At the end of the parsha, which comes near the very end of the Torah, God instructs Moses to ascend Mt Nebo and die there. At this time God also reminds Moses that he will not be allowed to enter the land of Israel, the promised land, because of Moses' trespass at the waters of Meribath-Kadesh. This was the incident, immediately following the death of Miriam, when the congregation of Israel cried out because they had no water in the desert. God had then instructed Moses to 'speak to the rock' and water would flow forth, but instead Moses struck the rock twice with his staff (Numbers 20).
Moses has been the physical and spiritual leader of the Israelites for most of his life; he has been God's chosen mouthpiece; he has been faithful. Why this severe punishment to be kept outside of the promised land, removed from his people in eternal exile?
There are many understandings of both Moses' action and God's decision. The Torah's point may be that he disobeyed God, rather than the specifics of how he disobeyed, or that he lacked sufficient faith in his moment of crisis, but the end result is the same:
Moses used force, physical violence, when words were called for.
Moses may have been grieving, even angry, at the death of his sister. He may have been under great stress as the people challenged him yet again, demanding either water or a return to Egyptian slavery. Those ungrateful masses! Anyone might lose their temper, even the great Moses. And he did.
How often do we justify our own loss of control, blaming our outbursts at friends, family, children, co-workers, on grief, anger or stress? We lash out, we use harsh words when gentle ones would suffice; or perhaps we use force, when words would suffice.
And why do we lash out at those closest to us? Those who love us and could be our strongest sources of support? Perhaps because we can. Perhaps because no one holds us accountable for how we behave in private. Perhaps because we take those close to us for granted, expecting that they will be there for us regardless of how we treat them.
I was stunned to learn that in one quarter of Jewish homes, a pattern of lashing out at one's partner reaches the level of domestic abuse. By abuse I mean an escalating, intentional pattern of power and control over one's intimate partner. This can take the form of physical or sexual assaults, but it can also be more subtle…psychological manipulation, financial control, threats, isolation, surveillance, frequent criticism, humiliation. The kinds of control that don't leave bruises, or proof. Can these patterns constitute abuse? The Talmud teaches that to humiliate a person is tantamount to shedding blood (Bava Metzia 58b-59a).
What is the ultimate result of such transgressions against those we love? Separation. Isolation. Exile. Loss of self. Destruction of the soul. When we continually lose our temper and yell at our children or our partner, we create emotional distance, sometimes with life-long repercussions. When we use our fists instead of our voice, we tear apart the fabric of our families.
One of the most important things we learn from Torah is that we are all created in God's image. When we offend the dignity of another person-who is also created in the image of God-we are committing Hillul HaShem (offending the holiness of God) within that person. To understand abuse as an act of Hillul HaShem is to understand it as a crime against God. This also calls upon us to act immediately to prevent abuse from happening, and to confront it when it does occur.
Jewish law tells us that above all else, we must act to preserve life. This holiest of obligations, called pikuach nefesh, holds true even if the act of saving a life contradicts other laws or traditions (such as keeping the family together, preserving shalom bayit, observing dietary laws or holidays). Thus, it must also hold true even if the source of harm is within our own community. And it must hold true no matter how angry or frustrated we become with our loved ones.
This is Shabbat shuva, the time when we all contemplate our mistakes and seek forgiveness. Have we spoken harshly to our loved ones? Have we used violence instead of words? How do we make teshuva for this?
Teshuva is often summarized as that great concept we all learn as children: if you hurt somebody, say you're sorry. If little Sarah hits Emily, Sarah has to apologize to Emily and then everything is OK: Emily is supposed to forgive and move on, and we all go on playing together again.
But what if Sarah strikes out again at her friend? How do we respond as the adults in that moment? If she is asked to apologize a second time, what is the message we give?
In most instances when there is violence or emotional abuse in the home, it is not a one-time incident. You lash out-then perhaps you feel bad, you apologize. But a week or a month or a year later, it happens again. You return to violence as part of a pattern of power and control. You explode. You apologize. You break down, maybe even cry. You promise things will be different.
Victims of domestic violence hear those apologies and promises to change again, and again, and again. They want so much to believe that things will change, that "you really didn't mean it," that love and respect will be restored.
How can an apology suffice, when we have apologized before, and will likely violate our loved one's trust yet again, and apologize again, despite our best intentions to change?
It is not enough to say I'm sorry. In an authentic teshuva process, we need both intention and action to work together. Both are key ingredients, but neither can work alone. In other words, the action of apologizing only works if it is heartfelt. And an apology, no matter heartfelt, is only meaningful if it is followed with a just and logical action: the hurtful deed is not repeated.
What does teshuva mean, when we have acted violently within our own families? Rabbinic teachings on teshuva point to five necessary elements: recognizing one's sins (hakarat ha chet), remorse (charata), desisting from sin (azivat ha chet), restitution (peira'on), and confession (vidui).
The first step is thus recognizing our sins as sins…because we can only create change within ourselves if we recognize that change is necessary. We have to WANT to change. One who has wronged another must admit the wrongdoing to themselves and want to make a serious change within themselves-must commit to a deep inward examination of how they can do things differently in the future. This is the beginning of teshuva.
Once we admit wrongdoing, a constructive way to express remorse is to take responsibility for our actions. Taking responsibility includes owning our hurtful actions without justifying them, minimizing the damage they cause, or blaming anyone else for how we have acted. We are each responsible for our own behavior. Taking responsibility is a necessary step in creating real change.
At this stage, you can show both remorse (charata) and recognition that what you did was wrong (hakarat ha chet) by demonstrating respect for the needs of the other person-not just in word, but in deed. Such respect includes a willingness to abide by the harmed person's requests for distance, time apart, or other safety plans. Even a willingness to take a step back from events or activities in which the person you hurt might participate, recognizing that your presence may still be threatening or uncomfortable. If you can do that, then you are showing that you understand and take responsibility for the impact of your actions.
The third step in making change is azivat ha chet, desisting from sin-actual behavior change so that you do not cause further harm. This can include eliminating controlling or abusive patterns. This process requires engaging in an active, intentional path of internal change. That path takes time, so while you are working on that inner turning and re-turning to self, you will also need outside help to ensure that the hurtful behavior does not continue. This might include completion of an appropriate treatment program, or individual counseling by a qualified professional.
The fourth step in making change is restitution-repairing the financial or other material damage to the person you hurt.-again, a commitment and willingness to give from yourself to repair part of the damage you caused.
Finally, teshuva must incorporate a return to honesty. "I did this, and it wasn't OK." As we confess our abusive and controlling actions, both publicly and to the person we harmed, we go to a deeper level of being accountable for the hurt we caused. We model to others that admitting wrongdoing is not shameful, but rather an important part of restoring justice.
Completion of these steps, or at least beginning them, creates an opening for healing and a realistic potential for change.
As we approach Yom Kippur we prepare to take collective responsibility for the sins of our community…not just those each of us has committed individually, but the collective al cheyt we recite as we atone for the sins of our neighbors as well. It is not just the person who harms his family who must atone. Is it not just as much of a sin to stand idly by when others commit harmful acts?
It is our Jewish obligation to intervene if we know that someone is being harmed. The Torah teaches us: "do not stand idly by the blood of your neighbor" (Leviticus 19:16). Abuse is not a private, family matter. According to Maimonides, it is a transgression if we fail to intervene. Personal intervention is also called for in Deuteronomy 22:2, "thou shalt restore him to himself." This speaks to our obligation to help each person be whole, and to not commit acts which damage a person's selfhood. Therefore, it would seem to prohibit any verbal, emotional, physical, or sexual abuse.
Torah, Talmud, and rabbinic responsae do speak out against many forms of abuse, as we see from the prohibition against ona'at devarim (oppression by means of words, or verbal abuse) to specific rabbinic writings against forced sexual relations. For example, in Talmud tractate Bava Metzia (daf 59) we learn that a husband is not to bring his wife to tears, and in tractate Yevamot (daf 62) we are taught that a husband should love his wife as himself and honor her more than himself.
How then, do we as a community make teshuva for ignoring the silent cries of those who cannot speak out, whether out of fear or shame?
We must become versed in training, education, prevention, and advocacy to handle situations of abuse. We must be clear that abusive behavior is unacceptable in our community, and take steps to address and hopefully prevent it. We must ask ourselves the difficult questions: if I learn that my neighbor, good friend, or relative is abusing their partner, what will I do? How will I intervene? Will I say anything? Will I continue my relationship with them? How can I help to stop the abuse, rather than standing idly by?
There is no right answer to those questions. But they are important questions to wrestle with. And when each of us can answer those questions authentically, and know that if faced with that situation we will respond not out of fear or embarrassment or silence or inaction but out of determination to preserve life-out of the mandate to not stand idly by when others are being harmed-when we engage ourselves and each other in a collective teshuva--then, and only then, can we truly put a stop to the devastation of domestic abuse.
If you, or someone you know, needs help with an abusive relationship, or if you would like to learn more about how you can help others, please speak to me after the service, or call Shalom Bayit toll-free at 1-866-SHALOM-7.
Shabbat Shalom.