The Opposite of Arrogance:
A Sermon for Kol Nidrei 5777
Oct. 11, 2016
By Rabbi Boaz D.
Heilman
Growing up in Israel, I loved books. I loved going to the bookstore and browsing
up and down the aisles. Luckily, the town’s library also had a large selection
that made me a repeat customer, sometimes several times a week. But some of the best books of all I found
much closer—in the bookcase at my own childhood home. There I found a beautiful edition of the
Bible, Shakespeare’s King Lear, Ibsen’s Peer Gynt, Jewish folk tales told by
I.L. Peretz, the complete writings of Sholom Aleichem, and many other
classics. Among my favorites, however, a
book I kept returning to time after time, was a collection of Bible
illustrations by Gustave Doré.
Those woodcut prints, vivid and powerful, caught my
imagination, and for long periods of time I would delve into both the detail
and the mood of each picture.
One of the illustrations was of the Tower of Babel. It wasn’t only the sheer size of the
unfinished structure that struck me, however.
In fact, the tower itself is actually set in the background. Dark, ominous clouds seem to swoop in from
above. The foreground, however, is
dominated by a group of men clearly distraught over the enormity of the folly
they only now realize they had committed.
In the Bible, the story of the Tower of Babel, though
cleverly told, is short and quite simple.
Yet something about it kept eluding me.
What exactly did the ancient Babylonians do that was so wrong? Rashi, the great 12th century French
rabbi, scholar and commentator, gives us a clue: The builders of the tower had lost sight of
morality. As the tower grew taller and
taller, hauling stones that high up became an ever-greater challenge. When once a stone fell from its high perch
and killed a worker on the ground, the laborers cried not over the tragic loss
of life, but rather because they would now have to re-lug the stone once again all
the way up.
I like this commentary, but I wonder at what exact point in
the story did the people lose their sense of morality.
I now believe that it was even before they began the actual task of building
the tower. It was at the moment they
thought of the idea to begin with. As
the Torah tells it, their plan, their intention, was to build a tower so high
that its rosh, its head or top, would
be in the heavens. With this tall structure they wanted to create “a name” for
themselves.
What’s wrong with that?
What could God possibly see wrong with that? Doesn’t the Bible itself say that “a good
name is better than good oil?”
On the one hand, the people’s desire for “a name” is an
important display of purpose and unity, of loyalty to king, land, society and
culture.
On the other hand, having your name emblazoned in heaven
itself is an unparalleled show of arrogance.
What the Babylonians wanted was not only to be like God; they actually wanted to be gods themselves. Their name
versus Ha-Shem—God’s name—or at least
side-by- side, two stars on equal footing in the same firmament. The intention was not merely to know God, but
to actually contest and master God in God’s own home court, the Heavens.
The sin of the ancient Babylonians was the sin of supreme conceit. They wanted to be so powerful that they could
live free from fear of punishment and consequence. They dreamed of—and began to build for
themselves—a life whose guiding principle was unfettered desire and indulgence,
a life unencumbered by moral judgment, a life where pride and arrogance, not
justice and compassion, reigned supreme.
Short but powerful, the story of the Tower of Babel is more
than just a cautionary tale. Its lessons
are at the core of another paradigm: Judaism’s vision of a just and moral
universe, a vision in which the prayer we call Kol Nidrei plays a pivotal role.
Yom Kippur is the total opposite of Arrogance.
Arrogance is the abrogation or denial of consequences, while
Yom Kippur is all about
consequences. Yom Kippur is a day of
reckoning, a day when our actions and behavior are put to the test and
consequences are meted out. As Unetanei Tokef reminds us—“who shall
live and who shall die.” To each
according to his or her own deeds.
But Yom Kippur isn’t only about punishment. It’s also about forgiveness and Redemption,
the opportunity to cleanse our record and begin again, only now with more humility,
with more experience, with greater wisdom.
Redemption doesn’t happen automatically. It’s a process, a gradual series of steps
that we must take. It might make it
easier for us to think that there are actually three “R’s” in Redemption, each
representing a rung in the ladder we must climb.
The first “R” is for Recognition.
While often enough we know when we’ve hurt someone, it isn’t always so obvious
or clear. We may be too hurried, or too proud to notice; or perhaps the other
person hides the hurt deep inside. And
yet it’s important to own the moment, to recognize that we indeed offended,
hurt or injured someone or something. At
times we need to be made aware of what we did.
In fact, the Torah makes this a commandment when it says (Lev. 19:17), ךָעֲמִיתֶ אֶת תּוֹכִיחַ הוֹכֵחַ–“You
shall surely rebuke your neighbor, lest you bear sin because of him.” We need to let one another know when we have
wronged someone. We need to know when
we’ve caused pain.
Once we are cognizant, once we are aware of the wrong we
have done, we have to do something about it.
The next “R” then is for Response. Say something of comfort to the person you’ve
hurt.
I love it when politicians, caught in a lie or a smear,
claim that their words were taken “out of context.” I love it when, instead of apologizing, they
say they were misunderstood. If Recognition,
the first “R” in Redemption, is difficult, apparently the second “R,” Response, simply saying “I’m sorry,” is
twice as hard. Apologizing is humbling
and embarrassing. It’s admitting that we can be wrong. For the arrogant among
us, it’s like taking the air out of our tires.
For a bully, it’s even more difficult, because saying I’m sorry means undoing
his or her whole psychological makeup. You aren’t born a bully; you grow into
one; and undoing that often takes years of therapy and hard work.
Yet if we are looking for Redemption, for a chance to
rehabilitate ourselves, to re-create ourselves as honest and valuable members of
society, Response, simply saying these three words, “I am sorry,” is
essential. Apologize for the pain you
may have caused, whether intentionally or not. Don’t underestimate the power of a word spoken,
or a word not spoken, to hurt. Don’t
dismiss the wrong, don’t put it out of mind.
Pain lingers, sometimes for years. Respond to it.
One of the most naïve lines that ever circulated in pop
culture comes from the book and later, the movie, Love Story, “Love means never having to say you are sorry.” Actually, no; love means exactly the
opposite. Love doesn’t mean you never
hurt one another. Sometimes we hurt the
very people we love the most—simply because they are there; not because they
deserve it, but because they are available and vulnerable. And also because we
can’t take it out on our boss or whoever else we are really mad at. And so we hurt the one we love. At such times, love very much means having to
say, “I am sorry.” This is how you reach
the next rung, the 2nd “R” in Redemption, Response. Make it count:
Respond with kindness, respond with love, respond with humility.
The third “R” is for Repair. And this may be yet the hardest step of
all. It may take the rest of our life to
achieve this level. Some things can
never be repaired—and oh! how sad it is when a person we’ve hurt is gone, and
with him or her, lost too is the opportunity to make things better and complete
again. You want to say I’m sorry a hundred
times, but there’s no one there. There
are moments in my life that I still cannot recall without cringing. Times when I slighted someone, called them by
a name or a slur I regret uttering.
There were times when I ignored someone because acknowledging them would
have meant acknowledging my own fear and insecurity. Repair for such damage,
for hurt caused long ago, is difficult, and sometimes impossible. Yet the principle of tikkun ‘olam teaches us that we can fix some things by paying
forward: by never repeating the mistake; by making life better for others; and
not least, by mending what’s broken inside ourselves so that we never revert,
never repeat our past behavior.
Sometimes that’s the best we can do. But if we are very careful, we may in time even
learn to be more forgiving, of others
as well as of ourselves.
And that’s where Yom Kippur comes into our lives. The Day of Atonement enables us to ask
pardon, to forgive and to be forgiven, to redeem the broken pieces and make
them whole again.
Yom Kippur is the opposite of the Tower of
Babel. It’s all about consequences, not arrogance. It’s all about Redemption, not control. Through
its own process of Prayer, Repentance and Righteousness, and along with our own
3 “R’s”—Recognition, Response, and Repair, Yom Kippur offers us a golden
opportunity to do things better, the right way, this time around.
May our prayers and pleas this Yom Kippur reach the
Heavens—not by way of pride and arrogance, but rather carried aloft on the
wings of our humble prayers and our repentant spirit. And may our acts of repentance, of tikkun ‘olam, from this day on, be
acceptable in making us better people, and by making this world a better place for
all that exists and lives.
L’shana tova tikateivu
v’teichatemu—may we all be inscribed in the Book of Life for a year of
health, happiness and love.
Kein y’hi ratzon, may
this be God’s will.
© 2016 by Boaz D. Heilman
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