Parashat Shoftim, Deuteronomy 16:18-21:9

Fourth Haftarah of Consolation, Isaiah 51:12-52:12

Dear TBE Community,

Chodesh Tov, Elul! We are officially in the last stretch toward the new year. And, as so often happens, we may feel completely unprepared. Unprepared not only for the marathon of holidays, or the sermons beckoning to be written, but also for the soul-searching, returning, forgiving, and other spiritual exercises the season may seem to impose on us.

Every year, Elul comes around and our inboxes fill with reflections about self-reflection, jewels of wisdom to contemplate, and invitations to do teshuvah, to forgive, to reach out. Rabbis everywhere, including this one, talk and write about repentance and forgiveness almost as if they were boxes to check off, or as if these matters mattered less during the rest of the year.

And of course, they matter year-round. And year-round it is difficult to determine whether we are ready to forgive or to ask for forgiveness – or, in more moderate terms, to make amends, reconcile, or allow something to go, to end.

So perhaps it is good that Judaism gives us a dedicated season in which to dive deeper. Judaism knows that spending too much time focused on any one thing is not necessarily healthy. While we may be called to examine our souls every day, it is also good to have a designated time-window for the deeper layers.

The annual Elul reflections can feel like an onslaught, but they do come from a good place. They are meant to teach, encourage, and build up. Yet many people sit in the pews – or in their cars, houses, at their desks – during Elul and the High Holy Days carrying unresolved hurt, asking: What about those who keep us waiting and don’t ask for forgiveness, those who hurt us and simply moved on? Can – should -we forgive them? They don’t seem to care if we do or don’t! What about the friends who disappeared without so much as a falling-out, who simply ghosted us? What if going through the motions of teshuva does not bring reconciliation or even relief? Or, to bring in the theme of this week’s parasha, Shoftim: How do we live with unfairness and injustice even though we are all enjoined to pursue justice and fairness?

It is curious how the universe plants opportunities in our way, repeatedly, as if trying to tell us something. Sometimes we understand and act accordingly, and everything feels resolved. Sometimes we don’t understand. Sometimes we can’t change. We might be capable to forgive, but we want to hold on to the grudge. Or we were ready to forgive, but the opportunity did not materialize.

Here is an example, fresh from real life:

There’s a person I had a falling out with. Let’s call him Jason. We don’t talk anymore. During several past teshuva seasons, during Elul or just before Rosh Hashanah, the universe somehow has brought him and me together – or rather, has led our paths into the same city, the same space, the same room. And it did so this Rosh Chodesh Elul as well.

It feels as though the universe is telling us something. Yet I am not really sure what that might be, because these encounters have never brought about a reconciliation or the kind of Heshbon HaNefesh that leads to real change, or at least a resolution. We’re never able to make good use of the open gates in front of us. Maybe that is because we don’t want to. Or because there really is nothing left to say.

When I reflect on what has or has not happened between Jason and me, I often think of the Rambam, Maimonides. According to his Hilchot Teshuvah, the Laws of Teshuva, complete repentance requires a fundamental change in behavior. Fundamental change, the Rambam says, manifests itself when someone finds themselves in the same situation, with the same temptation and the same capacity to act — and chooses not to repeat their previous behavior. He defines four steps to reach this state of complete teshuva:

1.    Stop: Refrain from the harmful action.

2.    Regret: Acknowledge and feel sorrow for what happened.

3.    Confess: Put the wrongdoing into words.

4.    Resolve: Make a sincere commitment not to repeat the behavior.

When I measure the experience with Jason against this process, I realize that we’re falling very short from the Rambam’s standards. From my own perspective, he hurt me. I have not sensed sorrow for what happened, nor have I heard an acknowledgment of regret. And when the opportunity arose to behave differently, the same behavior was repeated. This has made forgiveness very difficult.

People often say, “I forgave them even though they never apologized.” They say how important it is to do this for our own sake, for our own peace of mind. I have begun to understand something of that, too.

But before the understanding, I felt empty. At first, the emptiness made me sad. But as I continued to think about it, I realized that the emptiness was a result of release, of letting go. Here’s how I described it to a friend in a text message: “It was okay, a bit weird and for a short moment also hurtful. But ultimately mostly parve.”

It had not been easy to notice his lack of care for my feelings, in a moment when his behavior seemed to double down dafka on what once had caused me pain. Here we were thrust together into the same room on Rosh Chodesh Elul — and there was no change. I had opened the gate by greeting him first, but nothing would come out of it, yet again.

Conversely, being in the same room was no longer a big thing. Seeing him was no longer a big thing. Remembering what had happened was no longer such a big thing. Even the hurtful action – or rather the lack of action – did not upset me very much. It was all “mostly parve.”

That’s when I realized that the emptiness I was feeling came from recognizing that something had truly, truly ended, long ago and now again. The pain, the hurt, the anger, the person — they do not mean as much as they once did.

On my drive back home down that straight dash of the 110, given that it was Rosh Chodesh Elul and I had to write a newsletter for this week’s parasha, I thought about forgiveness and reconciliation. Perhaps there had been an opening that night, but it was not wanted, not acted upon. Maybe not possible in the moment, maybe no longer necessary. Maybe that is what the universe has been trying to show me repeatedly: What you are waiting for will not happen. You’ve long been ready to let it go. It doesn’t matter if it’s true forgiveness. It doesn’t matter if he feels remorse or regret.

For years, I wanted the Rambam’s codified arc, the four steps of teshuva. The meaningful conclusion, the reconciling embrace, the assurance that I had mattered.

Sometimes we do not receive that – not in Elul, not during the Ten Days of Awe, not ever. Yet we still must seek closure, even if it is incomplete, and learn to live with that incompleteness.

Perhaps consolation does not always come through reconciliation. Sometimes it comes through the gradual loosening of what once held us. Through letting the universe speak.

I wish for each of you that whatever soul-searching and reflection you undertake this year will come to fruition. And if it does not come to fruition in the way you hoped, may it nevertheless carry you further along and alleviate some measure of hurt and worry. May it ultimately be freeing, even if at first it feels a little empty.

And even within incompleteness, may you find peace.

Shabbat Shalom!
Rabbi Julia Knobloch