A Sincere Apology

ESSAY:
A Sincere Apology
Whose forgiveness do we need--G-d’s or our friend’s?
A Feast and a Fast
The story of a political banquet, a pale-faced queen, and the dethronement of a medium

INSIGHTS: Joy in Four Dimensions
If you’re happy and you know it you’re not happy enough

A Sincere Apology
by Chaya Shuchat

Most of us have experienced some form of hurt, slight or loss at the hands of another human being. Sometimes we feel anger. At other times we find it within ourselves to rise above our pain and be accepting and forgiving.

But most of us, unfortunately, have also been on the other side of the fence. We were not the victims, but the perpetrators of some form of abuse. When we realized, with a sense of guilt, that we actually inflicted harm on someone else, which emotions did we experience then? Perhaps we felt shame, at first, but all too often, that shame slowly subsides into a feeling of complacency. The world goes on, our life returns to normal, and our friend is left to nurse the wound and wallow in resentment. Which one of us has some growing up to do?

"If a person will sin and commit a trespass against G-d and be deceitful toward his friend regarding a pledge or a loan or about robbery; or he deprived his comrade; or he found a lost item and denied it--and he swore falsely about any of all the things…. He shall repay by its capital and its fifth[1]; he shall give it to the one to whom it belongs on the day he admits his guilt."[2]

On the words "to whom it belongs," Rashi[3] comments: "To the one to whom the money belongs." Seemingly, Rashi's interpretation is obvious and redundant. To whom would you assume that the money should be returned, if not to the original owner? This is precisely the question on the verse that Rashi wishes to address. Why does the verse find it necessary to add the words "to whom it belongs"?

It is possible to argue that the additional fifth is a fine imposed on the thief as a punishment for his violation, and therefore, by rights, need not be paid to the victim. The thief may well be obligated to pay it to the court, or perhaps donate it to charity. To emphasize that it must indeed be paid to the target of the theft, the verse stresses, "to whom it belongs."

This seemingly simple verse addresses a deeper underlying theme in human relationships. There is a concept in Jewish mystical thought that when one suffers a loss or damage at the hands of another human being, he should not feel anger towards that person, since the loss was decreed upon him from Above. Even had the aggressor chosen not to do harm to him, G-d could have sent the negative experience his way through other means.[4]

According to this line of thinking, a thief can absolve himself of the duty to make amends to the victim of the theft. He could easily argue that the theft is only an issue between him and G-d. His argument may run as follows: "I have full faith in G-d's justice; my issue is between me and G-d alone. My fellow's loss does not particularly tug at my heartstrings, for after all, G-d has decreed it upon him. I am indeed concerned for the breach of my trust relationship with G-d. I have violated His command, and have taken His name in vain. I will therefore take upon myself penance and supplications to restore our relationship. I will dutifully fulfill the biblical obligation incumbent upon me to restore the loss, and even tack on the penalty. But the wrong inflicted upon my fellow is hardly my concern. I feel no duty to go to particularly great lengths to restore my shattered trust with him; he is a nonentity to me."

Such a skewed view of interpersonal relationships reflects on a lack in the human-Divine relationship as well. Were we to fulfill our interpersonal relationships merely to please G-d, this would indicate a basic self-centeredness. We want to feel right and justified. We are uncomfortable with the unsettling feeling of being in the wrong, and therefore we feel compelled to make amends. Our acceptance of the Divine commandment to appease our fellow stems essentially from our own need for personal vindication.

Yet a true relationship with G-d entails being thoroughly permeated with Divine compassion and sensitivity. We are careful with other people's feelings not so much for the sake of fulfilling our own obligations, but out of a sincere interest in the needs of the other person. Upon discovering or regretting the wrong I have committed against my friend, my sole concern is to ease his pain and lighten his burden. My personal obligation and blight vis-à-vis G-d is secondary. What is primary to me is that my friend's loss, and peace of mind, be restored. I want not only to return the theft, but even add on an extra amount to make up for the emotional distress I caused, and any possible profit that he may have lost out on during the time that his money was in my possession.

The commandments regulating interpersonal relationships, such as those concerning slander, honesty in business dealings, or charitable obligations, fall in the category of "mishpatim," or laws which have a logical basis. Although they are in concordance with human understanding, we are nevertheless obliged to fulfill them out of a sense of kabbalat ol, (acceptance of Divine authority). G-d is aware of the all-too-human tendency to rationalize and justify our transgressions. The Torah therefore institutes a code of conduct that is not subject to the rules of human rationality, to prevent a person from absolving himself of blame when that should suit his agenda. Yet it is far from G-d's intention that we fulfill our obligations towards our fellow man out of a sense of duty towards G-d, and forget the human dimension. The ultimate expression of kabbalat ol is when it takes root in all levels of the personality.

A G-dly person refrains from gossip and evil speech, is scrupulous in his business dealings, and avoids to the utmost taking any property that does not belong to him. But what is his motivation? Does he really care that much for the feelings and needs of his fellow human beings, or is he trying to score points in heaven? The intent of the mishpatim is to mold the human character, and to guide a person to become more humane, more sensitive and more loving. We subject ourselves to the Divine will so that we can transcend our own selfish nature, and thereby become truly G-dly and loving individuals.

Based on Likkutei Sichos, Shabbos Parshas Vayikra, vol. 7, pp. 9-19

A Feast and a Fast
by Yanki Tauber

Why was annihilation decreed on the Jews of that generation? Because they enjoyed the feast of the wicked [King Achashverosh]

Talmud, Megillah 12a

Was participating in the feast of Achashverosh so grave a sin that it deserved a decree of annihilation, G-d forbid? Indeed, the Book of Esther implies that it was no sin at all, even desirable and necessary. We are told that Achashverosh had instructed that no man be pressured to partake of any food or drink that did not agree with his constitution or his religious beliefs. He had even arranged for kosher food for his Jewish subjects, in full conformity with the exacting standards of none other than Mordechai himself![5]

And the Jewish people had many compelling reasons to attend the week-long banquet thrown by the king to celebrate the consolidation of his rule over the 127 provinces of the Persian Empire. All residents of the capital were invited, and to turn down the royal invitation would have been a grievous insult—something that a small minority, scattered throughout the empire and threatened by many enemies, could ill afford to do. It is true that the Jews are not like the other nations of the world, whose fortune rises and falls with the political tide. In the words of the Talmud, “the people of Israel are not subject to ‘fate,’”[6] for they are under the singular province of G-d. Indeed, our millennia of survival as a “lone sheep surrounded by seventy wolves”[7] belies every law of history. But it is also true that we are commanded to construct a natural “vessel” through which the divine protection and blessing might flow.[8] Surely the Jews of Persia recalled the words spoken by the prophet Jeremiah seventy years earlier, when they were first exiled from their homeland: “Seek the peace of the city to which I have exiled you, and pray for it... for in its peace shall you have peace.” [9]

In any case, even if there were something amiss in the Jewish attendance at the feast of Achashverosh, was this a transgression so terrible that it warranted Haman being given the prerogative to “annihilate, slaughter and destroy every Jew, young and old, women and children, in a single day”[10]?

But the problem was not that they participated in the feast; it was that “they enjoyed the feast” of the Emperor of Persia.

Certainly, the Jew in exile is commanded to employ the tools that, by natural criteria, aid his survival under foreign rule. But he must always remember that this is no more than a “vessel” for G-d’s protection. Politics, business, natural law—these are no more than a front, an elaborate façade which G-d desires that we construct to encase and disguise His supra-natural providence of our lives; they are not something to be revered, much less to get excited about.

But the Jews experienced joy at having been invited to Achashverosh’s feast. As they took their places among the Persians, Medians, Babylonians, Chaldeans and the other nationalities of the realm, they felt content and secure. After seventy years of exile, they had “made it”; they were now a member of equal standing in the family of nations at Achashverosh’s table, with glatt kosher dinners issuing from the royal kitchens.

With their joy, the Jews disavowed their uniqueness as a nation under the special protection of G-d. Their feelings demonstrated that they now perceived the niche they had carved for themselves in the good graces of an earthly emperor as the basis for their survival. But the world they so gleefully entered is a capricious one. One day a Jew, Mordechai, is a high-ranking minister in Achashverosh’s court and another Jew, Esther, is his favorite queen; a day later, Haman becomes prime minister and prevails upon Achashverosh to sign a decree of annihilation against the Jewish people.

When Mordechai informed Esther of Haman’s plans and enjoined her to use her influence with the king to annul the decree, Esther told him to “gather all the Jews who are in Shushan, and fast for my sake—do not eat or drink for three days, night and day; I and my maidens will likewise fast. Thus I shall go to the king, against the law...”[11]

It was forbidden, on pain of death, for anyone to go to the king unsummoned. Esther’s only chance was to charm the king into not killing her and to turn him against his favorite minister in favor of her people. The last thing for her to do under such circumstances was to approach the king looking like a woman who had not eaten for three days!

So dictate the norms of human nature and palace politics. But Esther recognize that the key to saving her people was to reestablish the relationship between G-d and Israel on its original, supra-natural terms. The Jews must repent their regression to a political people; they must draw on their only true resource—G-d’s love for them and His commitment to their survival. They must storm the gates of heaven with their fasting and prayer, and rouse His compassion for His people.

Of course, she must go to Achashverosh and do everything in her power to make him change his mind. But this is merely a formality. She must go through the motions of doing things the “normal” way because that is what G-d wants her to do—because this is the garment in which He chooses to cloak His salvation. But she will not appeal less fervently to G-d because she fears it will make her less attractive to Achashverosh—that would be like a soldier discarding his rifle because it creases his uniform.

Thus Esther rectified the error of those who enjoyed Achashverosh’s feast. They had exalted the façade, abandoning the essence of Jewish survival for the sake of the superficial vessel. Esther’s approach to dealing with the threat of Haman’s decree reiterated the true priority of the Jew, and evoked G-d’s reassertion of His singular providence over the fate of Israel.
Based on the Rebbe’s talks on Purim 5722 (1962) and 5727 (1967)[12]

Joy in Four Dimensions
by Yanki Tauber

Joy, teaches the Torah, is to be a perpetual presence in the life of the Jew. There are, however, several degrees of joy.

1)      “Serve G-d with joy” (Psalms 100:2). This is the joy that accompanies the performance of every mitzvah—the Jew’s joy in having merited to fulfill the divine will. Here, the joy is not an objective in itself, but a component of another aim: the objective is to serve G-d, but in order that this be achieved in the most optimal manner, one’s deeds must be saturated with joy. (For example: giving charity grudgingly aids the recipient materially, but also demoralizes him; giving cheerfully nurtures the pauper’s body and refreshes his soul).

2)      “Seasons for rejoicing” (Kiddush for the Festivals; Deuteronomy 16:14). On the festivals, it is a mitzvah to rejoice. Here, joy is not an accompaniment to some other deed, but the substance of the endeavor itself. Nevertheless, this is still not joy for the sake of joy. The objective remains the fulfillment of the will of G-d, who commanded that the festivals be celebrated joyously.

3)      “When [the month of] Adar commences, one increases in joy” (Talmud, Taanit 29a). This means that the Jew strives to increase his joy in all areas, including his non mitzvah-related activities. The joy of Adar is not a joy with an objective, but an end in it itself.

4)      “A person is obligated to get drunk on Purim until he doesn’t know...” (Talmud, Megillah 7b). On Purim the Jew attains the ultimate in joy: not only is his joy not qualified by any reason or objective, it is free even of the objective to be joyous. He is so consumed with joy that he is oblivious to all, including the fact that he is rejoicing...

From an address by the Rebbe, Purim 5718 (1958)[13]