Why I Won’t Ask Your Forgiveness This Yom Kippur
There’s a message going around this time of year that we all know well. It can come over whatsapp or email, on the phone or said in person. It goes out to close family and friends, co-workers, and people we haven’t seriously thought about since last Elul. It’s a message we’ve all sent and received, and it goes something like this:
“I hope you have a wonderful year! Please be mochel me if I said or did anything that may have hurt you”.
The response usually comes within minutes:
“Of course! You too. And I hope you’re mochel me as well!”
Our custom is ancient and rooted in tradition: Yom Kippur atones for what stands between a person and God. It does not atone for what stands between one person and another. God cannot forgive sins committed against another person- for that, you have to go to the person.
But tellingly, I don’t think anyone has ever refused to grant me mechila, and that’s not because I’m a tzaddik. To be completely honest, I probably wouldn’t send this message to someone I knew had a reason not to be mochel me, or to someone whom I was not willing to be mochel. Somewhere along the way in the evolution of this minhag, the asking became the whole ritual. The main point- the actual seeking of repair and reconciliation between two people- got left behind.
Real forgiveness between people is complex and difficult. It can also be painful. At the very least, it mirrors the process of tshuva– recognition of the sin, accountability, regret, and resolve not to re-engage in the behavior. It is not a promise to be perfect, but a decision to learn from what happened and to grow- and forgiveness hopefully follows. To truly repair what stands between us, I need to recognize how I have hurt you, regret that I have done so, and resolve to do things differently in the future. In this process I also need to be curious about how you see things- what it was that hurt you, why it was hurtful, and what I may need to do differently. Sometimes the hurt goes both ways and this process is mutual. But when responsibility is taken, forgiveness and repair can follow.
This is a bigger task than simply asking for mechila. It calls on the courage and humility to face down our own ego. It means allowing vulnerability and openness. It means accepting that a valid perspective exists beyond our own. And in the end, it means taking on the task of letting go of our resentment, hurt and anger. This is by no means easy- it can be emotionally as daunting as a day of fasting and prayer, and certainly done no justice by a “please be mochel me” message.
In contrast, simply asking for mechila request typically names nothing. Nothing is accounted for and there’s nothing for the other person to actually release. They’re not forgiving you, they’re agreeing to a formality- the same one you’re agreeing to when you write back “Of course, and please be mochel me too.” Two people, saying words that mimic accountability and repair from the safety of a ritualized exchange.
Even worse, when I simply ask you to forgive me I’m not actually offering anything of myself. I’m asking something of you– asking you to do the work of forgiving, sight unseen, on my schedule, so I can tick the box and receive atonement from God. And it’s comfortable because I already know how it ends. You’ll say yes because social convention says you should. Because it would be weird and awkward to say anything else. Because, as I said above, if I thought you’d say no I’d never have asked you.
So this year I’m doing something different. I’m not asking anyone for forgiveness. I’m apologizing. An apology, done honestly, names the thing. It says: here’s what I did, here’s why it was wrong, here’s what I understand now about what it cost you. It doesn’t end with a question mark aimed at you. It ends with me standing in what’s mine to stand in. I may not know if or what I’ve done wrong, so I may ask you to tell me- not so you’ll say I’m forgiven, but because I actually want to understand. If forgiveness comes after that (and I hope it does, I’m not pretending I don’t want it) it comes as something you give freely, not something I extracted by asking nicely at the right time of year.
Because in the end, this isn’t just about you and me. Real Tshuva requires truth and authenticity. It requires me to be who I actually am, mistakes and all, standing in front of you without a script, without flinching, and without needing you to make it easier. And maybe it will be uncomfortable. Maybe I won’t like the vulnerability.
But it will be real.
And that’s how we heal.
