Hard for Me to Say I’m Sorry
There is a commercial being shown on television right now that I really enjoy. A man is sitting at a diner when he gets a call on his iPhone. He answers the phone by saying, “Before you say anything, it was 1995,” and his friend responds, “It was ’93.” Clearly we have entered into a long standing feud, and as the commercial continues we learn that this argument is regarding what year the ever popular song “Whoomp, There It Is” was released. As the conversation goes on, the man uses his phone to search the internet for proof that he has identified the correct year. When his research concludes that the song was indeed released in 1993, rather than admit he was wrong about this seemingly trivial piece of information, he says, “The restaurant is on fire, I’ll call you back.”
I laugh every time that I see this commercial. It could just as easily be me on that phone, engaged in a similar debate about trivial details from pop culture. But there is something in the last line that is a bit troublesome for me. Instead of goodheartedly admitting defeat, the star of our commercial lies and says that the building is on fire.
It is just too hard to utter that simple sentence, “I was wrong.”
Think about it. How often do you say, “I was wrong?” I can only speak for myself, but I know that I am not quick to admit fallibility in an argument. Sometimes we become so committed to a side – Democrat or Republican, Coke or Pepsi – that we forget to look for details and facts to support our side. And even when we are able to admit to ourselves that we have erred, it is difficult – if not seemingly impossible – to admit it to others.
I had been thinking about this idea – the reality that it is very difficult for many of us to admit to being incorrect – when I came across a surprising headline on CNN.com this summer. It read, “I was wrong about same-sex marriage.” The article’s author, David Frum, begins by stating, “I was a strong opponent of same-sex marriage.” He goes on to say that despite this conviction, he was “strangely untroubled by New York state’s vote to authorize same-sex marriage.” The author realized that he had been wrong. Fifteen years ago, he had spoken out against same-sex marriage. But in the intervening years, he points out, “the case against same-sex marriage has been tested against reality. The case has not passed its test.” Frum goes on to explain that if the anti-gay marriage advocates had been correct, “we should have seen the American family become radically more unstable .…” What statistics have shown, however, is that the “2000’s were the least bad decade for American family stability since the fabled 1950’s.” During this time period during which states had begun to legitimize same-sex marriage, the American family had not suffered.
I am a proponent of same-sex marriage. I believe that the state should recognize these unions; and as a rabbi, I believe that there is a place for same-sex marriages within the context of Judaism. So it was empowering to read an article where someone who had initially opposed my view came around to say that he had been incorrect.
But as I thought about this article, I realized that it was not only the depth of the content that had struck me. Indeed, Frum had merely offered statistics that I either knew to be true or at least believed would be true. The reason that the article stuck with me was that here, on the home page of a highly trafficked website, a person had maturely admitted that he was wrong. He didn’t try to fabricate statistics or rephrase his earlier statements. He didn’t cling to ideology or find a new tactic to advocate for a position. He simply allowed the passage of time to be his guide on a matter; and when he realized that his hypothesis on the pitfalls of same-sex marriage in our society had been incorrect, he said so.
It shouldn’t be surprising to hear such a statement. With the proliferation of 24 hour news cycles and the World Wide Web, someone is always saying something, someone is always arguing with someone. And they can’t all be right. But it is so hard to say, “I was wrong.”
Often times in our tradition, when we seek guidance on moral behavior, we turn to our Biblical heroes to serve as role models. We emulate the faith of Abraham, the compassion of Rebecca, the wisdom of Solomon. Yet we also recognize that our Biblical forbears were not perfect – perfection is the realm of God alone. Our Scripture reminds us of this fact by letting us see the human flaws in our ancestors and providing us with a variety of examples of poor conduct, be it through intentional trickery, bad judgment, or otherwise. These stories show us how human our biblical ancestors were. But that is not the only instruction they offer. Through reviewing these anecdotes, we are also able to explore our patriarchs’ and matriarchs’ relationship with teshuva, repentance. Both in their mishaps and their attempts – some better than others – to make things right again, we see reflections of ourselves.
In our earliest narrative of the Garden of Eden, our Torah recalls that Adam and Eve ate from the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Bad even after receiving the explicit, divine instruction not to do so. When they encounter God after having ignored this command, Adam blames Eve and Eve blames a snake. Neither party takes responsibility and says, “You know what, God, we were wrong. We disobeyed you, sorry about that.” This first example of human error, or display of a lapse in judgment, sets the stage for the generations to come. When in doubt, blame the snake.
The inability to accept blame remains a theme in the Torah and is particularly prominent throughout the life of our patriarch Jacob.
When Jacob goes to work for his Uncle Lavan, he makes one simple request as per wages. He wants to marry Lavan’s daughter Rachel. Lavan agrees to this plan, and promises that Rachel will marry Jacob after seven years time. At the end of seven years, Jacob is surprised to find Leah, not Rachel, in his bed. When he confronts his uncle on this matter, Lavan simply explains to Jacob that it was their custom that the oldest daughter must marry first, so that is why Leah was given to him. He then offers to allow Jacob to marry Rachel as well, provided that he work an additional seven years. It will come as no surprise that Jacob did not have a good relationship with his uncle/father-in-law from this point forward. The man had tricked him into servitude and forced him into an unwanted marriage. Clearly, Lavan’s actions were deceiving. Yet, at no point does he return to Jacob and say, “It was wrong for me to play a trick on you.” The two live, uncomfortably, side by side, for many years with an air of distrust wedged between them.
The Torah leaves us to wonder what Lavan might be thinking. Does he realize that he was wrong, but lack the ability or strength to admit this to his son-in-law? This element of Jacob’s story is an example of an incident that seemingly involved no teshuva.
Even before his uncle’s trickery, Jacob was not a stranger to deceit. His relationship with his brother, Esau, had been tainted by deception, only this time Jacob was on the other side of the situation, as the perpetrator, when he stole his father’s blessing, which rightfully belonged to his brother.
After leaving Lavan’s territory, Jacob encounters Esau. Twenty years have passed since they last saw one another, since Jacob stole his brother’s birthright. After these years of distance and growth, would Jacob be able to own up to his actions, to say, “I was wrong for taking what belonged to you?” The Torah is ambiguous in answering this question. When the two reunite, Jacob comes bearing gifts. Initially, Esau is uncomfortable accepting these gifts. He says, “I have enough, my brother; let what you have remain yours.” But Jacob responds, “No, I pray you; if you would do me this favor, accept from me this gift .…” And when Jacob urged, Esau accepted. Perhaps Jacob’s offering and insistence of presenting his brother with a gift was an admittance of culpability, a way of saying, “I was wrong,” and making reparations for his actions. It is certainly possible to read the text this way. But given the fact that Jacob has to plead to get his brother to accept the gifts, it is possible to say that the action was more about Jacob assuaging his guilt than actually doing something meaningful for Esau. Jacob’s bringing gifts to his brother seem to indicate that he had done some level of teshuva; however, within the lines of the text Jacob does not say, “I was wrong.” Perhaps saying it is just too difficult.
The theme of recognition of error follows Jacob to his grave. Upon his death, eleven of his sons are quite worried. They had sold their brother Joseph into slavery and lied to their father, allowing him to believe that his beloved son Joseph was dead. Years later, famine drives them to Egypt, where they find Joseph serving as a royal advisor. Before his death, Jacob sees all of his sons living in harmony. But after Jacob dies, his sons begin to worry. What if Joseph had only been dealing kindly with them for the sake of their father? They say, “What if Joseph still bears a grudge against us and pays us back for all the wrong we did him?” So, out of fear they sent him a message saying, “Before his death, your father left this instruction: So shall you say to Joseph, ‘Forgive, I urge you, the offense and guilt of your brothers who treated you harshly.” The brothers’ fear of Joseph’s potential retribution led them to offer a “white lie” in the hope that Joseph would not harm them … and maybe even with the hope that Joseph would forgive them. You’ll notice that in the brothers’ plea for forgiveness, they do not offer any form of “I was wrong” or “I’m sorry.”
Perhaps the most poignant example of a Biblical figure recognizing and regretting his misconduct comes with King David. Our Bible recounts that David slept with and impregnated Batsheva while she was married to Uriah. David then had Uriah put on the front lines of battle, sending him to certain death so that he could rightfully be married to Batsheva. It seems that David did not recognize the egregious missteps in his behavior.
And so Nathan, the prophet, is sent to guide David towards understanding. Nathan presents David with a parable: “There were two men in the same city, one rich and one poor. The rich man had very large flocks and herds, but the poor man had only one little ewe lamb that he had bought. He tended it and it grew up together with him and his children; it used to share his morsel of bread, drink from his cup, and nestle in his bosom; it was like a daughter to him. One day, a traveler came to the rich man, but he was loath to take anything from his own flocks or herds to prepare a meal for the guest who had come to him; so he took the poor man’s lamb and prepared it for the man who had come to him.” Upon hearing this story, David flew into a rage, saying, “The man who did this deserves to die.” Only then does Nathan say to David, “That man was you.” David was not able to see his errors, nor was he able to recognize himself in Nathan’s lightly veiled story. Only when Nathan directly confronts him with his actions does David begin to see the reality of his actions. And here he says, “Chatati l’adonai” – “I stand guilty before the Lord,” or, in our vernacular, “I was wrong.”
Our tradition is wise to the human condition, the difficulty in seeing our errors, admitting our mistakes and making amends. That is why our ancestors created an entire season of teshuva, season of repentance. In the context of our busy lives, it is difficult to find the time and space to reflect upon our actions, to recognize that for each of us there are situations that we can look back upon and say, “I was wrong.” While the concept of repentance is not meant to be limited to this short season, it is powerful to have a time designated for this purpose. It gives us an opportunity to stand back, to see our actions as a whole and not be caught up in an unfolding moment. Further, it gives us a model that can be referenced throughout the year – our time for turning inward must not be limited to these High Holy Days.
The Haftarah that we read yesterday morning presents, to my mind, the most striking example in the entirety of the Bible of an individual recognizing his error and seeking to make amends; it comes from the introduction of the Book of Samuel. Hannah is praying fervently at the temple, imploring God to provide her with a child. Our text says, “She was praying in her heart; only her lips moved but her voice could not be heard. So Eli [the priest] thought she was drunk.” He chastised her, “How long will you make a drunken spectacle of yourself? Sober up!” Hannah tells the priest that what he is witnessing is not the behavior of a drunken woman, but rather one who is speaking to God out of anguish and distress. And Eli says to Hannah, “L’chee l’shalom, Go in Peace.” The Talmud devotes a large section to this vignette. On Eli’s comment to Hannah, “L’chi l’shalom, Go in Peace,” R. Eleazar said: “From this we learn that one who suspects his neighbor of a fault which he has not committed must beg his pardon. What is more, he must bless him.” With two simple words, “L’chi l’shalom,” Eli admits his mistake and offers both an apology and a blessing.
I have focused this morning on the reality that it is hard to say, “I was wrong.” Yet, in conjunction with this understanding, I want to leave you with the idea that sometimes it can be as easy as two simple words. Eli’s response to Hannah models for us that if we open our minds and our hearts we may find the words to say, “I was wrong” or “I am sorry.” And what better way to do this than through an offering of shalom, of peace?