Taking into consideration that this is the time of year for Jewish reflection and atonement, it’s also a good time to reflect on the power and responsibility of forgiveness, a theme that runs through the Bible and Jewish tradition.
We oftentimes twin two verbs that we are coaxed to perform: forgive and forget. Society teaches us that forgiveness is a supreme virtue—a noble act that liberates the forgiver. Yet in the Jewish tradition, forgiveness is not a blanket virtue. We can and should, only if and when warranted, forgive. But we should never forget.
The great 12th-century philosopher Maimonides says that Judaism recognizes the reality of pain, but it also insists that holding on to anger forever poisons our soul. To forgive is not to forget, but to choose life, compassion and healing over endless cycles of hurt.
In the Bible, forgiveness is not just an optional act of kindness; it’s at the very heart of our relationship with God and with one another. In the book of Leviticus, we are commanded, “You shall not hate your brother in your heart … you shall not take vengeance or bear a grudge … but you shall love your neighbor as yourself” (Leviticus 19:17-18).
This is radical. It tells us that forgiveness isn’t simply about letting go; it’s about affirming the dignity of another person and choosing love over resentment.
The House of Hillel (Beit Hillel) and House of Shammai (Beit Shammai) were two schools of thought in Jewish scholarship of the last century before the common era and in the early first century C.E. We know of the man who comes to Shammai and Hillel proclaiming his willingness to convert if he could be taught the “whole of Judaism” while standing on one foot. Shammai snapped at the man and sent him away, but Hillel said, “Love your neighbor as yourself. The rest is commentary. Now, go and master it.”
King David, in the Psalms, constantly turns to God for forgiveness.
As it says in Psalms 130:4, “For with You there is forgiveness, so that You may be feared/revered.” David teaches us that God’s forgiveness isn’t weakness, but strength. It restores relationships, heals wounds and allows us to move forward.
Forgiveness is not easy. It requires courage. It asks us to soften our hearts, even when they feel hardened. It asks us to remember that we, too, need forgiveness and that just as God shows us compassion, so too must we extend it to others. We try to emulate God and envelop God’s goodness.
Not all sins are necessarily forgiven. Adam and Eve were permanently banished from the Garden of Eden, Adam was required to work by the sweat of his brow, Eve was to bear painful childbirth, Cain became a perpetual wanderer, and Moses was not allowed into the Promised Land, with lasting implications for all humanity to this very day.
But Judaism adds an important dimension. Judaism differentiates forgiveness relationships between man and God, bein adom l’Makom, and man to man, bein adom l’chavaro. While God’s forgiveness is central, our tradition makes clear that when we wrong another person, we cannot simply pray to God and expect absolution from him. Sinning against God is between man and God, but sinning against a fellow person requires forgiveness from the offended. The Talmud teaches, “Yom Kippur atones for sins between a person and God, but for sins between one person and another, Yom Kippur does not atone until they appease their fellow” (Mishnah Yoma 8:9). This is powerful. It means that forgiveness requires human accountability.
Maimonides outlines the process of teshuvah, or “repentance.” The obligation to forgive is only triggered after the offender faces the person he hurt, apologizes sincerely and seeks reconciliation by acknowledging his wrongdoing. He must express genuine remorse, make restitution for the damage caused and resolve never to repeat the act.
In seeking forgiveness from God, we also must show remorse and recognize our transgressions. God makes access to the “reset button” easy, but we must push it ourselves.
In our Yom Kippur prayers, there are two repeated acknowledgements of our sins: ashamnu, in which we list sins that we committed, and the Al Chait in which we recognize where we have transgressed and some of the punishments due thereof. In fact, to facilitate God’s forgiveness, we are tasked with three things: prayer, remorse and charity.
This is juxtaposed to Erika Kirk’s “forgiveness” of Tyler Robinson, the man who murdered her husband, Charlie, as forgiveness was not requested, nor deserved by Robinson. As much as Judaism encourages forgiveness, it must be earned and merited. If there is no remorse, then there is no obligation to forgive. To grant forgiveness to the unrepentant is to render justice meaningless.
In his Laws of Repentance, Maimonides explains that when a wrongdoer sincerely asks three times for forgiveness, the offended party is obligated to forgive. In fact, after three denied attempts, the wrongdoer no longer needs to attempt to apologize.
One of the most moving Jewish practices is the custom of going to friends and family before Yom Kippur and asking, “If I have wronged you? Please forgive me.” This practice reminds us that forgiveness is not just vertical, between humanity and God, but horizontal between each of us, every day.
The Talmud teaches, “Whoever forgives others, all their sins are forgiven by Heaven” (Rosh Hashanah 17a). To forgive is not only to free someone else, but also to free ourselves.
Forgiveness can be liberating, but it should not be unconditional. Sometimes, the heavier, more righteous burden is to remember, to bear witness, to demand accountability and to refuse to grant a grace that has not been earned.
In his book, The Sunflower, Simon Wiesenthal, the famed Holocaust survivor, recounts a true story. As a prisoner in a concentration camp, he was brought to the bedside of a dying Nazi soldier. The soldier confessed to participating in the burning of a house full of Jewish families, and then he begged Wiesenthal, as a Jew, to forgive him. Wiesenthal listened. Then he stood up and, in silence, walked out of the room. He was forever haunted by his choice, but he also understood that some acts are not yours to forgive. To grant that Nazi personal absolution would have been a profound betrayal of every man, woman and child he murdered.
May we have the strength to ask forgiveness when we need it, and the compassion to grant it when it is sincerely and genuinely asked of us.
