Rabbi Mosbacher

What Forgiveness Means

Yom Kippur 5769

I wanted to become a rabbi since I was about 13 years old. I had great role models as rabbis, who told me how privileged they felt to be with people in the profoundly transformative moments of their lives. I hoped someday to share that experience as well. As I continued through my rabbinical training, it occurred to me that, once I was ordained, people would begin asking me questions-- really profound questions-- about life, the universe, and everything. And I waited. I waited for some moment of divine insight, some moment of revelation, when I’d finally have the answers to life’s persistent questions, like “why do bad things happen to good people?” and, “how is one to endure suffering and still find faith?” I waited through 5 years of rabbinical school. And I waited expectantly for my ordination day, when the rosh yeshiva put his hands tightly on my skull to ordain me “Rabbi in Israel.”

Then it happened. Revelation came, but not as I thought it would when I was a rabbinical student, at a moment of joy like my wedding day or the birth of my children. Rather, revelation came in the form of a phone call from my mom in my office early one morning nearly 10 years ago. Revelation came on January 19, 1999, the day my father was murdered-- the worst day of my life.

The intervening 10 years correspond with the 10 years of my rabbinate. I have been privileged to walk with people in your moments of transcendent joy in that time, and to experience them myself. And I have also been a spiritual witness to deep suffering, to unresolved pain, when many of you have asked me those profound questions. I pray that in those moments, my presence has brought you some comfort.

It is really only recently, though, that I realize that, on that terrible January morning, 10 years ago, my search ended; I had found the answer I was looking for:

I know nothing.

I do not know how human beings could have such evil in their hearts. I do not know how a person can pull the trigger of a gun, knowing with certainty and intent that they will kill another human being. I do not know how people could fly a plane into a building filled with other people. I do not know how a parent could abuse a child, or a spouse abuse a spouse.

Nor do I know how a widow endures the worst pain and yet lives again. I do not know how a man on one of the floors of the trade center engulfed in fire stood by his friend in a wheelchair as everything fell down around him, instead of running to save himself. I do not know how a survivor of abuse escapes the cycle and learns to trust again. I know nothing.

Now I realize that anything worth knowing is, by definition, unknowable. I do not know why some die too soon, or others never find love, or how others are able to forgive.

These High Holidays involve a profound question: “to forgive, or not to forgive?” and this much I do know: that it is only in the state of not knowing that we might be humble enough to approach this mysterious question in our lives.

Jewish tradition teaches that if I offend someone, it is my responsibility to do whatever it takes to set matters right. Conversely, according to the rabbis of our tradition, if someone has offended me, it is my responsibility to allow the offender to do teshuvah, that is, to correct the wrong done to me. Teshuvah, says our tradition, is part of the structure of God's creation; hence, the sinner is obligated to do teshuvah and the offended person is obligated to permit teshuvah by the offender.

The rabbis, and the machzor they wrote, speak of three types of forgiveness that we sing about when we sing “slach lanu, m’chal lanu, kaper lanu.”

The ultimate kind of forgiveness is "atonement"—as we sing—kaper lanu. This is a total wiping away of all sinfulness. It is an existential cleansing. Kapparah is the ultimate form of forgiveness, but it is only granted by God, say the rabbis of our tradition. This is what we ask for on Yom Kippur from God and God alone. No human can "atone" the sin of another; no human can "purify" the spiritual pollution of another. This atonement will not come unless the sinner seeks it out.

The second kind of forgiveness is literally called "forgiveness" in Hebrew--selichah. It is an act of the heart. It is reaching a deeper understanding of the sinner. It is achieving an empathy for the troubledness of the other. Selichah is not a reconciliation or an embracing of the offender; it is simply reaching the conclusion that the offender, too, is human, frail, and deserving of sympathy. It is closer to an act of mercy than to an act of grace. There are some sins, it seems to me, where selichah may never be possible. A wife abused by a husband, for example, may never reach this level of forgiveness, and the rabbis say she is not obliged, nor is it morally necessary for her, to do so.

The most basic kind of forgiveness is mechilah, literally "forgoing the other's indebtedness." If the offender has done teshuvah, and is sincere in their repentance, the offended person should offer mechilah; they should relinquish their claim against the one who did wrong. This is not a reconciliation of heart or an embracing of the offender; it is simply reaching the conclusion that the offender no longer owes us anything monetarily or spiritually for whatever it was that he or she did. Mechilah is like a pardon granted to a criminal by the modern state. The crime remains; only the debt is forgiven.

This ingenious and nuanced system that the rabbis set up works well in trying to urge, compel, and force the sinner to truly and fully repent. Kapparah works well when the sinner feels remorse, and wants a fresh start. Slichah  works well when the sinner is still around to make amends. Mechilah works well when the possibility of teshuvah remains.

But what if the sinner is unrepentant? What if the sinner died unrepentantly, or is out of the victim’s life? Still further, what if you don’t know who exactly committed the transgression? And what if the sin itself seems absolutely unforgivable? The traditional categories of forgiveness seem no longer to apply. Are the victims of the offenses in these cases to be left helplessly hostage for all time to the sinner, a kind of aguna, like the traditional Jewish wife whose husband refuses to give a divorce?

In Hollywood endings, the bad guy always breaks down on the stand, have you ever noticed that? “You want the truth?” Jack Nicholson asks in that great movie. “You can’t handle the truth!” And then he proceeds to confess—right there—in front of judge and jury.

It has been nearly 10 years since my dad was murdered by an unknown assailant at his place of business in Chicago. We have had no Hollywood ending. My family has endured two trials—one that yielded a conviction of a man; another that acquitted him after he was given a new trial on appeal.

I have thought a great deal, each of the last nine High Holidays, about what forgiveness means to me. Don’t get me wrong—I’ve made lots of mistakes each year, and have made efforts during the days of repentance to atone for my sins. I usually do end up feeling by the end of Yom Kippur as if I’ve got a new start with the most important people in my life, and with God. Forgiveness, in the traditional categories, means a lot to me, and I feel passionately that we should each pursue mechila, slicha, and kaparah in these days of awe, and every day for that matter.

But I still carry anger and fear about the death of the man who raised me to be a man. And I know that more than a few of you have pains that have been inflicted upon you, too, with no remorse or repentance. There are those among us today who have been abused, victimized. In some cases, the perpetrator has been punished. In others cases, not. In all cases, you, too, have lived with anger and fear and ache. Can it really be true that, if the sinner either refuses or missed his or her opportunity to repent, that there is no Jewish context in which the victim can escape this pain? Can the abused daughter, the abandoned spouse, the son whose mother died without making peace, truly find no liberation from this bondage?

Rabbi Karyn Kedar has taught that there are people who choose evil. They choose to live and act in darkness and pain and inflict upon others their desire for destruction. What will their victims do, if such people will never repent their evil ways?

Sins committed against us can cause great pain and suffering. They can cause a darkness to fall over your soul. With every insult and every assault, we lose trust and faith and our belief that life could be different. We lose our innocence, the belief that life is essentially good.

In the face of evil, perhaps in spite of it, we have the opportunity to choose good. Not to condone evil. Not to turn the other cheek. And never to forget. But rather, to let go of the darkness that has entered our souls. To let go of the control that evil can have over us. To let go of the pain. To let go of the fear. If this process is not to take place by the usual process of forgiveness handed down to us by the Jewish generations—if this pain will find no balm in mechila, slicha, or kaparah, perhaps it’s time for a new category that we, survivors of sin, can control. Perhaps we might call it shachrira. Like the other words for forgiveness, shachrira has many connotations; it’s basic meaning, though, is: a letting go, a liberating, a redeeming.

In the face of unrepented sin, this kind of forgiveness, shachrira, is an essential and primal release of the poison and brokenness that has entered your soul. You acknowledge the loss of innocence, trust, and faith. You rage against the sin that was committed against you. And you accept, with a lot of self-love, and the support of family and friends and therapists, and others, the narrative that has become your life. For you have survived, and your life’s path can send you forth to bear witness to the ultimate tenacity and triumph of the good that is in the human spirit. Place the evil in the past; it does not have to be your present reality. Then you will let go of the curse over your life, little by little. Shachrer lanu, O, God. Liberate us, and help us free ourselves.

Rabbi Shlomo Carlebach, the legendary spiritual leader and composer of Jewish music, came to the United States from Austria as a teenager, a refugee from the Nazis. Every so often he would go back to Austria and Germany to give concerts, and people would ask him, “How can you go back there and give concerts? Don’t you hate them after what they did to you? Don’t you hate the Austrians and the Germans?”

And this is what Shlomo would say to anyone who asked him this question: “I only have one soul. If I had two souls, I would gladly devote one of them to hating the Germans full time. But I don’t. I have one soul, and I am not going to waste in on hating.”

While we do not, and cannot, forgive evil, we can shift the focus from the offender, and the offense that he or she committed, to the deep and undying desire of the victim to regain equilibrium and control over their lives. Forgiveness, I have come to believe, is a spiritual state of mind. It is actually a decision about how to live. Shachrira means regaining control over your life.

Rabbi Karyn Kedar says that when you choose a forgiving state of being, you enter a state of inner peace by letting go of the pain and fear. You choose to leave the darkness that has been your reality, and you regain control over your spirit. Darkness is the arena of evil; it can control your life. Its grip can be as destructive as a hurricane: unrelenting, tenacious.

Shachrira, on the other hand, is a state where light becomes your reality. You regain control over your spirit, over your memories, over your way of perceiving the world and your way of walking on this planet of ours. Do not be afraid to forgive. Surrender this hell to your past, and embrace the calm as your present reality.

This morning we read from the book of Deuteronomy: “I have set before you this day blessing and curse, life and death. Choose life that you may live.”

To forgive is not to condone or forget. It is the message that goodness can triumph over evil.

Forgiveness, I submit, is a way of being in the world that is sustainable with work and practice. Forgiveness can be about the other, but not necessarily. It can be about reconciling with whoever has offended you, but not necessarily. It is always about an internal process of loss and acceptance, pain and understanding, anger and blessings, love and faith regained.

But wait, I hear you saying. You want me to forgive my partner who left me? You want me to forgive the person who abused me? You want me to forgive the person who committed a crime against me or someone I love?

And my answer is: yes, I want you to forgive them. Not to excuse them. Not to say what they did is acceptable, but to forgive as a way of saying that someone who would do any of these kinds of things has no right to live inside your head any more than they have a right to live inside your house. Why give a man or woman like that the power to turn you into a bitter, vengeful person? They do not deserve that power over you.

As Rabbi Harold Kushner teaches, forgiveness is not a favor we do for the person who offended us. It is a favor we do for ourselves, cleansing our souls of thoughts and memories that lead us to see ourselves as victims and make our lives less enjoyable. When we understand that we have little choice as to what other people do but we can always choose how we will respond to what they do, we can let go of those embittering memories and enter the New Year clean and fresh.

Now hear in my words no judgment on your particular situation. It has taken me ten years to get to this place. If you are not ready to forgive, or if you’re not sure you ever will be ready, I can say with empathy, I know something of how you feel. Hear in these words not judgment from me but instead an opportunity to consider what you thought might never be possible-- to see releasing the grip of those who have hurt you as an act of redemption. I believe that it just might be possible for all of us, eventually, to redeem our spirits from our oppressors. In the moments when we can, I submit, we restore light from darkness.

Near the Dead Sea is an oasis called Ein Gedi—one of my very favorite places in Israel. The summer heat is intense, dry, and oppressive. The Dead Sea is utterly still, blue, buoyant, filled with minerals that let nothing live in its waters. You drive into the parking lot at Ein Gedi, fill up your water bottle, and beginning climbing a mountain path. You pass stones and boulders. The heat is stifling, and you wonder, “why am I doing this? I could have stayed in the cool air conditioning of the gift shop. What am I sweating for?” Suddenly, there is green; in the distance you see date palms and flowers and shade. There is life here, after all. You begin to hear people playing, laughing, yelling to one another. You hear water falling on rocks and people splashing. You round the bend, and there it is. In the middle of the desert, a waterfall! You enter the pool and stand in the cool water. All the dust, all the heat, all the deadness washes from your body and you feel alive and filled to the brim with relief and joy.

The world is filled with potential. The question “to forgive, or not to forgive?” is a fork in the road. Our choices are to change, to love, or to fear. To take a path, or to take a turn. To be forever tied to loss and pain, or to search for places where there is abundant love that is sustained by a source, deep and invisible, like an oasis in the desert.

It is easy to hold onto resentments, pain, victimhood. We are raised with a sense of fairness, a sense of what is right and what is wrong. Wrong is simply not right: It is not right that we should experience rejection, cruelty, betrayal. It is not right, and we should not have to abide it. We are still responding to those things that happened so many years ago, and we continue to resent what was unfair.

Let it go.

Let it go and it no longer has a hold on you.

Letting it go denies its power over you.

Shachrira. Reconcile with the truth of your life, with the good, the bad, and the ugly. With beauty and blessing. With the tenacity of your spirit. With weakness. With betrayal. With regret. With the years that have passed. With the love that is trying to get in to your life. If you reconcile with all that, I believe that you will redeem the truth of your life, and find oases in what you thought was a desert in your soul.

Today, let us both surrender and take control, because the journey towards forgiveness is mystery and discovery, and it demands constant navigation.

Shachrer lanu, O God. Release us, and help us release ourselves. When we forgive, we learn to come to terms with the story of our lives, and release the pain of the past. When we forgive, we refuse to remain victims of those who hurt us. When we forgive, we refuse to let them continue to bring us pain—not across the miles, not across the years, not even across the grave. When we forgive, we choose life and love over death and fear. When we forgive the people closest to us, the living and the dead, when we heal the wounds and release old hurts, we will in fact become new people: more open, more loving, more confident, as we step forward into this New Year.

Keyn Yehi Ratzon.