Forgiveness?
Shabbat Shuvah
September 22, 2001

In the aftermath of Tuesday’s tragedy, and particularly at the service at the National Cathedral, I listened to many statements and often wondered if that was what they intended to say. I am sure that Jerry Falwell meant to link the terrorist attack with homosexuality, the ACLU, abortion, secularism and his usual litany. Because of America’s behavior, God has withdrawn His protection from America. That was vintage Ezekiel concerning the behavior of the Israelites. With a deeper sense of geopolitics we realize the other ingredients in Jerusalem’s disaster of 586 B.C.E. I don’t think anybody in their right mind can link the murder of thousands of innocent people in jetliners and buildings with any interpretation of secularism, sexual preference and attitudes to pregnant women. Ezekiel is a good reference point to study concerning the moral decay of society and its own implosion. I believe that America’s fortitude and stamina in these days reflects the inner strength of American society and rebuts the allegations of its weakness. We’re not perfect, but there is no country more redemptive than America in the history of humanity.

This is a season about sin, repentance and forgiveness. In total speculation, I wonder that if Jerry Falwell could meet these terrorists, could he, would he, forgive them? Would he cite “turning the other cheek,” and other such attitudes. On this level, on this magnitude, I cannot imagine even one Jewish text that would teach forgiveness. I can cite an entire gamut of texts that would teach punishment, the execution of justice, and the purging of the land of blood by those who shed the blood of innocents. Jerry Falwell should learn the sources of guilt, and it is not in America.

I found a wonderful story among the materials circulating for this holiday prior to the catastrophe. On the microcosm this story talks about forgiveness that is possible, about searching deeper to appreciate the sanctity of life. Judaism believes that if we hold animal life sacred, which cannot talk, and then we will have a deeper appreciation of human life. This is an attitude that others don’t comprehend. I heard that the current struggle is more than just terrorists against the United States, or because of American policies concerning Israel. There is a deeper struggle upon which we are embarked. The American vision of the world, of society and of the individual is tremendously influenced, even based on Judaism and our values as are articulated in the Bible, which they read as the Old Testament. Our attitudes have particularly shaped America’s values. This story reveals one of them. Opposing this is the attitudes evinced by Islamic world and their texts. While no passage of Koran can condone the terrorist attacks, it is a worldview that encourages its spread and dominance. America’s posture of pluralism acknowledges the existence and rights of differences. The struggle is for its reciprocation. It is not disrespectful to say that Israel is but a little pawn in this picture. “There are much bigger fish to fry.” A Jewish story on forgiveness.

On Fishing and Forgiveness
A Yom Kippur Memoir
by Debra B. Darwick

Despite Hillel’s instruction to “Teach a man to fish and he can feed himself for life,” whenever my son asked me to take him fishing, I stalled. I came of age in a landlocked city, swimming each summer in chlorinated pools. What do I know from rods and reels? I figured that in the 20th century, sending him to a Jewish day school and saving for college and professional school was analogous to teaching him to fish. After sixteen years of education he’d know how to feed himself. Did I really have to spear worms too?

I put him off for a while and then fulfilled his fishing zeal by sending him to a camp whose literature featured jubilant boys grasping bass and bream in their suntanned fists. The camp boasted deep rivers, hungry fish and counselors who would guide him to throw back anything he caught.

But still the lure of the nearby lake called. Camp was five weeks away; he’d grown tired of his stick-and-paper-clip pole. Then one afternoon my neighbor called. “K-Mart has a sale on kid-sized fishing poles. You interested?” The time had come to take the plunge. I had her buy two, one for my son and one for his little sister, a summer’s-almost-here surprise.

When they saw their new poles they were ecstatic. “When you finish your homework,” I told them, “you can bike to the lake and fish to your heart’s content.” It wasn’t exactly Mark Twain—baloney instead of worms, a Midwestern lake instead of the Mississippi, fishing from a sturdy pier built by the neighborhood association—but they were on their own, free to play Nature-kids for the afternoon.

They returned within an hour. My son hugged me hard the minute he came through the door. Quite a show of gratitude from a twelve year old. But no, there were tears in his eyes.

Words rushed from him like the water pouring over the falls at the far end of the lake. “Oh, Mommy, it was terrible. I caught a fish, but the hook was in too far and I couldn’t get it out. His gills were flapping, Mom, and the blood was pouring our. I finally got him loose and threw him back. I hope he dies, Mom. I don’t want him to suffer.”

“It’d be a chesed (charity),” his eight-year-old sister piped up. (That comment alone was worth a year of day school tuition). “It’s really more fun to fish with sticks and rubber bands,” she continued. “I just like hopping on the rocks anyway.”

And I knew then why I’d been loath to get into the whole fishing thing in the first place. It wasn’t the fear of a fishhook snagging an eyelid or piercing a finger. And it wasn’t worm anxiety. I garden plenty. Look closely at the earthworm writhing in the shadow of your spade and you will see a marvelous streak of turquoise iridescence running the length of its body.

No, I knew in some unarticulated part of my heart that by fishing, by son would, sooner or later, have to confront death. He would have to deal with the blood of a living creature on his hands. And I wanted to spare him. But I couldn’t, anymore than I’m going to be able to keep him from whatever else life will throw in his path.

When he calmed down I told him it was an accident, that he didn’t mean to hurt the fish. We talked about Judaism’s view of taking animal life humanely and only for sustenance. “Well, that’s obvious,” he retorted, “that’s why I always threw them back.” It was a revelation to him that Judaism’s position was a watershed breach of philosophy with the cultures of the day. It still is.

A week after the fishing incident my son confided that he had spoken with the rabbi at school. “Rabbi Faudem told me it was okay that the fish died. I was feeling so guilty, but she told me that since I didn’t set out to kill the fish and that I did everything I could to save him, I was forgiven. She told me that Judaism always has room for those who do wrong, even if you do something bad on purpose. And I didn’t.” I silently thanked this young rabbi for giving my son the absolution he so dearly needed.

His fishing pole now stands in a bucket in the garage, mixed in among baseball bats, whiffle balls, and badminton racquets. It is a silent reminder of a lesson more valuable than learning to fish. My son has learned the power of innocent childhood rituals. He has been reminded that life is precious and, thanks to the wisdom of a young rabbi, he has learned to forgive himself as well. That’s food enough to last a lifetime.

This article appeared in Jewish Parent Connection. It won a Rockower Award 2nd place in the Commentary category. It was also on Jewish Family & Life. Debra B. Darvick is a freelance writer from Michigan and a two-time recipient of the Simon Rockower Award for excellence in Jewish journalism. Info on her publications is available at www.jewishstories.com.