Forgiveness, the Jewish Way

Sermon

Probably the most famous pronouncement of Jesus' on forgiveness, one that has profoundly impacted Western morality since is what he says in chapter 5 of the book of Matthew.

"You have heard that it was said, 'An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.' But I say to you, do not resist an evildoer. But if anyone strikes you on the right cheek, turn the other also; and if anyone wants to sue you and take your outer garment, give your undergarment as well; and if one of the occupation troops forces you to carry his pack one mile, go two."

There are different interpretations of what Jesus meant by this, whether there was hidden irony or even humor in what he said, in whether he was preaching to Jews persecuted by Romans, or poor people and slaves subject to the whims of rich owners and rulers. But regardless of the nuances and details of his original intent, it is undeniably an injunction to non-violence and an indictment of the contemporary eye-for-an-eye justice.

The moral vision in his pronouncement has been much more significant for interpersonal interactions and wrongs than for cultural or national wrongs. At least since the end of the early Christian movement and Christianity's adoption as the state religion of the Roman Empire, Christians have earnestly struggled over how and when to turn the other cheek as individuals, while wholeheartedly participating in nations that are committed to violence for revenge or deterrence. Presently, this dynamic plays out in everything from how to respond to a personal slight or insult to both the personal and policy issues inherent in the debate over the death penalty. Many people contend with the onus Matthew lays on the wronged to be bigger than the wrongdoer and rise above the hurt that we suffer. Sometimes this has led to extraordinary achievement - it is a cornerstone of the remarkable non-violent healing work done by Bishop Desmond Tutu and the Truth and Reconciliation Commissions in South Africa. And sometimes it has led to extraordinary injustice - Matthew 5 was for centuries a foundational text that clergy used in adjuring wives to stay with, and obedient to, dangerously abusive husbands and fathers. Like any conceptual model, its virtue and efficacy lie in its application, rather than the model itself.

This morning we are considering another way, also arising out of biblical heritage and interpretation, and that is the Jewish model. This system is not actually that contemporaneous eye-for-an-eye model Jesus critiqued so long ago. It is one that has evolved over many centuries, before and since Jesus. Like many aspects of Judaism, it has numerous aspects and layers, especially those iterated in the Talmud. But also like many aspects of Judaism, it has a summary version for the majority of interested folks who are not Talmudic scholars and don't wish to call on their rabbi to negotiate every instance of wrong.

Perhaps the most important point of the Jewish system of forgiveness is that the onus to invoke forgiveness is on the wrongdoer, not the wronged. The wrongdoer is the one responsible for any forgiveness that follows on what they do. It is meant to work this way:

The wrongdoer does a bad thing, which hurts someone else. The person who has been hurt can just stay hurt. As far as forgiveness goes, they don't have to do anything. Which makes sense, because after all, they're the one that's been injured, and it's enough that they have to deal with that injury and whatever fallout it entails. Whatever happens next, for forgiveness, is that the person who did the injury has to own up, apologize, and ask for forgiveness, and - this is crucial - they have to do all this to the person they hurt. Unlike in Catholicism, for instance, where confessing to a priest, and thence to God, can win expiation, in Judaism there's nothing doing absolution-wise unless the admission and atonment happens with the person who suffered the wrong. In fact, the human dimension of this religious model is so critical that divine forgiveness, the kind that gets people written into the book of life for another year every Jewish New Year, that can't even begin to happen, no matter what: no matter how much we go to worship services, or pray privately, no matter how many good deeds we do to atone or outweigh the wrong, there's access to God unless, and until, we've made things right on the mortal plane, with the person we've hurt.

This is a human-based religious system for forgiveness, and for those of us ultimately concerned with how we live in this world, that makes its ethical dimension very powerful. It is a theological system of right relations that says we are under obligation to a person we've hurt. In fact this system is very explicit about what is owed and what must be done. The three steps are clear and non-negotiable:
We owe them our admission of what we did.
We owe it to them that we ask their forgiveness.
We owe them an offer to let us make it up to them, howsoever we can, according to howsoever they choose.

Here's another kicker: we're not off the hook unless the person we've wronged says we are. In other words, if we wrong someone and go through the steps, admitting it to them, and asking truly for their forgiveness, and asking to make it up to them somehow - they can say no. They can refuse to forgive us, and refuse to allow us to make it up to them. Now, at this point, things get complicated. According to Jewish law, this exchange goes back and forth three times,, and if forgiveness is still refused, then the rabbi can get brought in to help out. Because while the onus is on the wrongdoer to initiate this interaction, there is also some pressure on the one wronged to eventually forgive. Forgiveness is not just a whim, and not something we can just withhold if we're feeling grouchy. If we're going to withhold it, we need to take that very seriously and have a really good reason. Because not only is this about the relationship between two parties, or about the care and ethical treatment that human beings own each other, it's also still about God. Remember that the divine aspect of forgiveness doesn't come into play, it just can't, unless obligations on the human level have been satisfied. And what happens if that doesn't happen is very tangible: one doesn't get written into the book of life the next New Year, the season of divine judgement. It's not about burning later in hell, the threat is much more immediate; you put your life here and now in jeopardy when you walk around with unforgiven wrongs attached to you. So we have to do our best to win forgivenss, but also the wronged person needs to try to rise to the occasion and forgive us when so much is depending on their forgiveness. These implications support the ethics of the system. The apology and the forgiveness have to be genuine to be meaningful - which enjoins the wrongdoer to really offer an authentic apology. And being authentically apologized to and receiving offers to make it up to us hopefully makes it more possible for us to truly accept the apology and find in our hearts the space and spirit of forgiveness.

Because of the Jewish High Holy Days' dependence on forgiveness and atonement on both the person-to-person and person-to-god planes, this interaction of the wrongdoer and the wronged is a particular tradition at that time of year. Along with other rituals enacted at home and at synagogue, Jewish people make a point of having conversations to clear the boards and make sure all is right with them, even if they're not aware of doing anything wrong.

Because this discipline of forgiveness is one that has great appeal for me, I also practice it, and because the UU new church year tends to roughly coincide with the Jewish New Year, I find it a good time for my own atonement. I don't know how many UU's are making these Rosh Hashanah/Yom Kippur phone calls, but I have done it for years. It's gotten so that if I call a loved one during that period of 10 days, the days of awe, which fall between the New Year and the Day of Atonement, Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, they'll just ask "Is this the phone call?" Sometimes it is, sometimes it isn't. Sometimes it becomes the phone call, even if originally I dialed for another reason, since it's hard to delay that sort of conversation once its been suggested.

But that conversation oughtn't only be a Jewish, once-a-year, conversation. The convention that makes it an annual tradition is only to make sure people don't enter the new year with blots on their souls' escutcheons. It's then a sort of safety net, in case some hurt or wrong gets missed along the way. But this model for apology, forgiveness and atonement is good year-round. It's a lesson in being a good person regardless of which end we're on. If we're the forgiver it's good to be asked for forgiveness and good to have some sense of obligation to strive to forgive. And if we're the forgiven, or at least the hoping-to-be-forgiven, it is far more fair that the burden to enjoin forgiveness lies with us, and that we should have to ask for another's grace, and to offer not only our confession, but also our commitment to atone, because confession is not always enough to make things right. Atonement should always be offered.

Nikos Kazantzakis' words may remind us that sometimes, for myriad reasons, forgiveness may not be available from one we have wronged. There is a great short story called The Sunflower which turns on the ethical question of whether someone else has the ability, right, or obligation offer absolution on behalf of others. If I do a sermon series on forgiveness, those difficult and dark questions will be addressed. But for this morning, we are considering forgiveness when it is available, at least potentially for the asking, when forgiveness is contextualized by an imperative relational dynamic.

I don't have dramatic personal stories to illustrate this dynamic. Mostly I try to apologize and offer atonement right in the moment, and I try not to miss instances when I fear they're there. This means that my annual phone calls tend to be comfortingly anticlimactic, though occasionally someone tells me that there is in fact something…. But there is a handy example playing itself out right now in public life, of all places, in country music, that illustrates this dynamic beautifully.

Some of you may be familiar with a country band called The Dixie Chicks. They came out a couple of weeks ago with a preview song from their upcoming album. It's called Not Ready to Make Nice. Back in March, 2003, during a concert in London, their lead singer made some very disparaging remarks about President Bush. The backlash in America was immediate. Many country radio stations boycotted their songs, some even held gatherings for fans to burn and destroy their Dixie Chick's CD's. Though the overall fan response was somewhat mixed, the dramatically angry fans got all the press so it's hard to know what the breakdown between support and criticism really was. Certainly the Chicks got a lot of hate mail as well, including death threats And their new song is about all that.

Their lyrics include these lines:
Forgive, sounds good. Forget: I'm not sure I could.They say time heals everything, But I'm still waiting.
I'm through with doubt: There's nothing left for me to figure out.?I've paid a price, An' I'll keep paying.
I'm not ready to make nice; I'm not ready to back down. I'm still mad as hell, An' I don't have time, To go round and round and round. It's too late to make it right; I prob'ly wouldn't if I could. 'Cause I'm mad as hell: Can't bring myself, To do what it is you think I should.

I made my bed and I sleep like a baby, With no regrets, and I don't mind sayin': It's a sad sad story when a mother will teach her daughter that she ought to hate a perfect stranger. And how in the world can the words that I said, Send somebody so over the edge, That they'd write me a letter sayin' that I better, Shut up an' sing or my life will be over?
I'm not ready to make nice; I'm not ready to back down. I'm still mad as hell, An' I don't have time, To go round and round and round.

Judaism would say to the Chicks - fine - you don't have to make nice - you are owed apologies and atonement, and until those who wronged you do so, you owe them nothing but the honest truth of your hurt and outrage, in other words, you've given them what you owe them: this song.

This example, political and current as it is, points to one other aspect of this issue which is ironically apolitical and timeless - the power of words according to Judaism. Genesis tells us that God spoke the world into existence. It didn't take gestures, or ingredients - in the absence of everything but the ultimate void there is still the word as the creative foundation of all. Words have ontological power in Judaism. This is part of the point in Michael Wex's book Born to Kvetch. He doesn't talk about forgiveness in this remarkably funny, insightful and straight-shooting study of language - but he's all about language, and it turns out, Jews are all about language too. Wex reminds us that in the longtime debate in Western philosophy - whether a word is just a label or whether a thing participates in its name, whether essence is shared between a thing and its name, Jews come down on one side: the name, the word, matters. Wex writes baldly: "Call a rose a pile of crap and the flower turns into something else." (BtK, p. 100)

It's not just names or nouns, it's everything. In a world as fragile and chaotic as the world of Jews historically has been there was a lot of reason for kvetching, and also a lot of reason for superstition and folk religion and interpretation and invocation, all of which was expressed in words. This meant people complained and spoke badly even when things were good, so that the evil eye or evil spirits wouldn't take away something that was good. This meant that there were strong relationships between vernacular expressions, even slang or tasteless expressions, and biblical Talmudic interpretation; for reasons that would take too long to explain here, a woman endowed along the lines of Dolly Parton was spoken as having 'beautiful little Moses and Aaronses.' Judaism prohibits naming people for friends or family who are still alive so that those currently possessing the name will live with it a long time; to say "may that name come home with someone else attached to it" is another way of saying 'he should drop dead.' (BtK, p. 102)

Blessings and curses are pronounced with creativity and verve. Michael Wex devotes a whole chapter in his book to Yiddish Cursing (read the long modern curse from p. 118, and some of the quicker, older curses from p. 136 - all to do with health, and who doesn't care about their health?) The potent language reflects a potent culture and applies as much to the Hebrew Bible and ancient Judaism as to more recent developments. This is why, in Genesis, when Jacob presents himself as his elder brother Esau and thus obtains his father Isaac's blessing intended for his first-born son, there is no redress. Esau later asks Isaac to give him the blessing but Isaac can't. It's already gone, already spent, despite the deception that engendered it. It's an ancient religious principle that secular psychologists would support: words matter, they can't be unsaid, the power they convey happens and is real, it affects things. They exist in history; they change people and events on scales small and large and cannot be underestimated.

That power of words is an essential component for our understanding of the Jewish model of forgiveness. It has to be authentic. It has to be done right. And if it is done right and authentically, its redemptive power is great, just as indeed we do feel great redemption in lived experiences of forgiveness. And if it is done wrong, or inauthentically, its damning power is great, just as indeed we do feel a terrible burden in our lived experiences of accusation, blame and condemnation. There is a lesson, and a power, here for all people. The accountability, the relationality, the intentionality of this system of forgiveness makes it profoundly relevant for any people in any time. What does it teach society to embrace the turn-the-other-cheek model of forgiveness? Idealized as an injunction to lift ourselves above pettiness and retribution, it arguably diminishes the moral sense of indivuals and of society at large, to target the injured, holding them inexplicably accountable for unsolicited forgiveness or acceptance. To be unshriven is a bad state of affairs, but to be unforgiven surely ought to be much worse. And we should not be able to excuse or forgive ourselves in the absence of forgiveness from one we have wronged.

What does it mean to us if we hold that we cannot live or act alone, accountable only to ourselves? What does it offer us to believe that we hold each others lives and futures in our hands, as we do? That we are responsible to each other, as we are? That no higher good can flourish if we live in denial of those fundamental truths, as it can't? That we must live gently with each other as people of faith if we are to live at all, as we must?

Amen.

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