‘Absolution’ Parashat Re’eh 5785
Neither a borrower, nor a lender be; for loan oft loses both itself and friend. (William Shakespeare, “Hamlet”)
Kindness is burnt into the Jewish genome. The Talmud in Tractate Yevamot [79a] states, “There are three distinguishing marks of [Israel]: They are compassionate, modest, and performers of acts of kindness.” These traits are inherent qualities that identify Jews as a people chosen for their ethical conduct, distinguishing them from other nations. Charity, or tzedakah, has always been a cornerstone of Jewish life. Rooted in justice and compassion, it reflects a deep communal responsibility to support the vulnerable. From ancient times to today, Jewish communities have built institutions to care for the poor, educate children, and heal the sick, making giving not simply a virtue, but a sacred duty.
But not always. In the Portion of Re’eh, the Torah introduces us to the concept of the remission of debts (“shemittat kesafim”). Every seventh year (the “Sabbatical year” or “Shemitta”), all personal debts are forgiven. The Torah commands us [Devarim 15:2]: “This is the statement of remission (Shemitta[1]): Suspend every creditor’s hand from his loan to his neighbour; he shall not claim [it] from his neighbour or his brother because it was proclaimed remission to G-d”. By cancelling debts every seven years, the Torah prevents the permanent impoverishment of individuals and families, ensuring that wealth does not concentrate indefinitely. It recognizes that financial hardship should not define a person’s worth or future. Releasing debts restores dignity and offers a fresh start. But it also poses a problem to the lender. Each time he lends money, he must ask himself if he really believes he is ever going to see it again. Every seven years, the borrower can default on the loan, seemingly with the blessing of the Torah. Now it is halachically mandated that a person must repay his debts. The Rambam, writing in Hilchot Malveh v’Loveh [1:3], rules “It is forbidden for a borrower to withhold money that he possesses due to a colleague, Similarly, it is forbidden for a borrower to take a loan and… lose it, leaving his creditor without a source to collect the debt… A person who acts in this way is wicked, as Psalms [37:21] states: ‘The wicked borrows and does not repay.’” Of course the borrower must return the debt! Of course! But maybe he isn’t the upstanding person the lender thought he was. Maybe he will hold on to the loan until it is automatically cancelled at the end of the Sabbatical year, leaving the lender with no legal recourse to recoup his loan. So if someone comes to me and asks for a loan, unless I know this person intimately, I am going to be hesitant in helping him out.
The Torah is mindful of the psyche of the lender and it warns him to retain his compassion, even under conditions of uncertainty [Devarim 15:9-10]: “Beware lest you harbour the base thought, ‘The seventh year, the year of remission, is approaching,’ so that you are callous and give nothing to your needy kin, who will cry out to G-d against you, and you will incur guilt. Give readily and have no regrets when you do so, for in return G-d will bless you in all your efforts and in all your undertakings.” The lender is directed to overcome his natural tendency of suspicion and to lend freely, without any insurance that his gift will be returned. He must put his trust not in the borrower, but in G-d. And this is much easier said than done.
The Talmud in Tractate Gittin [36a] tells of Hillel the Elder, a sage that lived two thousand years ago, who took notice that people had ceased lending money as Shemitta drew near. To counter this trend, he instituted the “prozbul”. The prozbul is a legal instrument that permits lenders to collect debts even after Shemitta. It works by transferring the debt from a private individual to a public court, which is not subject to the cancellation laws. This encourages lending without fear of financial loss, preserving both Torah values and economic stability. The prozbul aligns with Social Contract Theory by addressing an economic issue through consensual mechanisms for mutual benefit. Social Contract Theory, articulated by Thomas Hobbes, John Locke, and Jean-Jacques Rousseau, suggests that individuals form societies by agreeing to sacrifice certain freedoms for the sake of collective order. The prozbul mirrors this theory: Lenders consent to a legal fiction, as it were, entrusting debts to the court to prevent a chaotic “state of nature” where credit freezes exacerbate poverty. The prozbul reflects Locke’s protection of property, in this case debts, along with Rousseau’s “general will” for communal welfare. Rabbi Jonathan Sacks[2] takes this another step, distinguishing between social contracts that are focused on power and laws, and covenants that are rooted in shared values and moral coexistence. The prozbul fits into this premise as a hybrid: It is a contractual tool to preserve debts while it is simultaneously firmly grounded in the covenantal Jewish ethic of kindness and charity. The court enforces this agreement, ensuring fairness, aligning with Social Contract Theory’s emphasis on negotiated stability, while prioritizing moral commitment to the common good over rigid enforcement.
The prozbul has become nearly universally implemented, such that the directive of shemittat kesafim has essentially been relegated to encyclopaedias. That said, some scrupulous Jews do still lend money without a prozbul so that the directive should not be completely forgotten. This is admittedly a rare occurrence and typically consists of small-scale loans, just to put the tick in the box. But while the underlying purposes of the law – the contract and the covenant – are retained by the prozbul, I suggest that something critical is still missing.
Let us take a closer look at the act of remission of a debt. Judaism is a religion of positive action: we shake the lulav, we blow the shofar, and we don tefillin. What kind of positive act remits a debt? Simply refraining from demanding repayment is insufficient – inaction is not absolution. The Talmud in Gittin answers that when a borrower offers repayment, the lender must explicitly refuse and say, “It’s all right. You owe me nothing.” Since the prozbul’s institution, this declaration is a rarity – and that’s a problem. Saying “You owe me nothing” goes beyond financial release. It means, “You don’t need to adopt my beliefs.” It affirms, “You have the right to fight for your truth.” True absolution is not silence; it is a spoken act of moral and spiritual release. Jews – particularly Israelis – often have great difficulty saying these words. On October 6th, our unwillingness as a nation to absolve the other nearly tore apart the very fabric of our society. The horrific events of the next day galvanized Israelis around a common goal and a shared mission. We had seen the enemy and it was not us. Two years later, these gains are being eroded. We are once again coagulating into “us” and “them” and there is precious little willingness for absolution of “them”. To paraphrase Shakespeare, we risk irretrievably losing both ourselves and our friends.
The Talmud in Tractate Sotah [14a] commands us to emulate G-d. This idea is foundational in Jewish ethics: We are called upon not only to obey G-d, but to embody His attributes in our relationships and moral conduct. Writing in “On Repentance”, Rabbi J.B. Soloveichik[3] describes absolution (kapara) as G-d saying, “You owe Me nothing.” This is not just forgiveness, but a complete release from moral debt. Kapara follows sincere repentance, where the sinner undergoes inner transformation and confronts his wrongdoing with honesty and humility. Kapara is the Divine act of erasing the existential burden of sin, restoring the relationship between the individual and G-d, affirming that the person is no longer defined by their past. We must emulate this behaviour. We must remember that we are one nation, bound by contract and covenant. To continue as a nation, we must grant absolution so as to restore our relationships. “You are you, I am me, but we will always remain we”. There is no other way.
Ari Sacher, Moreshet, 5785
Please daven for a Refu’a Shelema for Iris bat Chana, Shlomo ben Esther, Sheindel Devora bat Rina, Esther Sharon bat Chana Raizel, Esther bat Hila, Meir ben Drora, and Hodayah Emunah bat Shoshana Rachel.
[1] The Shemitta year also has numerous agricultural implications that are discussed elsewhere in the Torah.
[2] Rabbi Sacks was the Chief Rabbi of the United Kingdom from 1991-2013.
[3] Rabbi Soloveichik was the leader of Modern Orthodox Jewry in North America during the 2nd half of the previous century.
