In my view: What forgiveness looks like

In my view

by Ilya Welfeld

Several hours later, my three-year-old, who does not recall ever having seen this man before, asks me why I call him “Dad.” I have to turn away and take a deep breath before returning to the mixing bowl she and I are using to make apple pie.

Rabbi Joseph Telushkin explains in a videocast on JInsider.com that Jewish texts offer three attitudes towards forgiveness. In most cases, forgiveness is obligatory, in some it is optional and in rare cases, it is forbidden. The fact that forgiveness can be forbidden appears to be unique to Judaism.

Rabbi Telushkin says that forgiveness is obligatory in the vast majority of instances, especially in cases when forgiveness is requested and the harm inflicted is reparable.

He explains that forgiveness is forbidden in cases where irrevocable harm has been caused to others, citing Timothy McVeigh, the unremorseful Oklahoma City bomber as well as the terrorists of 9/11, as individuals we should not forgive.

But what is optional forgiveness? I am struck by the power this seems to place in the hands of the victim.

As Rabbi Telushkin explains, granting forgiveness is optional on two grounds. The first is when the inflictor does not apologize or ask to be forgiven. (This underscores our responsibility as adults to properly inform those who have wronged us, since one cannot request forgiveness without knowing they caused harm.) The second is when the damage caused is irrevocable, such as in the case of a slandered name. Lashon Hara, we know all too well from history, daily life and even US Weekly, can cause damage impossible to repair.

According to Rabbi Aryeh Gotlieb, Rabbi Emeritus of the Jewish Community Center in Paramus, known in our home as Saba Saba — he is the father of my stepfather — it is the victim that determines the permanence of the damage. Again, the power is placed in the hands of the victim.

It seems almost an unfair burden to place on someone who is suffering.

Yet, experts agree, holding a grudge does more harm than good in the vast majority of instances. In Hilkhot Teshuva 2:10, Rambam writes that even if one has been maltreated severely, he should not bear a grudge. “This is the way of the seed of Israel and their proper hearts,” Rambam explains.

Even Dr. Drew, a modern-day, pop culture version of Freud, tweeted the following in August of last year: “Forgiveness is when u think of those who hurt you and feel the power to wish them well — one of the first experiences of a genuine recovery.”

We filled three huge bags with apples at the orchard. My father is staying for dinner. I am not exactly enjoying this. It’s like wearing clothing two sizes too small. But the children are comfortable and laughing. My father is smiling; using the few Hebrew words he knows because that is what he does around us. I am confused about how to explain this relation, conflicted about the smile I freeze on my face, worried I am taxing my husband who has been helping keep the house super neat because he understands that when this tidal wave rolls in, clean living room floors help.

“Because he’s my Daddy,” I reply to my three-year-old. She giggles like it’s the silliest thing I could have said. I anticipate questions about the grandfathers she knows and loves.

“No,” she says emphatically and points to my husband who is everything I could have wished for in a father for my children. “That’s Daddy!”

“Sure is,” I say. And we go back to blending the apples, flour and brown sugar.

My thoughts wander. I try to remember whether my father has ever requested forgiveness. I certainly do not feel irrevocably damaged; in fact, at the moment, I feel quite grateful. The timing of this visit isn’t lost on me: Rosh Hashanah is literally around the corner. I am not a big believer in coincidence.

Earlier in the day at the orchard, my father took a bite of one of the apples as we walked between rows of trees. “Sour,” he said. “Sour and ripe?” I asked, trying to remember which breeds the farmer had said would not ripen for weeks. “Sour and sweet,” he replied.

I repeated it out loud as a question: “Sour and sweet?” I tried to imagine the taste without taking a bite of his apple.

My father caught up to the kids who had run ahead to another tree. I pulled out the camera to capture the moment.

Optional forgiveness, I thought. Maybe that was what it looks like.

Wishing The Jewish Star writers, readers and their families a Gmar Chatima Tova.

Ilya Welfeld stops to cherish the chaos, writing for The Jewish Star about balancing work, life and faith. Email her at ilyawelfeld@gmail.com.