In the aftermath of Tisha Be’av, we begin the gradual journey toward the introspective days of Elul and Tishrei, which demand of us increased awareness of our accountability.
This syncs well with the overall theme of Deuteronomy, in which Moshe continuously reminds the nation that the choice to be in relationship with God through accepting Torah and mitzvot is theirs to make, along with a reminder of the consequences of rejecting or abandoning the covenant.
Choice and consequence are two of the most important aspects of our interaction not only with God but with every person we come into relationship with.
One of the most inspiring aspects of the approaching High Holy Days is the idea that we have second chances in our relationship with God, and the mere experience of Yom Kippur can procure atonement. There is a famous statement in Yoma that reinforces this idea:
For transgressions between man and the Omnipresent, Yom Kippur procures atonement; for transgressions between man and his fellow man, Yom Kippur does not procure atonement until he has pacified his fellow man.
While God is willing to wipe the slate clean, so to speak, through the medium of Yom Kippur, the Talmud recognizes the greater complexity in our relationships with one another and the need for direct engagement rather than passive experience.
In the aftermath of Tisha Be’av, when we remember the brokenness of the world, the days leading up to Yom Kippur allow us to begin the process of repair.
To that end, there are many stories of Yom Kippur Eve in the Talmud that remind us how fragile a process it is to repair the pain and offense we inflict upon one another. Many of the stories end tragically with no possibility for atonement.
Reading them, one gets a sense that there is a deeper message teaching us that reflexive apologies on the eve of Yom Kippur because “we have to” are never going to allow for true reconciliation.
THERE IS one story in particular (Shabbat 127b) that I return to when I think about the internal layers of work needed when two people attempt the difficult path toward true forgiveness.
The Talmud begins by teaching us that “one who judges another favorably is himself judged favorably.” This is the kind of teaching that we grow up hearing and repeating. In practice however, it is one of the hardest things to implement in real time.
A story is now brought to illustrate.
A man comes from the north of Israel to work for a homeowner in the South. He wants to return home on the eve of Yom Kippur, after three years of work, and asks his employer for his wages.
To his surprise, he is told that the man has no wages, no produce, no land, no animals, not even cushions and blankets to pay him.
The worker, showing enormous restraint, quietly turns to go home in anguish, neither demanding, nor threatening nor cursing his employer. One can only imagine what he faced when he walked in empty-handed after a three year absence. Nonetheless, the marked restraint is the first turning point toward reconciliation.
The story continues. After Sukkot, the employer in the South makes a long journey northward, with the money he owes his worker. In addition, he brings three donkeys laden with food, drink and sweets. However, what happens next, before compensation, is the next turning point in the story.
The wealthy homeowner is welcomed into his worker’s home. Crossing the threshold, the relationship now shifts from employer-employee to that of host-guest, with the worker acting as the host and inviting his boss into his home. His boss, in turn, sits down at the table of a person below him in social stature. The two eat and drink together in an act of renewed intimacy, and only then does a conversation begin about what happened on that fateful moment several weeks earlier.
The homeowner said to his worker: “When you said to me, ‘Give me my wages,’ and I said, ‘I have no money,’ of what did you suspect me? Why did you not suspect me of trying to avoid paying you?”
The worker answered, “I said, Perhaps the opportunity to purchase merchandise [perakmatya] inexpensively presented itself, and you purchased it with the money that you owed me, and therefore you had no money available.”
The homeowner asked: “And when you said to me, ‘Give me animals,’ and I said, ‘I have no animals,’ of what did you suspect me?”
The worker answered: “I said, Perhaps the animals are hired to others.”
The homeowner asked: “When you said to me, ‘Give me land,’ and I said, ‘I have no land,’ of what did you suspect me?”
The worker answered: “I said, Perhaps the land is leased to others, and you cannot take the land from the lessees.”
The homeowner asked: “And when you said to me, ‘Give me produce,’ and I said, ‘I have no produce,’ of what did you suspect me?”
The worker answered: “I said, Perhaps they are not tithed, and that was why you could not give them to me.”
The homeowner asked: “And when I said, ‘I have no cushions or blankets,’ of what did you suspect me?”
The worker answered: “I said, Perhaps he consecrated all his property to Heaven and therefore has nothing available at present.”
The homeowner said to him, “I swear by the Temple Service that it was so. I had no money available at the time, because I vowed and consecrated all my property on account of Hyrcanus, my son, who did not engage in Torah study. [The homeowner sought to avoid leaving an inheritance for his son.] And when I came to my colleagues in the South, the Sages of that generation, they dissolved all my vows.”
At that point, the homeowner had immediately gone to pay his worker.
Now the homeowner said: “And you, just as you judged favorably, so may God judge you favorably. ■
The writer teaches contemporary Halacha at the Matan Advanced Talmud Institute. She also teaches Talmud at the Pardes Institute of Jewish Studies, along with courses on sexuality and sanctity in the Jewish tradition.