I was in the car on my way home from a district meeting in Akron last weekend when I heard a very provocative report on the radio. The report was about how our religious beliefs have informed our personal reactions to President Clinton's requests for forgiveness over the Monica Lewinsky affair. The reporter claimed that our reaction to President Clinton has been adversely effected by the teachings of Catholicism, Protestantism and Judaism, which, rather bizarrely I thought, he called "the three American faiths." The reporter claimed that each and all of these religious traditions require that we forgive anyone who asks us for forgiveness. Indeed, he interviewed a theologian at a very conservative seminary who said exactly this thing: that he believed as Christian, he was required to forgive anyone who asked for his forgiveness. The conclusion this reporter drew from this was that we honor forgiveness too much in this culture, and that in our haste to forgive, we fail to hold people like President Clinton accountable for their actions.
How many bizarre and patently false assumptions about religion this report made! But it sure had me thinking hard. Is our culture really one where forgiveness is too prevalent? Well, I was pondering this thought while driving down 71 South. Soon I realized that I need to be paying more attention to my driving. I had managed to make the driver of the speeding car behind me very angry--I spent several minutes in the left lane, going only 68 miles an hour, and this car was obviously wanting to get around me. So I put on my signal and pulled into the right lane. Well, this driver decided I needed to know exactly how much those extra two minutes had ruined his day, so he pulled up beside me, and for an entire five mile stretch of road treated me to an particularly expressive hand gesture. I decided then and there that I was not going to waste any more time worrying about whether or not our culture really is one where forgiveness is too prevalent.
But this question of when and how to forgive is always fascinating and important one. Is it really true that many of the world's religious traditions require us to forgive everyone who asks us for forgiveness? And if so, how do we know if we have sincerely offered forgiveness, and how do we know when we have sincerely received it?
The High Holy Days of Rosh Hashana--the New Year--and Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement--represent Judaism's ancient and profound answer to these questions. Rosh Hashana, the New Year, begins tomorrow. Ten days later follows the Yom Kippur--the day of Atonement. The two holidays are absolutely linked, for according to the most ancient traditions of Judaism, it is during this time between the New Year Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur that our destinies for the upcoming year are sealed--as the season's symbol goes, it is in this period that our fates for the coming year are written into the Book of Life. One the new year, the shofar, a trumpet formed from a ram's horn, is sounded. According to the Hebrew Bible it is the same call that sounded when Moses descended from Mount Sinai with the Ten Commandments. Hearing the shofar is meant to help recall all the times over the past year when you have not measured up to the high moral standards represented by the commandments. That the Day of Atonement follows the New Year by ten days, then, is a profound mercy. For the New Year's holiday serves as a kind of wake up call, and one has ten days within which to get one's moral house in order.
But this is only a sketch of the holidays, and what I would like to do today is explore in a little more depth what the symbolism of these holidays has to teach us about forgiveness. For it is in these holidays that I find a incredibly positive and life affirming understanding of forgiveness--one that could benefit us all as we grapple with our own ethical lives and dilemmas.
I'd like to begin with Rosh Hashana and the interesting linkage that exists between Rosh Hashana, the New Year, and Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement. On a very superficial level, it may seem obvious to us Americans that the New Year is linked with a holiday that asks that we make resolutions aimed at improving ourselves. After all, making New Year's resolutions is an important part of the American tradition. But Rosh Hashana is no ordinary New Year--at least it is not exactly like our New Year, which after all is strangely arbitrary. When we celebrate the New Year we celebrate the turning of a highly invented and artificial calender. Of course we have come to associate powerful themes such as the nostalgia for the past and the hopes for the future with the advent of the New Year. But the implications of the Jewish New Year are richer and deeper than this
On Rosh Hashana, the Jewish Calender does advance--but this is not itself the cause of the celebration. According the Jewish tradition, Rosh Hashana is the yom haras olam, the day on which the creation of the world was complete. It is also the anniversary of the creation of humanity. So far from being some ordinary turning of the calendar, Rosh Hashana is nothing short of an anniversary-- a birthday party, really, for the whole of creation.
And when we link the theme of forgiveness to the cosmological themes of creation, we realize that Judaism would teach us that forgiveness is about far bigger things than seeking forgiveness or receiving forgiveness for particular acts of wrong doing. Now seeking forgiveness and offering forgiveness to others for particular acts of wrong doing are important component of this season. But the end is more sublime. In this scheme, true repentance is marked by the recommitment of the person to the best principles of creation.1 In honor and recognition of Rosh Hashana, the Anniversary of Creation--repentance is characterized by the desire to rejoin the stream of life in a positive way. It is marked by a turning to the best principles of the life-force. Indeed, the period between Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur is to be characterized by Teshuvah--which means both turn, return, and answer.2 The High Holidays suggest that the answer to our existential dilemma as humans who will always fall short of our loftiest goals and our highest ambitions, is to turn to life itself, and thereby return to rejoin that positive and life-affirming creative forces released at the beginning of the world.
Consider the images of Yom Kippur itself. Yom Kippur, as the day when your fate for the coming year is inscribed into the Book of Life for the coming year, is of course, a day of Judgement. As a day of judgement, it might easily have given way to images of a harsh, judging God--a God who will maintain justice even at the cost of mercy--the sort of God that one finds prevalent in the most conservative Christianities. But the images of God that fill the Yom Kippur service, and the days of worship in advance of Yom Kippur, are nothing of the sort. The recurrent image here is of light and of life. On the Eve of Yom Kippur the synagog is to be flooded with light. Meanwhile God is described over and over again as "He (sorry!) who delights in life" and " He who would remember us unto life."3
So let me turn this to more practical considerations. How and when do we ask for forgiveness for our wrongdoings?
Here I pause for a moment to acknowledge that I am talking to Unitarian Universalists. Perhaps you are thinking, "why all this talk of wrongdoing and forgiveness when people are basically good?" And I agree. For the most part I think we all do the best that we can. But Yom Kippur is not a holiday about evil. It is not a holiday only about the huge sins. It is about the small ones. And the wisdom of the holiday lies in part in realizing how it is that the small mistakes we make, and even the good deeds that we fail to perform, can weight heavily on the soul. The occasion of the High Holidays asks us to think about everything and anything that has kept you from being the best that you would hope for yourself. It is about moments big or small that might have been bitter instead of warm. As we noted in today's responsive reading, it si about falling short, it is about anything we have done that has caused us to lose sight of our profound unity, with each other, and with the whole of creation.
So, once we realize that we have made mistakes that we regret, what do we do?
Well, for one, Judaism asks that we go to the persons who have been injured by our wrongdoing, and that we do our best to make things right. Of course a literal restoration may be impossible--but whether or not you repair the effect of your mistake it is your obligation to do the best you can to repair the injured relationship.
But here we remember the profound connection between creation and forgiveness. Even a restoration in relationship is in vain if it is not accompanied by a new commitment to the sacred that is within the other, and the sacred that is within the self. To seek forgiveness, you must be ready to recommit yourself to the creative principle of life itself.4
And here the message of the holiday is clear: yes, one seeks forgiveness for own's particular wrongdoings; but to do so is vain if it is not accompanied by recognition of the sense of the sacred that is within the other and the sacred that is within the self. To seek forgiveness, then, you cannot simply ask for it, you must commit yourself to your highest principles, you must commit yourself to the creative principle of life itself. To seek forgiveness, you must turn to that which affirms life.
Perhaps this seems like a heavy burden--perhaps it seems like too much to ask. But there is a mercy here, and that is the reminder that one is simply required to turn to life, not to become totally pure. One is only obliged to begin this process, not perfect it: it is a turning to life, not an arrival. And so the rabbinical texts promise that if you "open the door of repentance only the width of an eye of a needle God will open it wide enough for carriages and wagons to easily pass" We do not have to arrive at goodness, we need only to turn to it, to make a beginning.
So for what do we need to seek forgiveness? Forgiveness and repentance are such large concepts perhaps we think too quickly that these holidays is about seeking forgiveness for the huge sins. But part of the wisdom of these holidays does lie understanding how it is that the small things that we do--how it is that the small mistakes that we make and even the good deeds that we fail to do can weigh heavy against the soul. The occasion of the High Holidays is to think about all those things that have kept you from the good that you would hope for yourself. It is about moments big and small that were bitter instead of accepting. As we read in the Responsive Reading today, it is about remain silent, its about being inaccessible, its about falling short, and most of all it is about anything we have done that has caused us to lose sight of our profound unity, with each other, and with the whole of creation.
So, we have talked some about seeking forgiveness. How about the other angle: What do these holidays suggest about when it is appropriate to forgive someone who has wronged you?
In many ways the principle is the same as in seeking forgiveness for yourself. For the High Holidays would suggest that you forgive those who have wronged you when you yourself are ready to abandon any anger at being wronged and are ready to recommit yourself to the most positive expressions of life. There are many stories in the Jewish tradition about the how important it is to forgive others--not for the sake of the person who wronged you--not from some self-punished martyrdom--but because it is best for your soul to do so--it is best for you to turn away from anger or bitterness as much as you can. It is almost always good to forgive.
But here I must address the concerns that many people have about forgiveness--how do I forgive injustice? How could I forgive a Nazi, a child molester, my own abuser?
And here I must say that we should never confuse forgiveness with justice. Offering someone forgiveness does not protect that person from the negative consequences of their own behaviors--we do not have such a power. To offer forgiveness is not to condone someone's behavior, or to excuse it. To offer forgiveness is to offer that person an opportunity to recommit themselves to a loftier principle. Our forgiveness is only healing to wrongdoer when it is met on their part by a genuine interest in returning themselves to the highest principles of life. And those highest principles of life include a vision for justice. A person who genuinely asks for forgiveness does not seek to avoid the consequences of their behavior. A person who genuinely seeks forgiveness is instead asking for the comfort of doing the right thing. To quote one of our own, Emerson once wrote that "nothing can bring you peace but yourself. Nothing can bring you peace but the triumph of principles."
I saw a lovely film recently based on a short science fiction story by Ray Bradbury, which takes place in a world where the sun shines only for an hour every nine years. The story focuses on a group of young children who are preparing for this reappearance of the sun. Their world is one of horrible darkness--of perpetual rain and perpetual gloom. Many of the children who were very young when the sun appeared the last time have no memory of the sun and doubt its very existence. They are sure it won't return. Even the children's teacher has doubts. But there is one girl in the group who has an absolute faith that the sun will return. She anticipates it in beautiful drawings of the sun, and she talks freely about her excitement. But there is one boy there who has been so dampened by this dark world that he cannot tolerate her brightness and her joy and faith. And so to punish her, he locks her in a closet. He locks her in the closet right before the sun is due to reappear--and reappear it does. When the sun appears the children are so distracted that they rush outside to play--forgetting the girl in the closet. They spend a delight afternoon, romping in the sun, and gathering the flowers that appear with the sun, only every nine years, all the while this girl--this girl who cared most about the sun remains locked in a windowless closet. Well, once the sun disappears again, the children come inside to remember what they did. They rush to the closet. They let the girl out, who is of course devastated to have missed the sun. The children do what they can to comfort her. They give her the flowers they have gathered. And while no words pass between them, this is the most powerful enactment of forgiveness that you can imagine. The children issued their apologies by offering the flowers; and in tremendous graciousness, the girl forgave them as she accepted the flowers. Through this entire scene, the boy who caused the girl to be locked in the closet in the first place is hanging back. He is unwilling to offer his flowers, sure, no doubt, that she could hardly find it in herself to forgive what he did. But here is the beautiful moment of the story: the girl, realizing what is happening, walks over to the boy, and takes his flowers. The effect was remarkable. The boy who had been isolated from the group is restored to the group--the girl who had been lost in the pain of having missed the sun finds it again, in her willingness to once again commit herself to being a life affirming vision. We offer forgiveness when we are ready to return ourselves to wholeness. And the reward for our forgiveness is a sense of unity--within ourselves, and with each other and the universe itself. When we offer forgiveness we recapture for a moment the sun that has been lost. And if we are the one who has committed wrong the challenge is to accept forgiveness openly, as the gift of life that it is.
There is an ancient Jewish legend about the sun that I can't resist telling. It holds that on the day of creation, the primeval light of the sun blazed forth and covered the entire world all of the time, all of the day and all of the night. But then, it is told, God looked ahead to the history of mankind and saw that some would deliberately turn away from the light and turn away from the good. So God hid away bits of light, here and there--for people to discover as they needed. Rather than humanity being bathed continuously in divine light, the highest goal and most rewarding aspect our humanity became simply seeking out the light--an act that each of us much do over and over again, in our own way.
Earlier, Tom and Don sang for you the Max Janowski song "Who Can Say." While the music is modern, the lyrics for that song come from the Yom Kippur manuscript that bears the title the Gates of Repentance. And its words are powerful. "Who can say I have purified my great heart--there are none upon the earth." The High Holidays do not ask us to be pure and without fault--it does not ask that we sin no more. The High Holidays merely ask that we rededicate ourselves to the most positive expression of our own humanity. The High Holidays simply as that we deliberate choose--that we turn--towards that which is life renewing. In the final words of the song, "May we now forgive, that we may live."
We can make the anniversary of creation real by manifesting a creative, life affirming power within our own hearts. May we indeed forgive ourselves and each other, that we may begin again in love.