Before you read this, think about one person, past or present, with whom you still have some unresolved argument or hurt, whether it is something you caused or received. Maybe you need to apologize; maybe it is they who need to approach you. Perhaps a little of both. Keep them in mind.
With Yom Kippur just past, it is a good time to think again about the nature of atonement and the power of reconciliation. For many people, the word forgiveness conjures up scenes of an almost operatic quality, of broken vows and long simmering feuds, leading to a dramatic sequence of hurts confessed, long delayed apologies offered, and the question of pardon hanging in the balance.
But as Dr. Robert Karen points out in his book, The Forgiving Self, forgiving can be seen almost as a necessary life skill, like mastering the art of listening or learning how to cook, as opposed to an occasional, almost accidental, occurrence. He writes: “All sustained relationships depend to some extent on forgiveness. People hurt each other no matter how much love they share, and it’s a truism that the greatest hurts are meted out by the closest of intimates. No friendship, no marriage, no family connections of any kind would last if the silent reparative force of forgiveness were not working almost constantly to counteract the corrosive effects of resentment and bitterness. We would keep moving on, searching for perfect connections with mythical partners who would never hurt or disappoint.”
There are several points worth focusing on here. One is that when it comes to our emotional lives, we are rarely cut to the quick by strangers. Only those we know well and who know us intimately, our quirks and our vulnerabilities, whom we love and wish to be loved by in return – it is they who have the unique ability of hurting us deeply, of betraying an unspoken promise of loyalty and kindness and compassion.
Then why forgive them? Because, as Dr. Karen argues, that is the nature of coexistence, without which we could never sustain a single meaningful bond, not with our partners nor our children, our friends, our parents. Cultivating the skill of forgiveness is not a luxury, but akin to the water we drink, the air we breathe. Without it, everyone is endlessly disappointing, and need to be discarded as we start again looking for that fairy tale individual who will never ever bring us to heartache.
Judaism thinks plainly and yet subtly about the art of forgiveness, and the steps needed to even begin the road toward the mending. Maimonides asserts, in unadorned prose, that the first move is up to the injured party: “Whoever hates a [fellow] Jew in his heart transgresses a Torah prohibition as the Torah states: “Do not hate your brother in your heart” [Leviticus, 19:17]… When one person wrongs another, the latter should not remain silent and hate him. Rather, he is commanded to make the matter known and ask him: “Why did you do this to me?”, “Why did you wrong me regarding that matter?” (Laws of Character Traits, 6:5-6).
Maimonides advocates for the frank rehearsal of what we have been storing up inside as but the fulfillment of a mitzvah, like a kosher diet or keeping Shabbat. Telling someone else that they hurt you is not a concession to weakness, therefore, or being a “whiner,” but the only way to avoid the flood of toxicity that will follow if you hang on to your grievances. The telltale verse—“do not hate your brother in your heart”—refutes the notion that the “Jewish way” is to scowl and bear it. Acting the martyr, telling oneself that we will let it pass when internally we are anything but happy, is bound to lead, except in the saintliest of lives, to an ongoing bitterness. It will not disappear, our resentment, but simply go underground and then leak out in passive aggressive behaviours or simply full on aggressive hostility.
Of course, telling someone what they did to you and expecting to get immediate satisfaction are two different planets. As we all know, our request for recognition can be met with the stoniest of stares as much as the rueful admission of responsibility. Or, perhaps worse, they can, in a variety of ways, belittle the possibility that you might just have a point, with language that implies that you either need to be placated—“I’m sorry if that hurt you”—or that you are on the border of hysterical: “aren’t you being just a bit too sensitive?!”
All of this is a thinly veiled code for the idea that we should have never raised it in the first place, that our complaints are incomprehensible or dilettantish, and that next time we should think twice rather than utter a word of discontent. Even if they apologize to us in some truncated fashion, the sour taste that is left reminds us that it is not really the apology we were looking for, but that most elusive of items, the validation of our feelings. “Yes, you are absolutely right. I did that to you and it was totally wrong and I need to fix it” would be a way of expressing the beginnings of affirmation.
But at times, in the absence of any confirmation that our narrative is legitimate and that the other party has anything to be sorry for, we may have to learn the art of letting go. Certain ancient Greek schools of thought—the Stoics for example—saw the core of forgiveness as a kind of self-liberation, in which a fantasied change in the other person was forsaken in the name of just getting them out of your head where they have been occupying far too much space. To achieve that freedom entails offering them a unilateral pardon, not for their sake but for ours.
In this version, we already have given up on any dreams we have that they will engage in honest self-assessment and a vow of transformation. Forgiveness as letting go does not mean that you will reconcile or return to the way it was before the offence was given, but is a way of saying to the other, “I am not waiting around for you to change or acknowledge what you have done. I am `forgiving’ you in the sense of a leave taking. I do not need an apology, and will bear you no further ill will, but it is time for me to release myself from being eternally connected to you through the power of an abiding grudge and feelings of anger and animosity. “(Most likely) you go your way and I’ll go mine”, as Rabbi Dylan once intoned.
We ignore the dynamics of forgiveness at our own peril. Judaism, which at times can seem a day late and a step out of touch, hits just the right balance when it comes to this crucial aspect of living. The tradition encourages forgiving, but not mindlessly. Stories arise in the Talmud of forgiveness scenes gone awry, when one party was simply not ready for the encounter. Just because we are ready to speak does not mean our timing works for the other. Patience in this realm may be as important as proactivity. But in the end, those conversations must be attempted, though with an understanding of the limitations of us all. The result, especially when both parties can finally confess their own humanity and the consequences of causing pain, may be a life changed or even saved, not the least of which is our own.
Here are some questions about forgiveness. Feel free to contact me with your thoughts at elliott@livingjewishly.org
What are my usual expectations of how a forgiveness scene should go? Do I want an apology or do I want validation? Do I validate others when I apologize to them?
Do you require accountability before forgiving? Does the other person have to have “gotten” what they did? Do they have to furnish some “proof” that they will not repeat the behaviour?
Who in my life have I been resistant to giving a “second chance”? Why have I resisted? What might help me to give them that second chance?
Excellent! Reframing forgiveness – for our own sake! – not only removes the inherent emotional barriers associated with seeking forgiveness, but also brings a great deal of practicality and personal incentive to this difficult topic.