Looking out the conference room window high up San Francisco’s Bank of America building was a Google Earth moment for me. The view spanned North Beach, the Bay and beyond. But those of us attending Rabbi Josh Strulowitz’s “Downtown Lunch ’n’ Learn” had little time to take in the vista. Only weeks before Rosh Hashanah, this was a stolen hour to prepare for the Days of Awe.
The rabbi’s question of the day, appropriately enough, was “Can you forgive someone if, in your heart, you still harbor anger and resentment?”
The short answer: Hell no!
I’ve always had a little anger management problem. I’m one of those car screamers, always ready to put an untimely red light in its place or curse the slowpoke in front of me.
I can easily get worked up about politics, or when the jelly jar lid falls goop-side down, or when I blow a game of Scrabble. Sometimes I think my gravestone should be inscribed: “He found it all very annoying.”
And as for my interactions with people, I have had moments of anger, even hatred. I’ve learned that these emotions can burn in the body like a chemical fire.
So what does the Torah have to say about that? The rabbi had us discuss several passages, including a verse from Leviticus: “You shall not hate your brother in your heart.”
That commandment seems easy to follow. I can’t stay mad at my real brother or my virtual brothers: extended family, friends, fellow Beatles fans.
But perhaps by “brother” the Torah meant everyone, a la the chorus in Beethoven’s Ninth: “Alle Menschen werden Brüder,” or “All men are brothers.”
Which, I suppose, would include Hitler and Osama bin Laden.
That’s a no-go. I could never accept those two as my brothers. I hate them. Hating them feels right and pure.
Christians say to turn the other cheek. I can’t imagine anything more insane. The verse in the Book of Matthew reads: “Whosoever smites thee on your right check, turn the other to him also.”
Got that? If someone punches you in the face, don’t hit back or run. Instead, ask the jerk to hit you again. Yeah, that makes sense.
For centuries, Jews had the other cheek turned for them. The same wicked forces that hounded us in the diaspora live on today. Sorry, but I hate people who embody those forces.
However, the rabbi’s question concerns more than anger. It also concerns forgiveness. That’s a tough one, too.
I recall the late Pope John Paul II embracing Mehmet Ali Agca, the man who shot him in 1981. The Pope asked people to “pray for my brother [Agca], whom I have sincerely forgiven.”
Forgive him? Why? This kind of thinking goes against my Jewish grain. I much prefer Hillel’s advice, as quoted in the Talmud: “What is hateful to thee, do not unto thy fellow man.”
Hillel doesn’t demand we do something that contorts human nature (e.g., forgiving your would-be murderer). Instead he phrases his prescription in the negative: If you think a certain behavior sucks, don’t do it.
That’s more natural. It acknowledges true feelings. I can snarl at the slowpoke in front of me. I just can’t tailgate him. I can loathe the anti-Israel buffoons at the A.N.S.W.E.R. rally, but I can’t clobber them with a baseball bat.
For full disclosure, here’s the end of that verse from Leviticus: “You shall love your fellow as yourself. I am HaShem.”
Damn.
That’s the key. The Torah says it’s not about jelly jar lids or slow drivers or Hitler. It’s about me, and what I’m prepared to do to make myself — and, by extension, the world — better. I must try to push through the hatred, all the way to the other side.
Luckily I have Kol Nidre to nullify the vows I make to HaShem. Otherwise I’d be screwed. Because every year I promise to turn down the heat of my anger, and every year I fail. Sorry, God.
That’s the beauty of being Jewish. HaShem patiently lets me try and try again. Now I know who turns the other cheek.
Dan Pine can be reached at [email protected].