Contrition & Compassion
My phone dinged when the text arrived, and my heart dropped when I read it. “Did you say anything to anyone about Sarah?” My mind raced. I had in fact shared what was happening with her, but not in any detail – and certainly not disrespectfully. I remembered talking with my own family about it, but from a place of genuine caring and concern. A second message from him appeared, this one more pointed. He wanted an answer. So I texted back; I don’t recall exactly what I wrote – I think I acknowledged something, hoping it would blow over. It didn’t.
“We need to talk.”
I braced myself. I knew the conversation would be hard. And it was.
He had received a call from a mutual friend; that friend also meant no harm – the opposite actually. But it didn’t matter. For him, the issue was personal, private. He wasn’t ashamed, but he wanted to protect his daughter. I understood that, but our late father used to remind us that there are no secrets. So I thought he was over-reacting, though I knew not to say that. Instead, I said something like, “it’s not worth litigating the details of what transpired.” Those words didn’t land well. At all. I simply did not appreciate the intensity of his feelings, the depth of his hurt. He wanted to unpack exactly how the friend had heard, it mattered to him – so it wasn’t my place to deprive him of that information, even if it was speculation. Especially because I had violated his trust, even if I hadn’t meant to do so. It was a classic case of intention versus impact. So I took a deep breath and tried again.
This time, I was more careful not to say anything that might sound defensive or seem as if I was seeking to minimize – either my actions or his emotions. I took full responsibility and expressed genuine contrition. Because I really did feel bad – his suffering was real, and knowingly or not, I had contributed to it. Thankfully, we’re very close, and he was very gracious. “I forgive you,” he finally said. “Thank you,” I replied, “I love you.”
* * *
Last week, she interrupted a long-planned golf vacation to catch a late flight from O’Hare to Columbia, South Carolina. Her elderly stepfather was dying and she wanted to be there – for him and for her Mom. When the Uber pulled up to the house it was already past midnight; her Mom was waiting for her in the street, “He’s still breathing, but barely – hurry!” A former corporate executive who travelled around the world working in a male-dominated industry, mining, she is very strong – and also remarkably sensitive. She told her Mom to get some rest, so she did – she went to sleep in the other room. Then the stepdaughter lay beside him, all night, gently holding his frail hand and quietly talking. His eyes were open, but not seeing; there was an oxygen tube assisting as his belly slowly moved up and down.
“I know he heard me, and he understood, I could tell from his physical reactions.” For hours and hours, she whispered to him, recounting stories, reminding him he was loved. Shortly after dawn, his body temperature shot up, and then the audible breathing stopped. There was a slight shaking, and then silence. Opa was dead. Thankfully, he had never been left alone, and most of the family, grandchildren included, had said goodbye the night before. Though there is a distant son who had cut himself off years ago. It’s not clear if he’ll attend the funeral or not.
* * *
Yom Kippur is both these stories. It is the Ashamnu and the Al Chet, the shorter and longer confessional prayers when we recite our sins before God. But Divine forgiveness requires more than religious pleading, its pre-requisite is true, personal accounting – which begins with apologizing to those whom we have aggrieved.
Similarly, the prophet Isaiah famously challenges us not to mistake ritual observance for righteous conduct. Fasting isn’t really what God desires; instead, He cares about our commitment to social and economic justice, and to ethical behavior in all realms of our lives, not just on holidays, but on all days. “Then…the presence of the Lord will encompass you.”
Yom Kippur is also the Unetaneh Tokef, a prayer that speaks bluntly about our mortality. And it’s not only this prayer that does so; throughout the Atonement liturgy, we are reminded that death ultimately awaits each of us. The idea is not to frighten, but to awaken. Just as the shofar is meant to do. Because life is finite and life is fragile.
So on this one day, we are commanded to abstain from what typically sustains us to consider what truly nourishes us – compassion, self-reflection, forgiveness and love. G’mar hatima tova.
