A Ram's Horn

The rabbi of Brisk was a wise and learned man, known as much for his compassion as for his scholarship. People often sought his advice and he was invited to lecture in cities far and near. Frequently he travelled by rail. Since he was a very humble man, he sat in (what we would probably call) the "economy section." Once, on a train from Warsaw to Brisk, the rabbi found himself sharing a compartment with a group of noisy card players. The rabbi inched his way into the compartment, took his seat, quietly opened his book and began to read. The noise of the enthusiastic gamblers kept escalating, but the rabbi ignored them and continued reading. Finally the card players became annoyed with the rabbi and began taunting him saying, "What do you think ... do you think you're holier than us, smarter than us? ... stop your reading and join in the game ... if not, you'll have to leave." To the chagrin of his travelling companions, the rabbi just shrugged and said, "I never play cards." Then he returned to reading. This annoyed the men so much that one of them picked the rabbi up by his jacket and threw him out of the compartment. For the rest of the trip the poor rabbi had to travel standing up, afraid to return to his seat.

When the train finally reached Brisk the rabbi was greeted by hundreds of his followers. The gamblers also got off at the Brisk station. When they saw the swarms of people surrounding the rabbi they asked, "Who is that man ... why is everyone trying to get close to him?" "Oh, that's the famous rabbi of Brisk," they were told, "he's been away for several weeks and we're all happy that he's returned to us safely." The card players were very embarrassed, especially the fellow who threw the rabbi out of the compartment. Immediately he went to the rabbi. "Please forgive me, holy rabbi, I didn't know who you were." The rabbi, to the surprise of everyone, said, "No, I cannot forgive you," and he turned and walked away. The gamblers were crushed. All night long they talked among themselves saying how very sorry they were, how ashamed.

The next morning they went to the synagogue to see the rabbi. They entered his study and, once more, they asked for his forgiveness. Again the rabbi said, "No, I cannot forgive you." The distressed men left, but they were advised to go back to the rabbi one more time since, according to Jewish custom, if a person asks for forgiveness three times, and they do so sincerely, they must be forgiven. So the men returned to the rabbi and they asked again, "Holy rabbi, won't you please forgive us?" For the third time the rabbi said, "No." The men didn't know what to do.

The men remembered hearing that "charity, prayer and true repentance" (tz'edakah, t'filah and t'shuvah) were ways of gaining forgiveness. They took out their wallets and gave all of their money to the poor. The next day they went to the synagogue to pray; they prayed the morning prayers, they prayed the afternoon prayers, and they even prayed the evening prayers. Finally, toward midnight, the rabbi came into the sanctuary. "Gentlemen, I see that you've given charity, that you've deeply regretted your actions and that you've sincerely uttered the holy prayers ... nevertheless, I cannot forgive you. If you want to repent you must go to the man whom you injured on the train ... the humble man ... not the rabbi of Brisk. I cannot forgive you, only he can." The saintly and wise rabbi continued, "Even God cannot forgive sins that were committed against another person ...that person (the injured party) and only that person, can forgive."

And so the story ends, but what of the seemingly unresolved conflict? Must the men continue to live with their guilt? Should the rabbi have shown more compassion? Was the rabbi deliberately acting this way in order to show the men that they must change their ways (particularly their behaviour toward others) in order to find forgiveness? Perhaps the story is simply about 'one on one responsibility', but I believe that it is saying more. I believe that it is stressing the fact that there really is no forgiveness without change.

Returning to God

In Hebrew, the word for this kind of change is / 'shuvah, changing one's ways. T'shuvah implies some kind of movement. In fact, it comes from the verb meaning "to return." When one wants to leave one's old ways, one simply has to turn away! It's as simple as that because the belief is that the correct path has been there, just waiting to be rediscovered. In a moment of sincere regret one can come back simply by acknowledging one's errors. Thus the rabbi had to withhold his forgiveness; he had to show the men how hurtful their actions were, not because of who he was, but because their behaviour was intrinsically wrong. They had to see this and they had to resolve to change. T'shuvah is a central concept in Judaism. Regardless of how far one has strayed from one's goals, or how often one has tried to change in the past, one can always try again; one can always return. We just have to recognize the error of our ways and begin an about face, a "turning of the face to God." According to Jewish belief, God has been there waiting for this return. Just as we humans have been trying to return to our original nature (as beings fashioned in the image and likeness of the Divine), so too has God been waiting for our return, for our / 'shuvah.

The relationship between Jews and their God has often been described as "a partnership" with each partner having a particular role in the running of the world. This relationship, this "covenant," is broken, say the rabbis, whenever a person departs from "the way"; whenever a person ignores the mitzvot, the ethical and moral teachings of Judaism. T'shuvah is a way of healing that breach. It is an opportunity for the individual to return via God's teachings, the commandments. T'shuvah, then, can be both a restoration and a renewal of the covenant. It begins with deep introspection, and the realization that one has "missed the mark" (chet, the Hebrew word for sin, means taking aim and missing the target). It is a way of seeking forgiveness by turning oneself around, returning to one's Source and to one's purpose in life.

Among the more mystical Jewish writings, t 'shuvah is not only understood as a return to a former path or even to an "original way of being" (like the state of the soul before leaving the Garden of Eden), it is also about the soul striving toward new and higher levels of perfection in an unknown future called Messianic time. Thus, every time an individual does / 'shuvah; every time she or he makes amends, asks for forgiveness, behaves differently in the face of similar challenges; every time an individual sincerely repents, the world is changed and a new level of personal and/or communal healing has taken place.

The mystics also believe that in every soul there is a tiny spark, a part of the soul that is eternally linked to the Holy One. According to this belief, the spark yearns to be united with its Creator. Whenever it feels that it has made a mistake, it longs to correct itself. It seeks forgiveness so that it no longer has to experience the pain of estrangement, the ache of separation. As each soul corrects itself, continue the mystics, it brings itself into greater harmony with the Divine plan and the world grows a little closer to the longed for "redemption."

Forgiveness, then, is about returning to a way that has always been there, a path designed by God. It is about the give and take of a partnership, (a co venantal relationship) with moral and ethical precepts, and with cosmic purpose. It assumes that "repair" (in Hebrew, tikkuri) is possible; returning the soul to a state of wholeness and health that ultimately brings it (and the world) into greater balance and harmony.

Although in Judaism forgiveness is possible at every moment, our story reminds us that one must atone for harming another by going directly to the injured party. Errors between individuals and God, on the other hand, are mended through prayer (including a public confession known as vidui), by giving charity, or by performing compassionate acts (hesed). These are indicators that change has occurred, that one has truly repented. While t'shuvah is always possible, there are designated days (each with their own customs, prayers and rituals) that are specifically designed to facilitate the process. Most notable are the days beginning in the Hebrew month of EM and ending with Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement. During this time the ram's horn (the shofar) is sounded. It is believed that the shofar awakens a sense of awe and leads one to greater personal reflection. This forty day period is linked to the forty days that Moses spent on Mt. Sinai, and Jews are encouraged to spend their time as Moses did - studying, praying, and reflecting on the meaning of God's word.

The feeling tone of these days is enhanced by reciting psalms, especially Psalm 27 with its plea for Divine help and guidance. Additional prayers, poems and psalms (selichot) are chanted throughout the month of Elul, especially on the Saturday night before Rosh Ha Shanah, the Jewish New Year. The ancients believed that this was a time when heaven was particularly receptive to prayer. Visiting family graves (or the graves of saintly teachers) is another custom that is observed prior to Rosh Ha Shanah. Perhaps it is to honour the dead, perhaps it is to face death, and perhaps it is to ask the ancestors to intercede for us. Nevertheless, these visits are powerful reminders of the frailty of life, and they are part of the t 'shuvah process.

Re-membering

Rosh Ha Shanah comes in the Hebrew month of Tishrei around the time of the fall equinox, under the sign of Libra. It is during this transitional season between harvest's blessing and the hardships of winter (when our lives literally "hang in the balance") that we realize how Click here to enter text.needy we are. We hear the call of the shofar and we acknowledge our own inner cry; our own inner fear. The liturgy and scripture of Rosh Ha Shanah celebrate the creation of life, especially human life, and we pray for the continuity of our own lives and for all life forms.

Many of our prayers are about re-membering: about putting ourselves and our lives together in new ways, with renewed conviction and commitment. We address our prayers to Adonai, Adonai, el rachum and we remind God to show compassion like a Mother (rachum, the word for compassion comes from the root word, rechem, meaning womb). We turn to S/HE; to Creator/Matrix, and we remind ourselves (and the Source of Life) that to be godly is to forgive, to be godly is to remember. We imagine a huge book with the deeds of each person written in golden letters. We ask that these deeds be remembered in context, and that they be judged with a balanced eye.

We sense how fragile we are in the face of this Creator and Judge. We ask for strength and blessing. At the end of the service, we recite blessings over wine and over slices of apple dipped in honey. We greet each other with blessings of "a good year, a sweet year" and we add, "May you be written in the Book of Life". On the first day of the festival many go to a lake, or a river, or an ocean, and they bring crumbs of bread with them to "cast upon the waters." Symbolically, they are discarding any undesirable traits that may have remained with them, even after their long and heartfelt prayers. The intensity of the / 'shuvah process is somewhat distilled after Rosh Ha Shanah; although prayer and reflection continue during the ten day interim period called the "days of awe." The imagined Book of Life is ever present. It is envisioned as "resting in the lap of God" and waiting to be reviewed, amended and finally sealed at the conclusion of Yom Kippur. During these interim days friends greet each other with "May you be sealed in the Book of Life", instead of "May you be written," as they did earlier. In many homes foods prepared with honey, or foods dipped in honey, are eaten "to sweeten the decree." Special prayers (selichoi) are recited daily, and individuals become especially conscious of their actions; increasing their charitable donations, and dedicating themselves (with renewed conviction) to issues of social justice. The Sabbath between Rosh Ha Shanah and Yom Kippur is called Shabbat T'shuvah, the Sabbath of Return. On that day, readings from the prophets and inspirational sermons (usually about the need to improve both self and world) are heard in synagogues round the world.

On the morning before Yom Kippur many go to the ritual bath (the mikveh) to cleanse themselves spiritually (although women may go the evening before). It is also customary (in some homes) to place coins in a handkerchief and, as the following words of prayer are recited, to take the bundle of coins and swirl them over the petitioner's head: "May these coins which I pledge to charity be a suitable substitute and exchange; may they serve as an atonement for me." In former times a chicken was used for the ritual (known as kaparof). It was then slaughtered and prepared for the poor as part of their meal before the fast of Yom Kippur. Today the coins are distributed to families in need. The meal before the fast is supposed to be festive and meant to give individuals the strength to endure a lengthy (26 hour) worship and fast. It is customary to remove one's shoes or to wear cloth slippers rather than leather during Yom Kippur services. Many dress in white clothing, reminiscent of angel garb or perhaps of burial shrouds. Some think of Yom Kippur as a "mini death experience" or as a means of entering into a realm where the physical is (temporarily) forgotten.

Management Team

Board:

Team Members and Writers