Harriet Lane Baggett, Ph.D., LCP
Staunton, Virginia
Staunton, Virginia
Originally Published on AdvocateWeb.org
L’Shana Tova!
That is, Happy New Year! The evening
of September 6th, 2002 marks the beginning of the New Year in
the Jewish calendar, 5763. It is the beginning of a ten day period
that we usually call “The High Holy Days,” marked at the beginning
with Rosh Hashanah (New Year) and at the end with Yom Kippur (Day of
Atonement). The entire ten days are referred to as The Days of Awe,
or sometimes, The Ten Days of Repentance. Tradition holds that
during these initial ten days of the year, God considers who will
live through the year to see the next. Those who are clearly
righteous will be written into the Book of Life on the first day,
while those who are clearly wicked will be written into the Book of
Death that day. For the rest of us, who fall somewhere in between,
the Days of Awe are a time to make it all up, so to speak, so that
God might finally write us into the Book of Life before sealing it
on Yom Kippur. It is a time for us to closely examine our behaviors
in the prior year, to evaluate our ethical and moral and religious
standing, and to make repairs and repentance. Even those of us who
do not really believe that God is up in heaven determining our
destinies take seriously the basis of this tradition: that in order
to have a sweet new year, we need to deal justly with the things we
have done to sour the years that came before. Thus, the High Holy
Day period is all about repentance and forgiveness, a topic that is
so much at the core of the pain felt by victims/survivors of
professional exploitation.
My very first Jewish service was the eve of Yom Kippur 15 years
ago, which I attended with several Jewish friends. I did not
consider myself to be a very spiritual person; I was not practicing
the religion in which I was raised, and was not inclined to seek out
other paths. I went in order to support my friends, and perhaps with
a bit of anthropological interest.
But I was deeply moved. What most stands out in my memory is the
part of the service in which the congregants recited what I now know
to be Al Khet; this prayer is essentially a confession to a litany
of sins committed during the prior year. Everyone in the
congregation names every sin; some prayer books are more specific
than others in the naming of the sins, but the implication is that
we are all part of a community that has sinned against God in each
and every one of these ways. So, on this first Yom Kippur, I stood
with my friends as they set pride aside and spoke aloud all of these
sins against God and asked for God’s forgiveness. This was an
awesome contrast, for me, to the secret shame of the confessional on
which I was brought up. What freedom, I thought, to let go of the
chains of silence and secrecy and to say the shame out loud, as a
group, acknowledging that we all have sinned.
It took a lot of years and a lot of thought and finally a lot of
courage before I started attending synagogue services with the idea
that I might actively participate, not just observe. Now I lived in
a small southern town with not many Jews, and a neighbor, friend and
synagogue leader took me under her wing. For more than a year I was
almost like a member of her family, celebrating holidays, studying
Torah and the prayers, enjoying traditional music and food, learning
the rituals and language, and developing meaningful appreciation of
Jewish theology. So much of the theology speaks to me. But the part
that was most healing for me, that brought me closest to my
spiritual center, was the theology around repentance and
forgiveness. For me, it all went back to that first Yom Kippur: the
healing power of open acknowledgement of wrongdoing.
But, there is a catch in Judaism, a big difference from Christian
theology: Yom Kippur only allows atonement for sins we commit
against God. God does not grant forgiveness for sins that we commit
against other people. For that, we must approach and make repentance
to the person whom we have wronged; then it is up to that person to
grant forgiveness. I took to heart this teaching, often explained by
my friend and then reiterated by rabbis during High Holy Day
sermons. I searched inside myself, I let go of my pride, I faced my
shame and I sought out people, some of whom I hadn’t had contact
with in years, and I acknowledged my wrongs. Some responded
favorably, some did not. It was a gift to me when they responded
with acceptance and forgiveness, but regardless of their response, I
was free of the binds that had held me from authentic relationship
with those people. I felt more relaxed, more at ease in all my
relationships than I had in so many ages. With each reminder of this
important piece of Jewish theology, whether sermon or reading or
discussion, I remembered again to handle my current relationships
with equal authenticity and clarity. It was a sweet and joyous time
in my life, a time of connection with people and with God, the kind
of connection and authenticity that I imagined must permeate the
relationships of all people who are serious about their
spirituality. Especially rabbis.
It has now been almost five years since the beginning of my
sexual exploitation by the woman who was my rabbi during the course
of my conversion. The ensuing years have witnessed numerous
additional betrayals by rabbinic and synagogue leaders as I have
sought the kind of justice that I had been taught was at the heart
of Jewish tradition. The High Holy Days have taken on a new, and
confusing, significance. It is impossible for me to understand how
these rabbis, with their flowery sermons urging us toward repentance
to other people and not just to God, are able to face the High Holy
Days, “The Days of Awe,” year after year without making honest
repentance to me for the abuse and the collusion and all of the
heinous consequences of these betrayals.
There have been a few supportive clergy (Jewish and Christian)
who have helped me to hold to my faith and my theology, and to
continue to hold the rabbis accountable for their sins against me.
Ironically, the rabbi “supporters” have been more likely to tell me
to “forgive and forget,” that phrase so dreaded by victims of clergy
sexual abuse. Or they might say, “forgive but don’t forget,” in the
mixed up belief that somehow that meshes better with our theology.
But I cannot forgive. Repentance has not been made and, in Jewish
tradition, my tradition, there is no context for forgiveness when
there has been no repentance. (A corollary to this Jewish teaching
is that another cannot forgive the offender in my place; in other
words, in the absence of meaningful repentance, the synagogue or
rabbinic leadership cannot forgive my perpetrator even though I
don’t. This is an important point for many clergy abuse victims, who
have seen their congregations “forgive” their perpetrator while the
victim is left to hang in the wind.)
To be honest, I’m not sure I even know what forgiveness would
look like. How can I know when there has been no repentance? There
seem to be so many definitions of forgiveness; it is very
subjective. Based on my experiences in other situations, I think
forgiveness would mean that I can verbalize acceptance of, belief
in, the regret expressed by the offenders’ gestures of repentance if
they made them; this, in turn, would mean more open and authentic
relationship with them, a potential for growth. Perhaps forgiveness
would be my “gift” to them of lifting the pain of their guilt and
shame by allowing for future meaningful, healing
relations…meaningful relationship that can only come from both
parties being open and honest with themselves and each other, which
can only come when repentance has been made.
The dictionaries I’ve looked at all seem to include “to pardon”
in the primary definition; to me “to pardon” implies letting go of
the expectation for justice. The second definition often includes
“letting go of anger.” In the absence of repentance, I just don’t
think I can do either of these things without compromising my
personal ethics or diminishing my experience and feelings. I cannot
in good conscience “pardon” the rabbis, excuse them from doing what
their own ethical guidelines demand; I continue to expect them to
adhere to their ethics and morals, to care about the justice on
which their religion is based. Neither can I put a lid on my
feelings of hurt and anger; they betrayed me, they have made
promises not kept, and to “let go of my anger” would be to diminish
the importance of the experience and the injustice. That is not to
say, however, that I can’t grow.
But first, while I’m not completely certain what forgiveness
would look like, I do think I have an idea of what it would not look
like for me. It would not mean forgetting, as the astute rabbis
pointed out. It would not mean compromising the expectation for
justice; justice is required for forgiveness in my theology. It
would not mean becoming friends with the offender. But most
important for me, one who has not received a just response,
forgiveness does not equal “acceptance,” it does not equal
“understanding” the perpetrator/colluders, it does not equal “moving
on.” I can do these things without repentance or forgiveness. I have
found that I am better able to accept that this has happened and
that the rabbis are not who they claim to be. I am better able to
understand their humanity, and the fact that in the unconscious (if
not conscious) minds of almost all organizational leaders, the
preservation of the organization’s image (and thus the leaders’
power) becomes more important than the ideals upon which it was
founded. And, finally, I am becoming able to “move on” in many
aspects of my life, even my spirituality.
With the help of so many wonderful people (almost all of whom
I’ve connected with through AdvocateWeb, directly or indirectly!), I
have moved through the initial confusion and self-denial, through
the raw pain of all the losses, through the desperate and angry
attempts to claim justice and reclaim faith, through the
excruciating moments of disillusionment and outrage, and through so
many complicated feelings of wondering where God is in all this. I’m
not done with these feelings; they are not all gone, and I don’t
think they will ever go away completely, particularly not in the
absence of justice. But neither are they as overwhelming nor as
constant as in the first years. Now I can focus on acts of charity,
I can paint a room in my house, I can savor a day on the water, I
can converse meaningfully about topics that are not at all related
to the exploitation. I have been able to meet new people, even to
date. And now not a day goes by that I am not compelled to thank God
for all the good things in my life, especially even those I’ve found
through this nightmare: compassionate family, friends and advocates;
moving new prayers and music; eye-opening new perspectives on life
and God and all faith traditions; and even restful new vacation
destinations where retreats were held. I am learning how to pray
again by myself, and have even joined another synagogue (albeit 50
miles away). Perhaps I’ll even attend services there someday soon;
maybe I’ll be able to do some of the home rituals in coming
years…probably not this High Holy Day season, but maybe the next, or
the one after that. And I am learning constructive ways to use this
experience and the bad feelings it has caused; if I suppressed my
angry feelings with premature “forgiveness,” there are so many good
things I might not be motivated to pursue (such as writing, or
supporting other victims). What I’ve finally discovered, by hanging
on to my truth and surrounding myself with people who will hear it,
is that THERE IS HOPE for claiming a new joy in Judaism and in life.
The experience of hope is among the many blessings that I have
learned again to count every day.
I have not forgiven, I have not forgotten, I have not ceased my
effort for justice, and in many ways I am still affected by the
betrayals and the losses, as I always will be. But, I am moving on,
healing and growing, learning to put my feelings to helpful purpose.
I may not receive repentance, and thus won’t be able to grant
forgiveness, but I will still find sweetness in this New Year. And
so, I pray for L’Shana Tova for all of us.
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