show you what Kol Nidre, or the Erev Yom Kippur service, is all about.”
The sun was already low in the sky giving the trees and houses of their Galitzian town a golden hue. There was only an hour until the holiday would begin. The Hassidim rushed off in the direction of Hayyim Shmerl’s modest house. They searched the narrow streets and finally – there it was! A tiny little hovel with a broken wooden door and a mud thatched roof.
They knocked on the door and were bid inside. By dim, waning candlelight Hayyim-Shmerl sat at a crooked table in the company of his wife and daughters who gazed at the visitors with searching eyes. Two enormous ledger books, bound in tattered brown leather, sat between them. A half-empty bottle of Schnapps was the only frill to be found.
Hayyim-Schmerl cleared his throat and returned to reading the columns of the first ledger book.
"In Av, I cheated a customer out of five kopecks. Later that month, the shammas in the rabbi's court took a bribe. And in Elul, the shochet's wife took a chicken home and cooked it for Shabbos, even though it had a questionable mark on its puppick." He sighed and shook his head, “Oy vey, Aibishter [one on High], please forgive the aveiras [or, sins] of this town.”
He then threw open the second ledger.
"In Kislev, Soreh Baile and Moishe Dovid lost their only child. In Sivan, Yoshe Ber's store burned down and he lost everything. And then the river flooded and the widow Malkah Gitl lost her cow, her children's only source of livelihood." And on and on, he enumerated the sins of God, as it were, against the town.
He fell silent for a moment. "Yes, we've got a lot to be forgiven for this year. But so do you, Ribbono shel Olam, Master of the World. I think, in fact, it is You who came up a little short again this year. But we'll make you a deal You can't refuse. We're willing to forgive You if you do the same for us. We're even willing to overlook the uneven balance. Then they filled their glasses and drank a good le-hayyim - all just before the holy day began, to be sure.
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Today is a very special day. “Of course rabbi,” you might be saying to yourself. It's Rosh Hashanah, that’s why we all have come together, have taken off from classes and why we are sitting here listening to you on a Tuesday.
Yes, that’s true! In addition to today being Rosh Hashanah, today also marks the completion of the seven year sabbatical cycle. Every seven years, the Jewish calendar has a shemitah, a sabbatical, when the land in Israel is in theory supposed to lie fallow and wild animals and the poor can enter any field to find food. At the end of this seventh year, on this very day, we have “shmitat kesafim,” the cancellation of debts. According to rabbinic custom, all monetary debts between Jews are canceled as of... about twelve hours ago. The law was designed to decrease the chasm of wealth between rich and poor. It meant that no one should fall into abject poverty because every seven years, all were able to start anew. It is written in Deuteronomy 15:1-4:
At the end of seven years, you are to make a Shmitah/a Release. Now this is the matter of the Release: one shall release, every possessor of a loan of their hand, what they have lent to their neighbor. One is not to oppress their neighbor or their brother, for the Release of God has been proclaimed! The foreigner you may continue to collect from, or they who belongs to you as a slave; but as for your brothers, your hand is to release [them].
This law is still in effect today. Sorry if you would have liked more of a warning about this. As of sunset last night, every loan that you have made or received from your brother or your neighbor - Jews - as the talmud defines it - has been canceled. Those ten dollars you were supposed to chip in for dinner - gone. Those thousands of dollars from your aunt, poof! According to tradition those loans are no longer in effect. You could choose to repay them, but strictly speaking that would actually be a gift, not a repayment. All of “our people’s” debts to each other have been forgiven.
I think there are really two kinds of forgiveness. No matter who it’s between or what it’s over: between people, between yourself and God, or even between yourself and the person that you strive to be in this world. It comes down to two flavors: forgiveness that is transactional or relational. Let me explain.
When you heard me talk about shmita before, you may have imagined a ledger being ripped in half. I no longer owe that hundred dollars to that person! Or it might be interpersonal: I forgot my father’s birthday but he said that he forgives me. Or it could be within ourselves: I forgive myself for not responding to those emails in a timely manner. Even on a larger, societal level: the formerly incarcerated person has “done their time” and now walks free.
But I think there is a deeper sense to forgiveness, one that Yom Kippur invites us to experience. Asking for or offering our forgiveness brings us into a relationship with the other. It’s not a transaction but rather an ongoing and deepening bond between people who care about each other. When my friend forgives the hundred dollars that they have loaned me, we can continue to be close. When my father offers understanding about the fact that I neglected to send a birthday card, we can rest in the love that is built over a lifetime. Our relationship can weather the small slights and disappointments that are part of human connection. We can wound but we can also repair. Going back to my story, the tailor Chayyim-Shmerl was able to process his own guilt about his community’s mistakes but also approach the divine with a clear-eyed question: God, can we forgive you? His words are audacious yet tender: Can we move forward together into newness? Can we continue our lives as your people, You our shepherd and we Your flock? Awaiting the answer allows for a Yom Kippur bursting with potential for connection and revelation.
You may have sat in synagogue this very Rosh Hashanah thinking, “Wow, this is a long prayer service. Here I am to get my proverbial ticket stamped. God, write me into the Book of Life for another year.” Such a thought takes a lot of courage and vulnerability – but it is a transactional kind of forgiveness.
What would it look like to commit ourselves to deepening our relationships this year? To quote existential psychiatrist Irv Yalom, how can we “re-enter life in a richer, more compassionate manner?” When we can relationally forgive, we have the chance to live differently. We can turn anew toward our partners, friends, and family, draw closer to our community, and embrace the subtle and astonishing ways that G!d opens to us at every hour, b’chol sha’ah.
The Hebrew word for life, chayyim, is always in the plural. Why? We are not meant to live alone. I’m not speaking physically but rather in a relational or spiritual sense. Life, like מים (water), שָׁמַיִם (sky), and רַחֲמִים (compassion), is always done together.
But who is included in this togetherness? Are forgiveness and relationship-tending simply limited to Jewish people? Doesn’t this seem too narrow? When I quoted Deuteronomy earlier, your thoughts may have drifted to many people from other traditions who are beloved in your life. I certainly did. Here are a couple things to consider:
The Jewish tradition urges us to forgive those people who are willing to offer the same forgiveness when we ask. Similar to the laws of giving tzedakah, or charity, our wisdom texts also prioritize people who are already close to you, either in physical space or biological relatedness. We are commanded to offer support to the Chayyim-Shmerls of our community who struggle to put food on the table before we send money or goods to the needy across oceans. But the ability to do good is a muscle worth building – once we are used to extending our hand to the local person who needs help we can grow in our support to others. The circle of “our people'' can widen as we strengthen ourselves in character and good deeds.
And the same goes for forgiveness. What if the Torah calls us to forgive others not just because they are our father, our cousin, our fellow Jewish person and so on but rather creates relationships out of forgiving? Perhaps others become family, become dear to us, become people we consider when we forgive them and are forgiven by them. Simply, the engagement that comes with forgiveness makes other people matter to us in a new way.
I want to suggest that we bring back the old-fashioned word kin. It might sound quaint or folksy, but hear me out. Kin can be family members but the meaning can go way beyond that. We think about our kin, we consider them in our decisions, we know our kin will support us when the chips are down. If we are able to forgive, those people are our kin. You may have a blood relative who you cannot forgive, or who is always holding a grudge against you. This isn’t the familial relationship that the Torah envisions. Rather, your non-Jewish family member or friend may offer you forgiveness today, either in words or when you call out to them in your heart. They are your kin. They are included in the forgiveness of this season.
Real forgiveness and real relationships demand honesty. We must find compassionate ways to tell others when we believe they are making a mistake on important matters. When we take the time to spend a day like Yom Kippur in prayer and contemplation, let it be a unique opportunity to engage with the more difficult parts of our friendships and loves. If we can’t ask for forgiveness and share earnest concern, then we don’t have a personal bond worth protecting.
But it’s a bit of a paradox. The Torah tells us in Leviticus 19:17-18:
You are not to hate your brother in your heart; rebuke that you not bear sin because of him! You are not to take-vengeance, you are not to retain-anger against the sons of your kin— but be loving to your neighbor like yourself; I am YHWH!
Love your neighbor might make a good bumper sticker but real life is far more complex. The Torah is telling us that if we really love our neighbors, we have to sometimes say, “You are wrong! And what’s more…I forgive you!” How do we hold both of these truths? It’s difficult, messy, and different for every person in this room considering all of the important relationships in their lives.
One last word on this. This kind of relational forgiveness is intense. We can’t do this with the whole world. It would hurt too much. It would be too hard. But as we take steps into this new year, with all of the unknown joys and pains to come, I urge you to reconsider the relationships that matter. Offer a deeper empathy to the people who matter in your life or those who you could call kin. Maybe they are an estranged family member, a friend you’ve grown distant from, or maybe even yourself, feeling fractured and disconnected in this late pandemic reality. Speak with them, forgive them, love them. Through your words, your deeds, and love – they will become your people in a new way. Trust me, it will be well worth it. I bless us all with the possibility of renewed connection in this year to come. Shana tova!
