The Lens We Choose

As we welcome Rosh Chodesh Elul, a time of reflection, growth, and preparing our hearts for Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, may the thoughts shared here inspire us to see one another—and ourselves—through a kinder, more compassionate lens.

May this article be a zechut l’ilui nishmat my beloved brother, Moshe Machlouf Hanania ben Meir Nissim v’Chana z”l, as we prepare to commemorate his 10th yahrzeit in a couple of weeks. May his neshama continue to have an aliyah.

Every day, we make countless decisions. Some are obvious. Others happen so quickly that we hardly realize we’ve made them.

One of the most important decisions we make is the lens through which we choose to see other people.

This week, I read an article that made me stop and think. It wasn’t because it was about shidduchim. It was because it held up a mirror to something much bigger.

The author described people who begin by looking for the negatives. Only if they fail to find anything concerning do they begin looking for the positives.

I couldn’t help but wonder: When did that become our default?

It isn’t just about dating. It happens in families. Friendships. Communities. Workplaces. We approach one another like investigators searching for evidence instead of human beings trying to understand another soul.

Two people can look at the very same person, the very same situation, or the very same set of facts—and arrive at completely different conclusions. Not because the facts changed, but because the lens did.

Judaism teaches us differently.

Hevei dan et kol ha’adam l’kaf zechut—judge every person favorably.

This mitzvah doesn’t ask us to ignore reality or dismiss legitimate concerns. Rather, it reminds us that we rarely possess the whole picture. We see a moment. Hashem sees a lifetime.

And yet, there is another reality that is perhaps even more painful.

Sometimes people don’t judge because they lack information.

Sometimes they judge despite having it.

Sometimes they know a person’s story. They know the hardships that person has endured, the responsibilities they have carried, the sacrifices they have made. And still, they choose to look through a lens of suspicion instead of compassion.

It is one thing to be misunderstood by a stranger.

It is another to be misunderstood by someone who knows your story.

Every day, we are given a choice.

We can collect evidence against people, or we can search for understanding.

We can assume motives, or we can ask questions.

We can define someone by a single moment, or we can remember the years that came before it.

Every person is more than the worst assumption someone else can make about them.

Every person is more than one decision, one misunderstanding, one mistake, or one painful chapter.

Our sages believed deeply in the power of growth. That is the very foundation of teshuvah. Every morning, Hashem returns our soul and gives us another opportunity to become better than we were the day before. If Hashem believes in our ability to grow, shouldn’t we extend that same possibility to one another?

Over the past year, I’ve had the privilege of being part of a remarkable women’s group, and it has reminded me what it looks like to choose a different lens. What makes this group so special isn’t that we’re all alike. We aren’t. It isn’t because we always agree. We don’t.

It’s because there is an unspoken culture of assuming the best in one another.

When someone shares a struggle, the first instinct isn’t to criticize, question motives, or search for fault. It’s to listen. To understand. To encourage. To support. To give the benefit of the doubt.

People celebrate one another’s successes. They carry one another through difficult moments. They create a space where vulnerability is met with compassion instead of judgment.

What a gift that is.

It has made me wonder…

What if every family chose that lens?

What if every friendship chose that lens?

What if every workplace, every synagogue, every school, and every community chose that lens?

How many misunderstandings would disappear before they ever became conflicts?

How many relationships would be healed before they were broken?

How many people would feel safe enough to be vulnerable, knowing they would be met with kindness instead of criticism?

A generous lens doesn’t mean we ignore reality.

It doesn’t mean we abandon wisdom or overlook legitimate concerns.

It means compassion comes before condemnation.

It means we seek to understand before we seek to judge.

It means we remember that every individual is created b’tzelem Elokim and carries a story that deserves dignity.

The world does not need more investigators looking for faults.

It needs more people willing to see others through the eyes of kindness.

As we prepare to enter the month of Elul and begin the journey toward Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, perhaps this is one of the most meaningful areas for reflection.

What lens am I choosing?

When we stand before Hashem on the Yamim Nora’im, we pray that He will look beyond our failures. We ask Him to see our efforts, our struggles, our intentions, our growth, and the goodness that exists within each of us. We plead for His mercy, His compassion, and His understanding.

Perhaps one of the greatest ways to prepare ourselves for that judgment is to strive to look at others through that very same lens.

If we hope to be judged l’kaf zechut, then perhaps we should begin by judging others l’kaf zechut.

May this Elul be an opportunity to pause before we judge, to choose compassion before criticism, and to remember that the lens through which we see others may ultimately shape the way we see ourselves, our relationships, and our world.

Because every day, whether we realize it or not…

We choose the lens.