I had dinner recently with a friend of mine from home. In getting caught up, somehow she and I ended up on a stroll down memory lane, recalling our experiences in middle and high school, the capricious twists and turns of cliques and friendships. She told me about the big end-of-the-year trip to Dorney Park for the 8th graders, how excited she and everyone was to go, the group of girls with whom she thought she would be cruising the park on a glorious June day. Sadly, this was not the case. The girls had conspired against her, complaining to their teacher rather than speak to her, and suddenly, she was out. And a day she had looked forward to for so long, the chance to spend a school day with friends at an amusement park, was instead filled with hurt and sadness and loneliness.
Now, I’m not certain that it would have been any better, any less painful or hurtful, had the girls, or even just one of them, confronted her directly. I’m sure the sting would still have been palpable and crushing. But the social crimes of these middle-school girls were all the more devastating, because they didn’t even have the guts to say something to her face.
Tonight we begin D’varim, the final book of the Torah, and the name of its first parasha. It begins, Eileh had’varim, “These are the words that Moses addressed to all Israel on the other side of the Jordan.” What follows, for the entirety of the book, is Moses’ own recounting of the Exodus, which is why the English name for it is Deuteronomy, meaning “a second telling.” Curiously, this time around, some of the details have been changed or, in certain cases, completely omitted, so that many see the book as a work of revisionist history. What’s more, it is packed to the gills with criticism and swipes at the Israelite people. It is Moses’ farewell speech, albeit a rather long one at 34 chapters, and while it is certainly focused on his legacy and the constant reminders to adhere to the law of God, much of his talk lambastes the people as stubborn, stiff-necked, selfish, faithless ingrates. Like Jacob’s deathbed speech to his sons at the conclusion of Genesis, both make me think of Marge Simpson’s mother, who says to Marge upon arrival at their home for a holiday celebration, “I have laryngitis and shouldn’t talk so I’ll only say one thing: you never do anything right.”
And yet, as I studied the parasha this week, specifically the beautiful commentary of Rabbi Melanie Aron for the Union’s Ten Minutes of Torah e-mail series, I’m trying to see this farewell speech of Moses in a different light. I say that I’m trying, because I admit that it’s a challenge for me to get past what seems like some real deep-seated bitterness on Moses’ part. After all, he is dying, and he knows that he’ll never set foot on the Promised Land, the thing for which he worked, lived, and breathed for essentially his entire life. So I get it; and that’s pretty much all I’ve seen in his oration, at least up until now.
Rabbi Aron wants us to see more than just bitterness, more than just bitching and moaning in Moses’ speech to the people. For her, this is rebuke. And what’s the difference? The difference is in the intention and the goal. The purpose of rebuke is to confront someone or someones directly, head-on, yet constructively, with an eye towards the positive, so that the person or persons can learn from their actions, and become better people.
And yet we know that is so much more easily said than done. Sure, technology is an easy scapegoat, as e-mail and text messaging and Facebook and even Twitter allow us to spout off frustration and aggravation at each other without picking up the phone or—God forbid—speaking to someone face-to-face. But long before these advances in communication, we still got upset with a co-worker and marched directly into the office…of another co-worker to talk about that person behind her back. We still took the hurt that a friend or family member caused us, intentionally or not, and, at best, buried it deep within ourselves; at worst, complained about it to anyone and everyone, except for the person himself. And it’s not just not productive, and it’s not even just counter-productive, which it is both of those things. More importantly, it’s a missed opportunity.
In the Holiness Code, found in Leviticus, we read the following: “You shall not hate your kinsfolk in your heart. Reprove, rebuke your kin, but incur no guilt on their account. You shall not take vengeance or bear a grudge against members of your people. Love your fellow as yourself; I am the Eternal.”
The Torah’s message is clear: to confront someone, to rebuke them for the sake of bettering themselves, this is indeed a holy act. It is holy because, in the words of our old siddur, it helps us to “use our strength for good and not for evil.” It is holy because to do so must categorically mean that you care deeply about the person whom you’re confronting, that you truly love your fellow as yourself. And it is holy because it helps us raise each other up, to be better people, to be more God-like, when we see each other as God saw Moses, and as Moses perhaps tried to see the Israelites in his final words: panim el panim, face-to-face.
May we, in our lives, out of respect and love, have the courage and strength to confront our loved ones—constructively and positively—when we feel we have been wronged. Because when we do, we strengthen each other, we strengthen ourselves, and we bless ourselves with holiness.
AMEN.
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