(And God Said…) I am Sorry
Rabbi Ari Kahn
Every spring, a number of days of commemoration are
observed. Yom HaShoah and Yom HaZikaron,
established by the government of Israel, are days in which we honor the memory
of the fallen – first for the victims of the Holocaust and then for those who
gave their lives to create and defend the State of Israel. On these solemn
days, we remember the fallen as individuals, just as we attempt to transmit the
lessons learned from tragic loss to the next generation.
Yom HaAtzmaut immediately follows Yom HaZikaron, marking
the establishment of the State of Israel and celebrating our continued freedom
and sovereignty in our homeland. These three days, clustered together in a very
intensive sequence, create a period of national introspection and stock-taking
in which we consider, on the one hand, our many achievements and the
unprecedented success of the Jewish nation-state, while on the other hand, the extreme
sacrifices that were made to achieve our freedom. By creating the juxtaposition
between Remembrance Day and Independence Day, this was the underlying message
Israel’s founders hoped to convey - a
lesson they apparently learned from the juxtaposition of the solemn fast of
Esther and the celebratory holiday of Purim: Our victory, our survival, was
made possible by almost-unthinkable sacrifice.
Similarly, the darkness of the Holocaust is contrasted with
the dawn of the emerging Jewish state – not to insinuate a correlation or
“barter” of six million souls for the establishment of the State, but to help
us appreciate the contrast between these two eras through their juxtaposition. The
Holocaust and the creation of the State of Israel should be seen as polar
opposites – not only in the political or physical sense, but also, as Rabbi Soloveitchik
encouraged us to understand them, in terms of their theological implications.
The Holocaust is an archetypical example of darkness, of the
hester panim (literally “hidden face”) mentioned in the book of D’varim:
“I will surely hide my face on that day…” (31:18). Conversely, the
establishment of the modern State of Israel is a revelation of God’s presence and
active involvement in Jewish history, a dazzling gilui panim (revelation)
in which God’s hand is unmistakable. The contrast between the darkness that we
experienced and the emergence into the light and warmth of modern Israel is almost
startling.
In a very real sense, the relationship between God and the
Jewish people may be likened to the cycle of the moon, which disappears and then
reappears, at first as a sliver, and eventually as a full moon. A brief
rabbinic comment regarding the new moon may help us reframe this strange shift from
darkness to light from a theocentric perspective: On each holiday, we are
commanded to sacrifice a sin-offering, just as a sin-offering is brought on the
eve of every new month. However, the biblical passage that describes the sin-offering
on Rosh Hodesh – the new moon – differs from all the others. In all other
instances, the Torah refers simply to the “sin-offering.” Only the sacrifice
brought on Rosh Hodesh is described as “a sin-offering for God” (B’midbar
28:15). The Talmud (Hullin 60b) offers a philosophical explanation for this
anomaly: God asks that a sin offering be brought each month to atone for His
own sin – the sin of diminishing the moon.
The implications of this
teaching are extraordinary, and they speak to the very core of our
reality. The world was created with a
delicate balance between light and darkness, between clarity and obscurity,
between revelation and hester panim.
Presumably, this balance is necessary in order to create an atmosphere in which
man can retain free will, which is the very foundation of our independent
existence. In a world in which God’s
constant, active involvement in human history is always apparent, free will is eclipsed,
and man cannot thrive. Ultimately, the periods of darkness, the terrible bouts of
existential loneliness, are as spiritually beneficial for us as the periods of
light. The waves of hester panim, as
they are juxtaposed with gilui panim, sharpen
our awareness of the Divine and encourage us to seek out the spiritual message
contained in the darkness, in the silence, in the pain that precedes the
appearance of that sliver of moon. It is the struggle with the darkness that
allows us to grow.
And yet, God expresses remorse
for inflicting upon us the hours, days, even years of darkness and doubt. God
takes responsibility for the pain we must experience. “Pray for Me,” He says. “Bring
an offering to atone for My sin. Forgive Me.” By commanding us to bring this
offering, God says “Forgive Me for the pain you have experienced.” We might
consider this the flip-side of the coin of the human condition: We all,
unavoidably, sin. When we do, we turn to God, we desperately pray and plead for
forgiveness. Once each month, the proverbial shoe is on the other foot, and God
seeks our forgiveness for the pain inherent in the human condition. Can we
rejoice in the loving reunion that ensues as the light overcomes the darkness
and we realize that the pain was an indispensable stage in our spiritual growth? Do we have the moral fortitude to forgive God?
This essay originally appeared in the Times of Israel, April 28th 2014
