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Tesuvah: The Call to Reconcile
Yom Kippur Morning, 5770
Rabbi Andy Koren
Ten days ago, on Rosh Hashana, we learned that God authors a “first draft” of the Book of Life as the New Year starts. Our tradition urges us to use the ten days until Yom Kippur to focus on three things: Tefillah, Tzedakah, and Teshuvah – prayer, righteous acts, and repentance. We are given these ten days to “convince” God to change our fate, if such change is needed.
Those ten days have now passed.
Yom Kippur is a day marked by Tefillah, by prayer. Whether we follow closely to what is in the prayer book or offer prayers composed in our own hearts and souls, it is hard to be present on Yom Kippur without Tefillah, prayer.
Today we also brought bags of food to be given to the food pantries at Jewish Family Services and Greensboro Urban Ministry. In one day, we will collect between six to eight thousand pounds of food. We do this and so many more acts of righteousness year round. That is Tzedakah.
Praying and doing righteous acts – Tefillah and Tzedakah – are easy to understand, to do, and to follow.
But what about the third? What about Teshuvah? What does that mean? What do we have to do?
The word that we generally use to translate Teshuvah into English is Repentance. In its simplest form, repentance is when we seek forgiveness. However, we understand that this is more than just saying “sorry.” A child who is told by a parent to apologize to a sibling or an adult and just says “sorry” we would all agree has not done Teshuvah, has not repentant for his actions.
In Hebrew when you are asked a question, you give a “Teshuvah”, an answer. It is a response, something you give back or “return” to the person who asked the question. In the context of Yom Kippur it means to turn and to return. We are required to look deep within ourselves and see if there is something that we want to turn around, to change. We ask ourselves the question and it is our responsibility to answer. That is why Teshuvah is so hard. It does not deal with a bag full of groceries; it deals with a heart full of feelings, some of which might be very painful to bring up, to think about or to act upon. So it is agreed that Teshuvah is the hardest of the three requirements. Change is difficult.
Another way to think about Teshuvah is to see it as a return to the past – a “time machine” of sorts. It is a way to take us back to a time when we “wronged” someone or they “wronged” us, and to fix it. We might translate this form of Teshuvah as reconciliation, repairing a relationship that has gone wrong.
Let us take the time machine back to Biblical times. The Torah is full of stories of relationships that have gone awry. In the book of Genesis alone, we encounter struggles between parents as in the story of Sarah and Hagar, between parents and children as in the story of Abraham and Isaac (Abraham nearly sacrifices Isaac), and between siblings. Sibling rivalry is one of the recurring stories throughout Genesis and in so many places in our sacred literature. Isaac and Ishmael, Jacob and Esau, Joseph and his 11 brothers who sell him to passing nomads, simply because he was the favorite son of their father.
Each of these stories, as painful as they are, ends with reconciliation. Take the story of Jacob and Esau. They were twins, but Esau came out first. So that 15 minutes made a difference. Jacob cheated Esau twice, once for the birthright, and once for their father's blessing. Their fighting was so fierce that Jacob had to flee for his life. Many years would pass before Jacob and Esau would meet again. Jacob, unsure of his brother’s intentions, unsure of his own intentions, nonetheless went to see his brother. Instead of fists, bitter words, or worse, they embraced one another and reconciled.
Time and again, our prayer book quotes from an ancient passage included in the Mishnah:
For transgressions against God, Yom Kippur atones; but for transgressions of one human being against another, Yom Kippur does not atone until they have made peace with one another. (Mishnah Yoma, 8:9)
Our tradition tells us that Yom Kippur helps us realign our relationship with God.
But we also should repair our relationships here on earth, our relationships with other human beings. We must first seek reconciliation with a person we've hurt, righting the wrongs we have committed against them if possible. Reconciliation is part of Teshuvah.
We say these words as if they are so easy. Go to someone you have wronged and make peace with them. Or accept the apology of someone who has wronged you. Sounds good; but rarely is it that easy. Saying “I'm sorry” or “please forgive me” is having to admit you did wrong. Think of the “Fonz”. He could never get the words “I'm sorry” out of his mouth.
Teshuvah and reconciliation are what we are asked to do once a year. But how? How do we take that first step or that next step? Especially if it’s been years? Especially if the pain is so great?
There is a Hasidic tale that might provide insight. It’s about a king who had a bitter falling out with his son. In his anger, the king banished his son from the kingdom. Years passed and the king had a change of heart. He sent a message to his son to come back. The son replied angrily that there was no way he could return home. He had been wandering too long; he was still very bitter. The messenger brought the news back to the king. The king then sent this message: “Son, return as far as you can, and I will meet you there.”
(adapted from a story related by Rabbi David Wolpe in Finding A Way to Forgive, LifeLights: Help For Wholeness And Healing, Jewish Lights Publishing, Woodstock, VT, 2000)
Early in my career, I had a desk job working for a Jewish leadership foundation. My contact with others was limited. I was miserable. Now, one of the best parts of my role as a Rabbi is that I get to interact with lots of people. As Rabbis we learn the importance of listening. People tell us their stories. Many are of triumphs; others are so sad and heartbreaking. I do not repeat these stories and would never think of telling them to others; I just take them in. This morning, however, I want to tell you a story, my own. I would like to tell you about my father. You can be my Rabbis and listen.
When I was a kid, my dad and I had some great times together. Until I was 12. That's when my parents divorced. Like you see in many divorce cases, my dad distanced himself from everyone in the family, my siblings and I, and even his own siblings. That was over 30 years ago, and for the past 30 years we didn't have much of a relationship. He did not come to my college graduation, my wedding, or my ordination from rabbinical school. He did not even know my kids. But just this year, my dad and I reconnected and reconciled.
The earliest years of my life could best be summed up by the phrase: life doesn't get any better than this. My father and I were as close as could be; best friends.
This would change in the late 1970s. My father remarried shortly after my parents' bitter divorce. He and his wife had a daughter. I know few of the details of his life from this point forward mostly because of the distance that he created between his new family and his past.
For years, my father ran his body particularly hard; he was a smoker and a drinker.
Then, over the past couple of years, he started calling me. The conversations were short and almost business like. “Andrew” he would say, “I'm calling to tell you that I'm having trouble with my thyroid”. We would talk for a few minutes. But there was a distance there, at least there was for me, born from years of heartache, disappointment, and trouble. I asked him why he was telling me these things. His answer was: “you should know about these things for your medical history.”
When he called me earlier this year to tell me about his heart problems, there was a different sound in his voice. He was scared. “Andrew, they told me that they saw blockage in my heart and that I am lucky to still be alive. They are going to operate on me first thing tomorrow.” It was at that moment that I felt the chill of 30 years begin to warm. I told him that I would be thinking of him, praying for him. Then he told me that he was sorry for what he had done and for the pain he had caused me. He said he loved me; I said the same. I told him I would see him soon. The next day when he came out of his bypass surgery, I was in his hospital room in Miami, holding his hand, kissing his forehead, and telling him it would all be okay.
That was in February. We spoke often since then. Michal, Avishai, and I had a great lunch with him when we were in Miami in April. Avishai and I had hoped to catch a baseball game or two with him, perhaps in New York, sometime this summer. We kept making plans for the future; we wanted to make up for years lost.
At the start of summer, I began thinking of what I wanted to say this year during the High Holidays. For 40 days – from the start of the month of Elul through Yom Kippur – we focus on teshuvah, on saying we're sorry, on change. For over 30 years, my father and I struggled. Our story, and our reconciliation, were not easy. But, like many of the stories from the Torah, the tough ones, our story was a real story.
On June 27th, my father died of complications from his surgery. His death at the age of 68 was a shock. Our relationship ended just like that. It ended far too soon, but at least it had a measure of resolution, of wholeness and completeness.
My dad's life ended because of heart problems. Maybe he knew the end was nearing. Perhaps not. But in the wake of all that was troubling his heart, I am so glad that he opened his heart up – and that I did, too.
This summer, I buried one of my oldest friends, and one of my newest friends. I am sad to say that I buried my dad. But I do draw comfort from what turned out to be this last chapter of his life – that he and I did the hard work to repair what had been broken for so long. We both did Teshuvah.
I cannot imagine what my life would be like today if my father and I had not taken these difficult steps and reconciled.
Abraham Joshua Heschel, one of the great Rabbis of the 20th century, called reconciliation referred considered Teshuvah and reconciliation to be “one of the most unnoticed of all miracles.” He said:
It is not the same thing as rebirth; it is transformation, creation. In the dimension of time there is no going back. But the power of repentance causes time to be created backward and allows re-creation of the past to take place.
("The Meaning of Repentance" [1936], in Moral Grandeur and Spiritual Audacity, ed. Susannah Heschel [New York: Farrar, 1996], p. 69)
After my dad passed away, I called his office. My hope, which was not unfounded, was that his voicemail would pick up and that I would get to hear his voice just one more time. I wanted to continue the conversation, but the nature of voicemail, the nature of death, is such that the conversation becomes a monologue, one-sided.
We are just ten days into this new year, a year which will no doubt be filled with many miracles and opportunities. My prayer today, our prayer every day, should be that God will bless us, our family, and our friends. On this holiest of days, we ask, O God, that we not take any of our relationships for granted. Further, we pray that our hearts remain open to the possibilities of goodness, love, repair and reconciliation, how ever long this may take. For we never know when we may be ready to invite someone back into our lives or when that call, that message to return, will come to us.
G'mar Chatimah Tovah – may we all be written and sealed in the Book of Life for another year. AMEN
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