We Have To Care About What Other People Think — R' Steven Kol Nidre 5786

This sermon was delivered at our 5786 Rosh Hashanah service.

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Produced by Mishkan Chicago. Music composed, produced, and performed by Kalman Strauss.

Transcript

Transcript

This sermon was delivered at our 5786 Kol Nidre service. You can listen to this drash on Contact Chai Podcast or watch on YouTube channel.
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After a break up, the conventional wisdom is that you should prioritize self-care. Move your body. Eat well. Get plenty of rest. Do things that make you happy. Take yourself on a date. You don’t need to look good for someone else; look good for you. Learn to find joy in being alone. The lesson is that your worth is not contingent on the approval of others, but something that is found within — a fact that you might have forgotten while seeking the affection of another person. It feels good to be loved. It feels even better to love yourself.

So when my partner and I separated earlier this year, my friends (and my therapist) suggested that it would be a good change of pace to be by myself for a while. It had been years since I was single. This could be a time to reconnect with parts of myself that had been decentered while dating, to figure out what I had sought from a partner and create that reality on my own terms. Love comes from within, right? But then I find myself walking through my empty apartment, skeptical if happiness can really be discovered in the quiet but lonely corners of my life. I have spoken to so many of you, these past few months, who have wondered the same thing: after burying a loved one, or watching a friendship fall apart, or walking away from a community that no longer welcomes you. It’s not easy, learning how to be alone.

We are inherently social creatures, hardwired to connect with one another. In the story of creation, God looks at the first human and says: lo tov heyot ha’adam levado, it is not good for humankind to be alone. Even the mythic abundance of Eden cannot make up for a lack of companionship. When I was a student at Oxford, my college benediction was nullius boni sine socio iucunda possessio est, nothing is worth having unless it is shared with others. And it’s true. Think of your favorite memories. Most of mine were made with other people. Something about a shared experience makes it richer, more meaningful, more memorable.

https://youtu.be/HZWRcQpsQ60

It is in our neurological makeup to seek connection. The instinct to exist in relationship with others has been essential for our species’ survival. When the psychologist Abraham Maslow proposed his hierarchy of needs, he recognized that a sense of belonging is a necessary building block of a fully actualized person. Yet we don’t just exist side-by-side with other human beings. Starting as children, mirroring the emotions of our caretakers, we take in other people’s experience of the world and make it part of our own. We witness someone in pain and cry, we listen to someone’s joy and share in their laughter. Like Adam encountering Eve for the very first time, declaring that this one is basar mi–b’sari, flesh of my flesh, there is symmetry between our hearts and the hearts of other human beings. But this genetic inheritance also makes us vulnerable. We care about what other people think. We are impacted by how they feel. And sometimes what they think and how they feel hurts us.

To protect ourselves, we set boundaries – drawing a line between the opinions of others and what we know to be true about ourselves. Boundaries have become an obsession of pop psychology, which valorizes the individual journey toward “self-actualization” (this was a term coined by the organismic theorist Kurt Goldstein to describe the innate drive to realize one’s full potential, and placed at the top of Maslow’s hierarchy of needs). You don’t have to wander far into social media to encounter affirmations for boundary setting. If it doesn’t serve you, let it go. It’s not my job to fix others. Protect your peace. The journalist Tyler Austin Harper recently observed that “you do you” has become its own three-word bible in our quest for self-actualization. 

Now don’t get me wrong, healthy boundaries are important. When our self-image relies on the approval of others, our wellbeing becomes contingent on something entirely outside of our control. We can lose sight of the fact that we are, by birthright, beings of inherent worth and dignity – a fact that our tradition is insistent upon. A society preoccupied with self-improvement can make us feel like we are always less than. And when someone hurts us (especially someone we care about), it is easy to forget that our value does not depend on another person’s positive appraisal of who we are.

And so after a break up, sometimes we need (to quote Meghan Thee Stallion) a “hot girl summer” – time to “do you,” rather than worrying about what other people think about you (our exes most of all). That was my plan. Now, the problem with this plan is that I had already booked a cruise with my former partner. [For those of you keeping score, you might remember that I faced a similar conundrum after my divorce; I clearly have terrible timing with booking cruises]. My mother suggested I could find a friend to take his place. My therapist wondered if going by myself could be a positive step toward self-discovery. But in the end, we decided to go together. We had both been looking forward to this trip for months. It would be our “European Farewell Tour,” a chance to close one chapter of our relationship and begin a new one. Although we were no longer dating, we certainly cared about each other. He was and is my best friend, a fact that had not changed as we started to disentangle our lives.

For those who are wondering, I’ll cut to the end: it was a good trip, but it was a difficult trip. It is not easy to stay close to someone you have hurt. For every moment of laughter, there were tears. Each day I sat with my former partner, watching him pick up the pieces of his broken heart. There was nothing I could do to help him put them back together. Like the opening liturgy of Yom Kippur, kol nidrei, ve’esarei, u’shvuei, va’haramai, v’konamei, v’kinusei, v’chinuyei – all the vows I made, the promises, the prohibitions, the oaths, the restrictions and the interdictions, all of them broken, null and void, as if they had never been made. Seeing the impact of my choices, my intent no longer mattered – however earnest or hopeful it may have been. I hurt the person who I had promised to protect from harm. And here we were, forced into painful proximity for ten consecutive days. I couldn’t escape the brokenness that I had caused, but had to tend to it – even if there was nothing I could do but sit with him in his heartbreak.

When listing the mitzvot, the rabbis name four commandments as acts of imitatio dei – of imitating the divine, or doing as God would do. They are: clothing the naked, visiting the sick, comforting mourners, and burying the dead. The last is called chesed shel emet, the truest kindness, for it comes with no benefit to the person performing this mitzvah – and while the needy are relieved of their hardship, while we hope the sick will heal and mourners will move through their grief, there is no solution to death. This mitzvah is so important that the rabbis teach that if you’re going about your day and encounter a funeral procession, you should pause what you are doing and accompany the dead to their final resting place – even if you don’t know the deceased or the people who are remembering them. Our tradition calls us to stand in proximity to pain, including (and perhaps most importantly) pain that we cannot fix. The psalmist writes: karov Adonai l’nishb’rei leiv, God is close to the brokenhearted. There is something sacred about choosing to be in the presence of brokenness – even when it doesn’t feel good, or serve us in some way.

There is an important distinction to be drawn between what is uncomfortable and what is not safe, and our obsession with boundaries has made it increasingly difficult to differentiate between the two. The journalist I quoted earlier, Tyler Austin Harper, argues that this is the result of what he calls “therapeutic libertarianism” – the belief that self-actualization is the ultimate goal in life, and that anything that impedes this process should be discarded. It is therapeutic because it masquerades as self-help. It is libertarian because it makes a cult of the individual, prizing personal freedom above all other things.

It often begins by cutting out the toxic people from our lives. I’m sure you’ve encountered this advice. And sometimes we do this for good reason, separating ourselves from folks who subject us to emotional or physical abuse; no one should suffer an abusive relationship. But therapeutic libertarianism encourages us to use the label of “toxic” carelessly. We become intolerant of people and places that exhaust us, or contradict us, or make us feel bad. We remove the critical voices from our lives. We stop talking to people who have different opinions. We turn away from situations that make us uncomfortable, all in the name of living our truth.

This is the dangerous but seductive narcissism of self-care. It begins with the well-meaning attempt to divest ourselves from worrying so much about the opinions of others. It comes from an honest place of believing that we have the tools to realize our own potential. But by turning inward (and away from what we don’t like) we can become inflexible, intolerant, and unreliable judges of what is actually true about ourselves and others. With each new boundary, we narrow our window onto the world – until all we see is only what we want to see. When we say someone is toxic, do we mean they are unsafe – or that their thoughts and feelings challenge us? Making space for someone else means that we don’t always get to do what we want to do. So we cut them out. It feels nice to do your own thing, without worrying about others or the limitations they impose upon you.

But it is not good for humankind to be alone. In study after study, interpersonal connection remains the number one predictor of human health and wellbeing. Interacting with other people keeps our minds nimble and our hearts open. Community contributes to our resilience, not only because we can lean on others, but because it engenders identity and a sense of greater purpose. We were never meant to make this journey by ourselves.

Choosing to be in relationship with other people means caring about what they think and how they feel. And what they think and how they feel can sometimes make us confront parts of ourselves that we would rather not see. Healthy boundaries can protect our truth. But boundaries, indiscriminately applied, can also shield us from other important truths – ones that we might not discover otherwise, until they are expressed through the experience of another person. We instinctually separate ourselves from what hurts – and there are times, if we are being honest, when what hurts the most is the hurt that we have caused.

As I sat with my former partner, I had to recognize that I was not always the victim of my story; I also had the capacity to be the perpetrator, the one who caused harm. That I could be selfish and bull-headed. That I could break promises. Weathering the dissolution of my relationship, a few years shy of turning forty – it was very easy to feel sorry for myself. I will level with you: I am anxious about a future in which I die alone. It is hard to face this possibility – and harder still to recognize that it might be one of my own creation, shaped by the choices that I have made. But as I accompanied my relationship to its final resting place, burying all that had been lost, this was a truth that I had to bear – sitting shiva for the person I thought I was in the presence of the person that I had become.

What is our obligation when we see someone about to cause harm? The rabbis use the example of a rodef, someone who is pursuing another person to kill them. The scenario is almost vaudevillian, like a sketch by the Marx Brothers. Picture it with me. You are out for a walk. You see two people running. The pursuer is wielding a knife. So you shout at them, “What are you doing with that knife?” They respond, “I want to kill this person.” Maybe you misheard them, so you pick up your pace to close the distance between the two of you. “Hey friend,” you say. “What do you plan to do with that knife?” The pursuer answers, “I am going to kill them.” You are now running alongside them. You ask, “Don’t you know that it’s wrong to kill someone?” They answer, “Yes, I know this.” You ask, “And you know that once you kill someone, there is no recourse?” They answer, “Yes, I understand.” You ask, “But you plan to do it anyway?” They answer, “Yes, I do.” At this point, you are obligated to stop them – perhaps by tripping them, or by taking away their knife. Only as a last resort are you allowed to employ lethal force.

Behind the comedy of this scene is a serious lesson about tochecha, or rebuke. This is not criticism offered from a distance (or from behind a keyboard, for that matter). It is an action that calls us into relationship with one another, contingent on our belief that the other person can actually change for the better. And it requires our willingness to be part of that process, finding the person where they are and accompanying them on their journey. It is offered in a way that can be received and understood by the other. It demands proximity, not only of our bodies but our hearts and minds. Tochecha crosses the boundaries of narcissistic individualism, of cutting out and cutting off the folks who do things we don’t like or don’t agree with. Instead of cancelling them, we remain connected to them. This means that we stay close to the messiness of other people, including the people who make us uncomfortable. It also means we have to care about what they think and how they feel.

And to be quite frank, sometimes the people who make us the most uncomfortable are the ones who offer the tochecha, the rebuke, that we do not want to hear. To stay close to someone we have hurt forces us to recognize that we are not always the victim; sometimes we are the perpetrator. To remain proximate to our mistakes (and the people who remind us of them) makes us acknowledge that we are not always at the receiving end of bad decisions; sometimes we are their cause. To be in relationship with folks who understand the world in a different way challenges us to admit that we are not always right; sometimes we are wrong. Tochecha drags us kicking and screaming out of the comfort of “doing you” to see how the mirror of our self-image may not be the most accurate reflection of who we really are. It is hard to stand face-to-face with an honest picture of ourselves, especially when it is being held up by another person. And this kind of intimacy, caring about what they think and feel makes us vulnerable to being hurt ourselves.

There is a story about Rabbi Yochanan and Resh Lakish, two of the greatest scholars of our tradition. They were both colleagues and friends. Living in extreme poverty, Resh Lakish survived as a thief until a chance encounter with Rabbi Yochanan led him to study Torah. With his help, Resh Lakish became his equal in scholarship. Now one day, they were discussing how laws of ritual purity could (or could not) be applied to weapons. When Resh Lakish disagreed with Rabbi Yochanan, the latter retorted: “Well, a thief would know the tools of his trade.” Resh Lakish responded, “What benefit did you provide by bringing me close to Torah? Then they called me a thief, now you call me a thief.” Resh Lakish was hurt, and rightfully so. Rabbi Yochanan had employed knowledge of Resh Lakish’s past (the kind of knowledge only accessible to a friend) to undermine him, weaponizing the intimacy of their relationship. This choice had consequences. Resh Lakish severed their relationship. Rabbi Yochanan died from heartbreak. This is the risk of proximity: the vulnerability of being known, and them knowing how to strike you where it hurts most. Wouldn’t it be easier to set boundaries between us and other people, so that we avoid this kind of pain?

But to see ourselves reflected by other people, especially those who understand and admire us, is how we grow. The same eyes that saw Resh Lakish as a thief, had also understood his capacity to be a great scholar – something that he had never considered until Rabbi Yochanan identified his potential, leading him to a life of learning. His wisdom still guides our practice today. The intimacy of knowing someone and being known by them can be used as a weapon, but it is also the tool by which we help each other on our journey toward self-actualization – and in the process, become better ourselves. The question is how we use it.

Tochecha is an inherently hopeful act. It comes from a place of believing that the other person can blossom and bloom, because we see the seeds of a better self that already exists inside of them. It’s not just saying whatever comes to mind, or using the scaffolding of constructive criticism to make a point – which, to be clear, is why Rabbi Yochanan’s invocation of Resh Lakish’s past does not qualify as tochecha. No, it is an expression of care and connection. It is also the cornerstone of a healthy society, as people support each other on their quest for individual fulfillment. What was a solitary task now becomes a joint effort. Sincere feedback offered in intimate relationship with another person puts us in the position to receive it in kind; it is a dialogical process that opens both people to pain, yes, but also possibility.

An honest reflection of who we are, and the agonizing self-awareness that comes from confronting this image, is the first step of teshuvah – which means repentance and repair, of course, but also return. Rabbi Kalonymous Kalman Shapira, who taught in the Warsaw Ghetto, once wrote that through teshuvah: “We return to who we are meant to be, but have not yet become. We return to growth and possibility that has lain dormant within us and not yet flourished… That is why the process of teshuvah, as painful and even humiliating as it can be, is in fact very joyous and hopeful.” Tochecha reminds us that we are more than the person we happen to be right now. While this can be hard to acknowledge, there is hope in knowing that your best self has been there all along. Elohai neshama she’natata bi tahora hi, God the soul that you have placed in me is pure – it has just been obscured by bad luck and bad choices. But it is still there: whole and good.

This is true for all human beings. When we cut out the people who make us uncomfortable, when we push them to the side or no longer take them seriously, we give up on their chance for redemption. And our tradition rejects the idea that anyone is irredeemable. There is a discussion in the Talmud about the greatest enemies of the Jewish people. These are pretty bad folks. Yet lest you think that anyone is beyond redemption, the rabbis teach, did you know that the terrible general Na’aman the Aramean came to live among our people? Or that Nebuzar-Adan, who commanded the Babylonian armies that destroyed the First Temple, eventually converted to Judaism? Even the descendants of Sisera, and Sennacherib, and Haman studied Torah – working to heal the wounds inflicted by their ancestors.

This a daring prescription in a world that has fractured along lines of ideological differences, where there is so much violence inflicted by human beings on other human beings (that’s another sermon entirely). Yet this teaching also contains an even bolder lesson about ourselves. For if we truly believe in the redemption of the worst people imaginable (which we do), we must believe in ours as well. And let’s be real, this can sometimes be the hardest thing to accept – especially during a season when we reflect on our shortcomings, beating our chests as we review the long litany of our past mistakes. Sitting at the end of another relationship, I could maintain that I am inherently unlovable – wallowing in self-pity, making excuses for my mistakes. Or, I could commit to learning how to love better and how to better receive the love offered to me in kind. It’s a more difficult task. It requires owning where I went wrong. It demands that I care about how my actions impact others. It asks that I sit with their pain, even when that pain can’t be fixed. But the tools for change are already there, in my own hands and the hands of the people who care about me. 

The practice begins now. These 25 hours of Yom Kippur invite us to sit, with each other, in the gap between the people we are and the people we hope to be. This is hard work. Sometimes the distance between who we thought we were and who we see in the mirror feels too painful, too difficult to bridge. But we are strong and we are capable, built for receiving the reflection that others hold up to us – even when they reflect things we don’t like about ourselves. And if we look closely, we will find that the core of that image is good. Our best self has been there all along. Sometimes we just need another person to remind us.