My favorite, and most dreaded, season is quickly -- oh, so quickly! -- approaching. Ellul is the last month of the year, and it is given over to taking account of our souls. By the time you all read this, Ellul will be well under way, and Rosh Hashana will be nearing. I love (and fear) Ellul because it is the month for heightened teshuvah, turning, the painful, cleansing time of seeking forgiveness from others we have wronged and from Life itself.
Every year at this time I write more or less the same things to all of you, and let me not fail to do so again. Jewish tradition gives us, in the practice of teshuvah, a great tool for leading a happy life. Full, heartfelt teshuvah heals deep wounds, both between people and in our own hearts. It heals shame, reverses anger, brings hope, brings joy.
Full teshuvah, as expounded by Maimonides, requires that we -- should we be aware that we committed a wrong -- (1)name that wrong in detail; (2) feel deep remorse and grief for having done the wrong; (3) restore the damage in any way possible; (4) sincerely ask forgiveness of the one we have wronged and of God. And finally, (5) when the opportunity again arises to commit the same wrong, we must refrain from doing so.
This formula never loses power for me. The story I love to recall and retell: years ago in another place, when I was a baby student rabbi, there was a congregant who was really hard on me for two full years. This person would call me out in public, speak ill of me, embarrass and criticize me in really painful ways. I didn't really feel like I deserved much of it. But come Ellul at the end of those two years, I sat and thought about the whole thing. I reckoned that, even if this person had done the lion's share of the injury, there were indeed times when those criticisms were on the mark. Maybe in my mind they didn't warrant the degree of aggression, but still, I could admit that I had done wrong. I wrote this person a letter, following Maimonides' directions as best I could, naming my wrongs in detail, expressing my true sorrow, asking forgiveness. I stuck my letter in the mailbox and felt that at least my slate was as clean as I could make it. I wasn't happy with this person, but at least I had tried to take responsibility for my own soul. The very next day, to my great surprise, a letter arrived in my mailbox. It was from my attacker, confessing and asking my forgiveness. It was a long, rich, deeply-felt letter. My heart completely melted. This person is now a colleague of mine, and there is a warmth between us, a bond, though I don't think either of us has ever again mentioned our letters that crossed in the mail.
One thing that I admired about my congregant's letter is that it made no excuses and pointed no fingers. The writer simply and clearly took responsibility for wrongs done, whatever I or any other life circumstances might have done to provoke them. Forgiveness came from me easily and naturally, because the teshuvah was so sincere and complete. As soon as I read that letter I believed, and believe all the more now, that this person had really taken account, really felt remorse, and would make every effort to change and grow so that those aggressions wouldn't be repeated, either in my direction or in anyone else's. If anything, my respect and affection for that person was born that day because of the nobility of this act of teshuvah.
As healing and heart-opening as that experience was, and as many similar experiences of teshuvah have been for me, something in me still shrinks from facing someone I have hurt. Few of us cause harm without provocation. Most times we injure people when they are hurting us, or when we think they might. Often as not, my own accounting of my wrong is clouded and confused by anger I feel about what the other person was doing to me at the same moment. It is counter-intuitive to take responsibility for my own part without at the same moment assigning blame. But this winnowing is exactly what is called for. We are asked to take account of our own souls and not the souls of other people. Each of us is responsible for our own soul. Teshuvah is ultimately for our own well-being.
Still, we would be superhuman if, during this Ellul season of reckoning, we didn't feel a bit of residual hurt from people who have wounded us during the year. And it might be that we will not find a letter in our mailboxes like the beautiful one I received all those years ago from my congregant. It might be that the person who hurt us doesn't care, or is too scared to face us, or remains confused and resentful and unwilling to take responsibility for their part of the hurting. It might be that the other person doesn't even know that they injured us. Or they might think that they were right to do so, that we deserved it, that there was no better choice. There is so much confusion around the ways we injure each other. And so much fear.
If during Ellul I find myself stewing over the way that someone hurt me, I can take either of two paths. One path is to tell the person what I think happened and hope that he or she will respond kindly and wisely. This might or might not happen. It's a risk. That person might just hurt me again -- after all, they did it once. There isn't a lot of reason to trust. They might blame me, make fun of me, humiliate me, reject me. Or they might hear me out and be genuinely sorry, apologize, take responsibility, ask my forgiveness, try to do better. They might do this even if I was part of the mess too, if I owe them a confession as well.
The other path is to forgive the person who injures me even if they don't ask, even if they don't care, even if they blame or dismiss or don't even know that they did wrong. This is a difficult and mysterious choice, if indeed it is even a choice. There is an element of grace in this kind of forgiveness, some capacity to rise above hurt feelings. It is a kind of a gift. At its root, forgiveness arises from a shift of perspective, in which we are able to see the person who hurts us as wounded him- or herself, as another soul in struggle, wanting good, flailing through life much as we ourselves sometimes flail. When someone comes to us and confesses, it is easier to see that person from this more generous perspective. But even if they don't, we may -- through divine rachamim, mercy -- be able to rise, or deepen, to the point where we catch a glimpse of that person from this more generous perspective. We may, at that moment, find it in ourselves to forgive.
Or maybe we can't. We should probably be as generous with ourselves as we would like to be with each other. Repentance is difficult, and forgiveness is difficult. But just as we do teshuvah for the sake of our own souls, so that our own conscience is clear, so too we might try to forgive others for the sake of our own souls, because to carry resentment and hurt forward into the new year might be heavier, more of a burden, than letting it slip away.
Even in writing these words I am aware that they pertain every day of the year and not only during Ellul. The highest path for any of us is to confess quickly and to forgive quickly, never to even go to sleep without a clear conscience and an uplifted heart. But Ellul is a gift, a time when the gates are more open than usual. Here in our community we are blessed in that many people take Ellul to heart. And so we can anticipate that our fellow Jews are taking account of their own souls at this season, that they are struggling with their own wrongs and their hurts, just as we might be with ours. None of us will be surprised to get a phone call this month, or a note, or a visit. Very possibly the gates of our hearts will be more open even than usual at this holy time of year.
For my own part, my kavvanah, my intention, this Ellul is to look upon everyone in my blessed life as gently and as lovingly as I possibly can -- and to pray for help in rising above my limits in love and open-heartedness. In a personal way I would encourage you to seek me out if I have hurt you, or if you think you may have hurt me. I will do my best to receive you kindly, to ask and to offer forgiveness sincerely and without withholding. It is my heart's yearning to enter the new year 5765 in loving connection with everyone in my life and with the Holy Blessed One in Whom we all reside. With all my heart I wish you the same. L'shana tovah, my dear community.
© 2004 Rabbi Margaret Holub
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Updated 09/09/2004 (rge)