Where Sorry Begins

I owe someone an apology.

A very big one.

Strangely, I have spent much of Elul thinking about Hashem before thinking about this person.

It is not someone living across the world.

It is not even someone across the street.

This person is much closer to home.

We will get to that shortly.

First, there is an entire world to repair.

The Month of Return

We are squarely in the month of Elul.

There is much to accomplish. Much to reflect upon. Much gratitude to offer the Almighty. Much forgiveness to seek. Much cleansing to undertake. We look backward to the year that was, try to make sense of the life we are living now, and make serious commitments about the person we hope to become.

And immediately the task becomes overwhelming. Where do we begin? Do we even remember everyone we hurt? Do we remember every careless word? Every moment of impatience? Every promise neglected? Every person we judged too quickly?

Do we comprehend the intensity with which we have sometimes rebelled against the Almighty—the opportunities He gave us, the time we wasted, the blessings we stopped noticing, the mitzvot we performed mechanically, the prayers we hurried through?

An honest accounting can become frightening very quickly. There is so much to repair. And Elul is moving.

So perhaps before trying to repair everything, we should ask what everything stands upon. Shimon HaTzaddik gives the answer in Pirkei Avot:

“The world stands on three things: on Torah, on Avodah, and on Gemilut Chasadim.”

Torah. Divine service. Acts of loving-kindness.

Each is an ocean. Torah alone could consume a lifetime. Avodah—the work of prayer, worship, and drawing close to Hashem—is a universe. Gemilut chasadim asks us to transform love into action and become a source of goodness to another human being.

Three mountains. One lifetime. One Elul. Where do I begin?

Hashem Needs a Home

Then a thought occurred to me.

Hashem does not presently have His revealed home among us. The Beit HaMikdash has not yet been rebuilt. The Shechinah remains in galut.

I cannot rebuild the Beit HaMikdash by myself tonight. I cannot repair every fractured relationship in the Jewish people. I cannot reconcile every political argument, heal every communal division, settle every grievance, or extinguish every fire burning in the world.

But there is one place over which I have an astonishing degree of influence.

My home.

My apartment.

My marriage.

My children.

Perhaps I have been looking too far away.

Sefer Yetzirah contains a mysterious and beautiful expression:

“The beginning is embedded in the end, and the end is embedded in the beginning.”

Perhaps my attempt to repair the world must begin at the place to which I return every night.

And perhaps the redemption of the world begins with the redemption of the home.

The Ark

The outside world is a flood. Politics. Economics. Media. Ideologies. Arguments. Movements and countermovements. Notifications and headlines. People screaming about what is wrong with everyone else. New philosophies promising salvation. Old hatreds returning under new names.

Wave after wave. Noise after noise.

The Torah gives us an extraordinary image for surviving a flood: An ark.

Noach could not stop the rain. He built a place that could survive it. Perhaps every Jewish home is meant to become something similar.

A small ark floating through a very confused world.

Outside may be turbulence. Inside there must be Torah. Outside may be hostility. Inside there must be kindness. Outside may be noise. Inside there must be prayer. Outside people may tear one another down. Inside we must learn to build one another up.

And suddenly Shimon HaTzaddik's three pillars no longer seem so distant. Torah can enter my dining room. Avodah can enter my bedroom. Gemilut chasadim can enter my kitchen.

The entire world can stand inside one apartment.

But there is a problem.

The People We Love Most

Sometimes we behave better with strangers than with the people we love.

We thank the waiter. We compliment the colleague. We smile at the neighbor. We control our voice in a business meeting. We choose our words carefully when speaking to someone important.

Then we come home.

And somehow the people who have given us the greatest portion of their lives receive the least filtered version of ours. Perhaps we assume they will understand. Perhaps we assume they will forgive. Perhaps familiarity makes us careless.

We would never speak to a stranger with the impatience we sometimes permit ourselves with a spouse. That should terrify us.

Because if Elul is about becoming closer to Hashem, how can I seriously speak about closeness to Hashem while creating distance from the person with whom I share my home? How can I ask the Shechinah to enter a house filled with resentment? How can I strike my chest for sins between man and God while ignoring the heart sitting across from me at the table?

Perhaps one of the greatest spiritual dangers is becoming a tzaddik everywhere except at home.

My Elul

And now I know where my Elul must begin.

With my wife.

Not with a theoretical apology.

Not with If I did anything this year...

I know I did.

I know there were moments when I raised my voice. Moments when I disagreed without sufficient respect. Moments when frustration became language. Moments when I failed to express appreciation for things so constant that I had begun treating miracles as routine.

So, there are words I need to say.

And they cannot be rushed.

My dearest wife, the engine of my soul and the breath within my lungs, where can I possibly begin to thank you?

You made me a father.

You gave me children.

You built a Jewish home with me and protected its holiness through seasons neither of us could have anticipated when we first began our lives together.

And when my body entered one of its darkest chapters, you entered it with me.

For twenty-three long days and nights during my bone marrow transplant at Memorial Sloan Kettering, my body was being broken down so that it could somehow begin again.

There was pain. Weakness. Fear. Medicine. Exhaustion.

Days when dignity itself required assistance.

And you were there.

You cared about whether I ate when eating felt impossible. You helped me with the most basic needs of hygiene and daily life when my body could no longer be trusted to perform ordinary tasks ordinarily.

You watched. You waited. You worried. You encouraged.

You remained.

There are forms of love that are easy to photograph. And there are forms of love that take place in hospital rooms when nobody is watching.

I saw yours.

So, if during this year I raised my voice at you, I am ashamed. If I diminished you with a word, I am ashamed. If I dismissed something important to you because it seemed unimportant to me, I am ashamed. If I failed to recognize the magnitude of what you have carried for me and for our children, I am ashamed. If familiarity ever made me forget gratitude, I ask your forgiveness.

Not because Elul requires an apology.

Because you deserve one.

Words That Build

Maybe this is where teshuvah becomes practical.

Bring different words into the home. Compliments. Appreciation. Encouragement. Thank you. I noticed. You were right. I am proud of you. How can I help? Please forgive me. I love you.

We sometimes search for sophisticated spiritual programs while possessing an extraordinary instrument of holiness directly beneath our noses: the human mouth.

The same mouth can humiliate or heal. The same voice can make a person dread entering a room or feel safe inside it. The same sentence can widen a wound or begin closing one.

Perhaps one of the great acts of avodah in Elul is simply learning to speak to the people in our homes as though we remember that Hashem is listening.

Because He is.

The Biggest Apology in the World

There are people outside my home whom I have hurt. There are people who have hurt me. Some I remember. Some I have forgotten. Some may remember things very differently than I do.

The world contains an impossible network of unfinished conversations, old grievances, misunderstandings, injuries, and debts of the heart.

I cannot repair all of them before Rosh Hashanah.

Perhaps one day Mashiach will bring the clarity necessary for humanity to untangle what generations of confusion have created.

But tonight I have a home.

And that is not a small assignment.

It may be the assignment.

If I want Hashem to have a home in this world, perhaps I should begin by making sure He feels welcome in mine.

A home with happiness. A home with Torah. A home with prayer. A home where children hear their parents speaking respectfully. A home where gratitude is expressed rather than merely felt. A home where disagreement does not become humiliation. A home where forgiveness is stronger than pride. A home where a husband knows how to apologize. A home where a wife knows she is treasured. A home where children learn what Hashem means not merely from what their parents tell them, but from how their parents treat one another.

That is an Elul I can understand.

The Beginning Is the End

I began by wondering how one person could possibly repair an entire world.

Perhaps I was asking the wrong question.

I do not have to begin with the entire world.

I have to begin with my entire world.

My wife. My children. My home.

This is where my Torah must become visible. This is where my avodah must become sincere. This is where my gemilut chasadim must become personal. This is where my apology must begin.

And perhaps that is what Sefer Yetzirah means when it teaches that the beginning is embedded in the end, and the end is embedded in the beginning.

We dream about the ultimate redemption, when the Shechinah will no longer be in exile and Hashem's presence will once again be revealed in this world. That is the end toward which Jewish history is traveling.

But its beginning may be astonishingly close.

A dining-room table. A husband. A wife. A child listening from the next room. One lowered voice. One sincere compliment. One grievance surrendered. One embrace. One apology spoken without excuses. One Jewish home becoming a little more peaceful than it was yesterday.

I cannot bring peace to the entire world tonight.

But I can stop bringing war into my home.

I cannot rebuild the Beit HaMikdash tonight.

But I can begin building a place where the Shechinah would want to live.

And I cannot apologize tonight to every person I have ever hurt. But I can turn toward the person who has shared my life, carried my children, stood beside my hospital bed, endured my weaknesses, celebrated my strengths, and remained beside me through it all.

I can look her in the eyes. I can remember what she has done. I can put my pride down.

And I can say:

Forgive me.

Perhaps that is not a small beginning.

Perhaps, for me, that is the biggest apology in the world.