What is Teshuvah?

What is teshuvah? Teshuvah is change—change of behavior, change of heart and change of mind.

When we change from cheeseburgers to chulent, from bar-hopping to  beis midrash-going, and g’neivisheh shtick to kosher gelt, our new behaviors indicate (to others, but most importantly to ourselves) that other changes have taken place within us. Outside motions are sometimes nothing more than an act, but they are more often a test of our inner resolve.

Did we really have a change of heart? Did we really take stock of the gifts that Hashem Yisborakh (Blessed God) gave and gives us? Not just the sweet-tasting gifts, mind you, but the ones that make us sweat and put our shoulder to the grindstone, and the ones that make us weep. Did we stop to think about the gap between what we sense, what we intuit deep inside of our heart about what we know is the purpose of our life and what we really do, how we actually spend our time? Did we hear the inaudible scream of our heart that mourns the disconnect between our inborn Yiddishe neshamah and our lives hijacked by galus Edom (the current exile)?

Our outer changes give an indication that yes, we did. We felt, all things considered, life had to change, so we changed it. But our inner discontent, that nagging feeling that it’s not enough, that the gap is still too large, is a better indicator that our change of heart is still effective, still evolving, still pumping new life into our Yiddishkeit.

But after all this wonderful and necessary change, did we change our minds?

We all know the famous Gemara (Kiddushin 49b), that if a man says to a woman, “You are my wife on condition that I am a tzaddik,” she is married to him (if she said yes!). No matter what crimes he has done, no matter how often, no matter for how long he has been doing them, she is wife. Why? The Gemara explains, “Maybe he had a thought of teshuvah.”

He didn’t put on tzitzit or tefillin, didn’t give tzedakkah (charity) or drop his ham sandwich — yet. Nothing. But already, despite not doing anything positive, he is already a complete tzaddik because of one thought, “I will improve on my Jewishness.”

This Gemara has a flipside. If a man, even a known tzaddik, says to a woman, “You are my wife on condition that I am a rasha (villain),” she is married to him (if she said yes). Why? The Gemara explains, “Maybe he had a thought of idolatry.”

Another famous Gemara (Kiddushin 39b). A youngster climbs a tree to do the mitzvah of shiluach hakein at his father’s request, falls and dies. Acher didn’t understand how a person doing the two mitzvahs for which the holy Torah promises long life could die while doing them! The Gemara answers that the youngster had his thoughts focused on avodah zarah (idolatry). The value of what you do—including teshuvah—is set by your mind.

I once asked Reb Shlomo Freifeld zal why teshuvah is easier at the beginning stages, but becomes progressively harder as one continues his journey. He answered, “At first teshuvah is like cutting off a gangrened limb. Then it becomes brain surgery.” He was referring to the elimination of the many subtle traces of the poisonous influences that infect our motivation, our ego-worship and our greed among them.

I want to elaborate. We who have grown up in galus (exile), regardless which nation was our host, have been so attacked by goyish culture, attitudes and values that we are concussed. Without even realizing it, we have goals that our not Jewish, standards that are not Jewish, and ways and methods for dealing with ordinary (and extraordinary) situations that are not Jewish. (Of course, by “Jewish” I mean that which the holy Torah recommends or, at the very least, sanctions.)

That is, for the most part, we think like goyim. What’s worse is, we aren’t even aware that we do.

I’m not an anti-Esavian or an anti-Ishmaelite. On the contrary. I’m a member of the minute minority that holds that v’ahavta l’reiakha k’mokha means to love goyim as well. (Yes, there is such a pre-19th century deah.) Doesn’t mean I want to be one or think like one, God forbid.

The real test of our teshuvah—and do yourself a favor: be ready to be tested over and over for the rest of your life—is how we think when confronted with a challenge. Do we analyze, reflect and consider our challenge(s) solely by the Torah’s attitude? Or do we mix in some political doctrine, philosophical inquiry or scientific bias in trying to figure out what the desired outcome is and how we might achieve it?

Let me be a bit more blunt. When we have a problem, where do we go for a solution? To the Torah? Or, God forbid, to Google? When we need a modus operandi for a situation, do we search for it with a talmid chakham, a Jew saturated with Torah knowledge and experience, or some bright guy with a Ph.D.?*

Teshuvah never ends. Up to and including our dying moment, we have to be vigilant that what (and how) we do, what we want and how we see life, fits the Divine wisdom we call Torah. It’s not always easy—even with Rabbeinu zal, good friends and hisbodedus helping us—but, hey, God chose you. You can do it—if you want to.

 

*I am quite aware that the ability to give good advice is not produced only by knowledge and level of religious observance. It also requires seikhel!

 

© Copyright 2013 O. Bergman/148west.com

Closing the Door on an Era

I went to a funeral today (41st day of the Omer 5773 [6 May ’13]). The mother of good friends, really good friends. The deceased, Rose Stark, was a personal acquaintance of Dr. Mengele. She was a Holocaust survivor before it was popular to be one.

Rose lived with her daughter and son-in-law, MeeMee and Nachman here, in Jerusalem. (No, they are not Breslovers.) Allow me to digress. I feel sorry for my children’s generation, and for those just a little bit older. They rarely, if  ever, met a European Jew, a pre-War-II Jew. Thank God, I grew up knowing a fair number of such Jews, many who had survived WWII, and some the camps. (My father, RIP, survived the war by being in the Russian Army and Siberia.) Those Jews, even the irreligious ones, were in many ways more Jewish than even chareidi (ultra-Orthodox) Jews of today. Their whole being and essence exuded Jewishness and screamed, “I am Jewish!” (And no, it wasn’t the garlic and herring for breakfast that did it.)

Anyway. Rose was special, as one would expect a Holocaust survivor to be. But she was special as one might not expect a Holocaust survivor to be. She wasn’t bitter. She wasn’t angry. She wasn’t neurotic and she didn’t try to shield her children from life, from goyim, from Judaism or from God.

She was an authentic person, a Jew who believed in God even when she couldn’t find Him in Auschwitz  (nor later, when she repatriated to Sweden.) She was a person with dignity who brought her love for Jews and Jewishness to the fore. She resolved any questions she had  in private, and those of other people with gentle humor.

She did not give up after her first husband and first baby were murdered. She did not stop looking toward a better future, did not stop counting her blessings. The blessings kept coming and so did the better future. She turned out to be more of a warrior than any of the leaders of the Third Reich.

To me, what made her a success was her appreciation for what she had, her realization of how precious Jewish life is, simply by virtue of its existing.

A few months ago, Rose’s son-in-law Nachman mentioned to me a theory he has.  The success, status and comfort of the Jewish people climbed steadily after World War II, but has declined lately. This, he says, is because the Holocaust survivors are dying. It has been in their merit they we have enjoyed what we have these last 65–70 years. I don’t know if he’s right, but it’s certainly something to think about.

Auf simchas. May we celebrate together joyous news. Amen.

© Copyright 2013 O. Bergman/148west