Asking for Mechilah

It’s that time of year again—the time when your closest friends awkwardly take you aside and say, “If there’s anything I’ve done this year to hurt you, or…I hope you will be mochel—” and then you cut them off and mutter, “No, no, of course…and I hope that you’ll…” and then they cut you off and then you hug.

Or better yet: your inboxes fill with mass text messages and emails that read, “Have a gmar chasima tova, and if there’s anything I’ve done to hurt you this year, I hope you will be mochel me!”

Right. So about that—I’ve been thinking, and I haven’t really reached any solid conclusions--which is bad considering that Yom Kippur is right around the corner. Maybe you can help me out.

The practice of asking everyone for mechilah is based on the idea (brought by the Rambam and others) that you cannot achieve mechilah from Hashem for aveirot bein adam l’chaveiro unless the person you wronged has forgiven you first. This I understand. However…

How much do these blanket requests for forgiveness really achieve? Is an unspecific appeal or an electronic mass message really all that much better than nothing? The assumption is that the person/people you’re asking are going to say, “Of course!” If that’s the case, do you really have to go through the motions of asking? If you know that the person will forgive you, or has probably already forgiven you, or has forgotten all about any potential wrong you might have done to him/her, do you have to ask?

Also, in a case where the person doesn’t even know that she was wronged—say, for example, that you spoke loshon hara about someone behind her back—is it constructive to approach the person and say, “Hi, I spoke loshon hara about you this year, do you forgive me?” Would it be better to just leave the person in blissful ignorance?

Also, how do these things change if the person is just an acquaintance instead of a close friend? With a close friend you can pretty much assume that she will/has already forgiven you for anything unspecified you might have done to her. But an acquaintance probably hasn’t even though about your existence long enough to contemplate the possibility that you wronged him/her, so what is the proper thing to do? Call the person up and say, “Hi, I’m SJ, you know, from English class? I sit in the third row near the back? Right, so, um, I’m pretty sure I spoke loshon hara about you this year—are you mochel me?” Is that constructive? And, um, how are you supposed to get her phone number in the first place?

All of this makes me feel that perhaps the proper course of action would be to forego all of this meshugas. That would allow you to focus on asking mechilah for specific actions that you know have hurt others, and for which the injured party still bears a grudge of some sort. If you could call someone up and say, “Remember the time I embarrassed you in front of our friends? I’m really, really sorry about that. The action was beneath me, and I feel sincerely awful about it. Will you forgive me?”—that sounds a lot more like a significant, productive conversation that the others I’ve mentioned.

The problem is that limiting requests for mechilah to the situation I’ve just described doesn’t really line up with the Rambam’s idea, because you haven’t been officially forgiven for all of your chataim bein adam l’chaveiro.

Do you see my issue? Do you have any thoughts?




P.S. If there’s anything I’ve done to hurt or wrong you in the past, either with your knowledge or without, I am sincerely sorry, and I humbly request your mechilah.

No, I really really do.

Contradictory Emotions On Rosh Hashana

Update 10-12-08: For a slightly different perspective on the same question--yet one that I think can be nicely synthesized with my approach--see here.


I can take very little credit for the content of the following essay. I wrote it last year as part of the midterm of an excellent class entitled "Intellect and Emotion In Jewish Thought," taught by R' J. J. Schachter. All the sources mentioned were taught in class--the only original aspect of the essay is the ending, in which I discuss my personal 'religion in essence'--and even that idea was originated by an amazing friend, though I expanded on it and related it to the sources. Final disclaimer: I apologize for the fact that it isn't all that well-written--given that I wrote it under a time pressure during the midterm, it isn't as lucid as I would otherwise have liked it to be. Nevertheless, I think it presents some interesting and relevant ideas for the chag, so I hope you are able to glean something from it.


Rosh Hashana presents an interesting dilemma. The gemara (Archin 10b) explains why we don’t say hallel on Rosh Hashana: how could we sing shira when the books of life and death are open before Hashem? This indicates an important component of fear on Rosh Hashana. Yet the gemara Yerushalmi explains that we are different than other nations because instead of wearing black at the time of judgment, we wear white and eat and drink and rejoice, confident that Hashem will judge us kindly. These two sentiments seem contradictory.

From the perspective of religion in manifestation (halakhic practice), a choice between the two must be made: may we fast on Rosh Hashanah or not? Do we say ‘vehasianu’ in tefillah or not? Does an avel mourn or not? However, from the perspective of religion in essence (religious thought/emotion), it is not necessary to choose one or the other—rather, we can have a synthesis of both.

The Rambam in Hilchos Chanukah writes that we don’t say hallel because there is no simcha yeteirah on Rosh Hashana. Yet the word “yeteirah” indicates that there is an aspect of simcha in addition to the yirah of Rosh Hashana. The Sefer Hachinuch writes that Rosh Hashana is a gift, a day on which we can achieve forgiveness, and so we should be happy. Yet, it is also appropriate to have extra yirah because of the day’s serious nature.

So the question is: how do we balance these two seemingly contradictory emotions? The Taz offers one solution: our anxiety motivates introspection, which motivates teshuva, which motivates a confidence that we will be judged favorably. However, to me this solution doesn’t seem satisfactory, because according to this opinion the anxiety comes before the confidence, and then as a result of preparation the anxiety is dispelled. So it would seem that by the time Rosh Hashana itself arrives only confidence is present, since the appropriate preparation has occurred.

Instead, I seek a way to merge the two emotions at once. My personal religion in essence relates to the opinions of R’ Neventzal and Rabbeinu Yonah. R’ Neventzal says that on an individual level we are nervous about being judged, but on a communal level we are confident that Hashem will be merciful. Rabbeinu Yonah explains the phrase in Tehillim (2:11) “v’gilu b’ra’ada” (rejoice with trembling). How can you be joyous while trembling? In relation to Hashem, he claims, you can. Though these two emotions cannot coincide toward a single man, toward God their synthesis is natural. When we recognize who God is, His greatness, and how small we are in comparison, we can appreciate the relationship that we have with him and rejoice in the knowledge that we can perform His mitzvot. As we tremble in fear, we are joyful in recognition of God.

My personal religion in essence on Rosh Hashana is similar to this idea. Yes, I am afraid of being judged, in awe of God’s greatness—yet, I am joyful in the mere knowledge that God exists, that there is someone to judge. Imagine life in a world without God, without a Creator who cares enough about His children to judge them. It would be a horrible existence, isolated and purposeless. The fact that I am being judged makes me joyful at the same time that it makes me fearful. Like Rav Neventzal explains, on an individual level I am afraid of the judgment that I may receive, but in a greater sense I am confident in the knowledge that there is a Creator who takes care of the world. Like Rabbeinu Yonah, I tremble in awe and fear of God, yet rejoice in the fact that He exists and desires a relationship with me. The two emotions are not contradictory at all, but rather go hand in hand. I fear because I am being judged, but I also rejoice because I am being judged.

Standing Still

Somehow, the weeks leading up to Rosh Hashana are never enough time to prepare, never enough time to learn, to introspect, to create the right mindset for Yom Hadin. And suddenly, it is almost erev Rosh Hashana, and that fear steals over my heart, the fear that is mixed with awe, a sense of my own smallness in relation to the Infinity I will be addressing in just a few short hours.

....

A few days ago, I was davening shachris alone in my apartment as usual, feeling that familiar sense of subtle guilt because my kevana is nowhere near the level I would hope for, because I am running late for class and that knowledge refuses to evaporate even though I am talking to the Creator of the Universe, because I have a thousand worries and a hundred things to do.

And then suddenly I became aware of something: a swaying motion, my body moving slowly back and forth in a trance-like rhythm. My lips move soundlessly and my body swings slightly and I wonder: what am I doing? So I stop.

A blank space opens up and silence reigns for a moment.

I look into my siddur and pick up my tefillah from where I left off—but I hold my body still. And suddenly there is more space—space for the words to have meaning, space for my brain to breathe and comprehend, space for more emotion to seep through.

I realize: the shuckeling was only impeding my tefillos. The movement allowed me to believe that I was concentrating, that it, in and of itself, proved that I was attentive to my prayers, while in reality it merely provided a distraction, something for my body to do so that my brain could wander where it shouldn’t.

When I hold my body still there is nothing for my mind to do but focus on the words I am saying, nothing for my heart to do but listen.

....

This Rosh Hashana I will attempt a new feat. While my emotions soar and plummet, while my intellect ascends to the heights of truth, while my spirit grows and my being shrinks—my body will be standing still.

Zman Simchaseinu

Well, the weather outside is frightful, and it looks like my family and I have a good chance of being rained out of our Sukkah once again this year. Our Sukkah is up, merely waiting to be decorated, and I'm trying desperately to get all my school assignments done before the chag so that I'm not even tempted to work over chol hamoed.

This past Sunday was the one year anniversary of the creation of this blog. Happy (two days late) birthday to it! Last year I wrote two Sukkos-relevant posts which nobody read, since this blog did not yet have an audience. Therefore, I have decided that to post links to them here.

The first post was about chol hamoed--a brief summary of some laws I hadn't really known before.

The second was my thoughts on the reasons for the arbah minim.

Enjoy and Chag Sameach!

Trembling

I wish I had something truly insightful and original to post here, but lately my thoughts, though very occupied with matters of din and rachamim and teshuva and tefilah and olam haba and olam hazeh, have been more often confused than coherent. So I will spare you the angst.

One thought on Yom Kippur, that I heard from Rabbi Hanoch Teller during my year in Israel: people often complain that it is impossible to focus on tefillah while fasting. How are we supposed to concentrate our thoughts to heaven if our stomachs are rumbling? Rabbi Teller counters: haven't you ever been reading, and been so engrossed in the book that the hours fly by, until you finish, only to realize that your neck is sore, that it is 3:00 am, and that you are super hungry? (I, for one, know that this has happened to me.) It is possible to get so engrossed in a task that everything else gets shut out, even basic physical concerns. If we were able to immerse ourselves entirely in our tefillos, we would not even notice our hunger. Though very few people are actually on that level, even I have experienced it to some degree, if only for moments instead of hours. So on Yom Kippur, when my stomach starts to distract me, I redouble my efforts to focus on what I am saying, on what weighs in the balance and what I am asking for.

I wish everyone a gmar chasimah tova--may your tefilos be answered, and may we all be sealed for another year of life and happiness.

Yom Haatzmaut: Take a Stand

For a comprehensive look at this topic see this article by Rabbi Alan Haber.

As everyone knows, there are many perspectives on how to treat Yom Haatzmaut. Will you go to a chagiga with live music? Will you be reciting Hallel? Will you have a seudah? Opinions on this topic tend to be impassioned, and with good reason: we are dealing with a very important issue.

I give full credence to the validity of more than one position on how to celebrate the day. However, there is one thing I do not understand. I do not understand those people who decide to “play it safe” and therefore end up doing nothing.

The question is as follows: is Israel a gift from Hashem to the Jewish people or not?

Satmar (for example) takes a clear stand on this issue: the State of Israel is an evil thing, and therefore it is appropriate to mourn on this day. Or if you are someone who thinks that the State has nothing to do with Hashem, then you very well may ignore the day completely, and that would be consistent.

If, however, you believe that Israel is a gift from Hakadosh Baruch Hu, then it is your obligation to do something to recognize this fact.

Perhaps you don’t feel comfortable going to a chagiga with live music during the omer? Fine, gather together some like-minded friends and have a kumzitz. Your rabbi paskens not to say hallel? So say some prakim of Tehillim. Listen to a shiur online. Eat a seudah. These are things that people can do without worrying about breaking the minhag of mourning during sefirah, without worrying about brachot levatalah.

I find that all too commonly people will say, “No, I’m not going to the program/chagiga tonight because of the tefillah chagigit and the live music,” and then instead, they simply do nothing. If you believe that Hashem gave us Israel, that there were nissim, that we are incredibly blessed to have our own state in Eretz Yisrael (despite its very imperfect government), then it is wrong not to thank Hashem, not to acknowledge His gifts, His blessings, His miracles.

Have a Yom Haatzmaut sameach, in whatever way you choose to celebrate!

Chag HaAviv: A Time of New Beginnings

Pesach is upon us once again, and this year, I’m feeling even more joyous than usual. Everywhere I go these days, I am reminded that it’s spring: the blue skies, sunny weather, and the feeling of freshness that pervades the air. It is a time of new beginnings, a time when what seemed dead in the winter suddenly sprouts new life.

Right now, I am home for the weekend, before my family jet-sets to sunny LA for Pesach on Monday. Though it is not overly warm here, the sun shines, and outside my window our cherry tree is covered with small pink blossoms. On a personal note, I lately completed a project that had been occupying the majority of my time for a while, and am embarking on another new beginning even more exciting than the last.

Pesach also signifies a new beginning for the Jewish People. It marks our emergence as a nation, our departure from slavery into freedom—an entirely new start filled with endless possibility.

A close friend of mine always uses Pesach as an opportunity for reflection. Before Pesach she creates her own mini-Yom Kippur, a midyear checkpoint, and examines her progress over the year, noting areas that could use improvement. I think this is a fantastic idea, as anytime is a good time for introspection. But to me, a Pesach checkup feels different than an Elul one. During Elul, resolutions (for me anyway) are mainly marked by regret and sense of inadequacy. However, now it is springtime. The season itself inspires hope, and my self-reflection is infused with a feeling of endless possibility and optimism. It is a time of new beginnings, and no task is too great to achieve.

So this Pesach, I wish you all a chag kasher v'sameach, a chag in which we all embrace the season, leap at a new start, and remember that we each have the potential to reach our highest goals. Have a spectabulous Pesach, everyone!

Happy Chanukah! (Hannukah? Hanuka? Channuka? Hannoocuh?)

With things over here being so hectic, busy, chaotic, and all-around crazy, I still have not yet come up with my next brilliant blogging topic. But since I seem to be currently experiencing a blogging urge, I'm going to just start writing and see what comes out. I apologize in advance.

I went to my friend's house in Philly this shabbos and twas a lot of fun. I got 12 hours of sleep. That was fun. Plus, at lunch I poured a jug of water on myself. That was less fun, more wet. (No, it wasn't on purpose. I was pouring and the lid just fell off! And those who have comments about how klutzy I am may just keep them to themselves, thank you!)

The Donut Saga: Another friend who came for shabbos was taking a nap on Friday afternoon (she was getting a head start on sleep) and woke up before shabbos and told me that she had a dream that our hostess was offering us donuts (the kind with colored sprinkles on top!) and that I refused, saying "Dai, maspik (stop, enough)!" I asked her why I would say a silly thing like that. She didn't know. From the moment she told me about that dream, I began craving donuts. And there were no donuts in the house where I was staying. Which was sad. Then when we finally got back to NY (after missing several trains due to a very exciting adventure trying to find a chanukiah for a slightly irresponsible and adventure-prone friend), I begged my friends to keep their eyes open for the alleged kosher Krispy Kreme at Penn Station. Then (cue euphoric music)...we saw it! And just at that moment, the gate thing rolllled down, signifying that it was closed! Noooooo!!! So I was sad. So we walked back to school, and got together our chanukiot (both normal and makeshift) and oil and wicks and said brachot and lit and waited (fruitlessly) for boys to leave the lobby so that we could sing. And then various bunches of friends came in and we greeted them...and then some more friends came in and announced that they were going to get pizza, so I begged them to bring me back a donut, and they said they would see, and they left...and then a few minutes later, in came more friends--bearing homemade donuts that they made! And even though they looked more like little brown latkes than donuts, they were sufficiently oily and sufficiently sweet to satisfy my craving! And I ate four! (stop staring and shut your mouth--they were really small!) And then I went up to my room and shortly thereafter there was a rapping at my chamber door...and there stood friend-who-went-to-pizza-store, brown bag in hand, brown donut in brown bag! I thanked her profusely because it was sooo nice of her to get it for me...but I'm afraid that the donut is just going to have to wait patiently until breakfast tomorrow. I don't think I can handle any more oil right now.

Oh! Other really creepy story...we were walking back to school from Penn Station, and on the street was a card table, behind which an unshaven man wearing a santa hat was sitting, calling out loudly, "Help the homeless!" in a deep, raspy voice. As we passed, he suddenly said, without even changing his tone or skipping a beat, "Give tzedaka! It's a mitzvah! It will bring you bracha and hatzlacha! A freilachen Chanukah!" As we turned our heads and looked at him in astonishment, he rasped, "That's right girls, don't mind the hat," pointing at his Christmas chapeau. We were in a rush (and also a shtick weirded out) so we didn't stop to chat...but the experience was quite an interesting one. Anyone have any theories as to how the guy would have known those phrases (and whether we should have stopped and given him tzedaka?).

Ok, now it is quite late at night and I must go to sleep--I have a full day of procrastinating to do tomorrow! Happy Chanukah to all, and to all a good night!

What is the purpose of taking the arbah minim?

Over the course of this week, I, like my fellow Jews all over the world, have been dutifully shaking my palm fronds and citron each day. But as I was doing so, I felt that something was lacking. I realized that I didn’t know what to be thinking about while performing this somewhat strange commandment. I mean, when I sit in the sukkah I know exactly what I should be thinking: I should be focusing on commemorating our experience in the midbar, and recognizing human vulnerability and God’s protection. When I hear shofar, I know what I should be thinking: wake up, do teshuva. When I drink four cups of wine: I am demonstrating my freedom, freedom given us by our miraculous redemption from Egypt. Lighting Chanukah candles: miracle of the oil. Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. I realized that shaking the lulav and etrog is the only holiday-related mitzvah (that I can think of) that really has no immediately apparent reason. Of course, I know the ideas from Chazal about the arbah minim representing different parts of the human body, or four different types of people—but neither of those feels to me like a solid, concrete explanation for why we are performing this strange ritual.

I was discussing this issue with a very wise friend, and we came upon an insight that has really helped me understand this mitzvah better. (I have no outside source for this, so feel free to correct me if something is inaccurate or, if you know of one, to cite a real source to back this up.)

If you read the yehi ratzon that is said before bensching lulav (printed in the Artscroll siddur), it describes the act of taking the four species as a means of bringing together the four letters of Hashem’s name “in perfect unity.” (Kabbalah identifies each of the arbah minim with one of the letters of Hashem’s name). This explanation of the mitzvah is similar to the other two already mentioned, in that all three are based on the idea of unification. This indicates that, in whatever sense, this is the underlying purpose of taking the lulav and etrog—the bringing together of different components to form one unified whole.

This is also an important part of the theme of the holiday of Sukkot. Hashem’s protection in the midbar was an experience shared by all the Jews together, as a unified whole. The holiday itself equalizes people, bringing everyone out of our respective mansions or houses or apartments into pretty much equal huts. Also, according to Zechariah (14:16-19) in the time of moshiach Sukkot will bring an even more expanded type of unity, as it will become a universal festival, where even the goyim will come to Yerushalayim to worship Hashem.

The holiday of Sukkot is all about unity, and the lulav and etrog express that idea—bringing different components together—whether they represent the letters of Hashem’s name, parts of the human body, or types of people in the world.

Chol Hamoed: More Than Meets the Eye

My whole life I was raised with the erroneous mentality that chol hamoed is practically like chol—the only difference being that you must eat in a sukkah (on chol hamoed Sukkos) or may not eat chametz (on chol hamoed Pesach). This year, I decided to try to rectify my mistaken impression of these “intermediary days.” I took out my trusty kitzur Mishna Berurah and read through all the halachot of chol hamoed. The only problem was that, though the kitzur is terrific, it tends to focus on more ancient situations in halacha, which are hard to apply to the modern day. So I did a bit more research—I asked a knowledgeable friend (who also had access to a very useful book on the topic) and I looked up some things online (gotta love using the internet for a higher purpose). Although I’m not going to attempt to replicate all my findings, I just thought I’d mention a few practical things that I discovered.

1. You are supposed to dress nicely and eat special foods (ideally both a night meal and a day meal of bread) in order to clearly distinguish the days from chol

2. You can’t do laundry on chol hamoed.

3. You really are not supposed to write on chol hamoed, if at all possible (this refers to writing by hand). If you have to write, you should try to do it with a shinui (for example, making your letters incomplete, or writing with your left hand, if you’re a righty). However, you may write down something without a shinui if it is something that you will otherwise forget (examples in the Mishna Berurah: monetary accounts, or a “chidush” originated by you or another that you might otherwise forget)

4. Typing is generally considered “maaseh hedyot”—not a specialized action—and is therefore permitted (hoorah!)

I would recommend that anyone who is as ignorant as I was in this topic should do further research. There is a lot more to it than I ever knew.

In conclusion, the Gemara Yerushalmi indicates that the prohibitions of melacha on chol hamoed were instituted in order to give us more time to focus on Torah learning during these days. Chol hamoed is supposed to be sanctified chol—it is an example of the important Jewish concept of raising up chol and making it kadosh. Therefore, even if we find ways to get around most of these prohibitions, it is important that we do our best to fulfill this purpose. May the next few days provide an example for how to imbue chol with kedusha, and may they be filled with learning and joy in Zman Simchasenu!