You’ll be reading this towards the end of the Jewish month of Elul, a few days before Rosh Hashonah (the universe’s birthday) and maybe two weeks before Yom Kippur (The Day of Atonement). The 10 days between are called “The Ten Days of Awe.” Here’s how these 39-days work.
Yom Kippur, a day of fasting and prayer, is said to be when God decides whether to seal us into the book of life or the book of death for the coming year. So, we better finish our unfinished business before the sun goes down. Since that’s obviously too much to do in one day, especially while fasting and praying, we have the Ten Days of Awe to do that work. If we’ve wronged God or anyone, depending on which book we’re in, this could be our last chance to set things right. To make that a little easier, it is said, God makes himself especially available during this time. Being an Atheist, I’m not concerned about wronging God, but people . . . oh yeah!
Figuring out who I’ve wronged and how to make amends isn’t easy. And that’s just the prep work. That’s what the 29-days of Elul are for: the prep work. The whole process is something like an annual moral checkup along 12-step lines. During Elul, we take moral inventory; during the Days of Awe, we apologize and make amends; and on Yom Kippur, we experience spiritual renewal.
Doing this work can be problematic for Jews. Christians who have mistreated people can ask God for forgiveness, but in Judaism God only forgives offenses against God. When we wrong people, we have to ask those people for forgiveness and make amends directly to them. So, what can we do when those people are dead?
That question is painfully real for me. Like many of us, I started disrespecting my parents in my mid-teens. Unlike most, I kept it up for two decades. It wasn’t their fault. They gave me what they could and then some. They didn’t restrict me or make excessive demands. But they spoke with Austrian accents. We were poorer than most of my friends’ families, and lived in a crappy apartment on the edge of a classy neighborhood. My mother hovered over me, walking me to school until the fourth grade. I shared her bedroom until the sixth grade, while my father slept alone. They were kind, loving parents. But their Viennese customs and accent seemed weird to their American son, and our relative poverty embarrassed me.
In Austria, before fleeing from the Nazis, my parents were financially comfortable. People addressed my father, a dentist, as “Herr Dokter.” They had a housekeeper/cook, skied, attended the opera, danced beautifully and vacationed abroad. By the time I was in middle school, they had clawed their way back from deep poverty to just being constantly broke while trying to appear middle class. I didn’t realize it (and they would never admit it), but they were ashamed of themselves. I was ashamed of myself, blamed it on them and treated them terribly. I demanded things they couldn’t afford. I screamed and called them names. I slammed doors. Once, in an argument over food, I dumped a plateful on my father. Four days before my wedding (I was 24), I humiliated them by moving out and refusing to arrive at the ceremony with them. I invited them for a speedboat ride, then, in spite of my father’s heart condition, I drove recklessly enough to terrify them. My offenses are endless.
Therapy helped, and by my mid-thirties I treated them respectfully. Though we were never close, my anger gradually lessened, and they finally enjoyed a well-deserved quarter century with their only child and his family. But they also deserved an apology they never got, and now it’s too late. Or is it?
The Rabbis say I can’t make amends, and I have to live with that, but I can rehabilitate my character by publicly acknowledging my wrongful behavior in the presence of at least 10 adults, and by giving to charity and doing good deeds in their honor. That may sound like a religious technicality, but the spirit is this: Don’t just regret silently. Say it aloud, own it publicly and then live differently. That’s how we change who we are. I wrote my story hoping that at least 10 adults will read this column, thereby fulfilling the first requirement. Going forward, I dedicate my work with Age-Friendly Carbondale and my donations to two congregations and four nonprofits (including The Sopris Sun and KDNK Radio) to the memories of Ernest and Trudy Kokish.
Mature Content is a monthly column about perspectives on aging or about life from the perspectives of older people. I’m 84. Sometimes it takes decades to admit how we failed those who loved us most. Time and the wisdom of a faith tradition can help make honesty less frightening and more comforting. My thanks to the Down Valley Jewish Chavurah, and especially Joan Wallis and Niki Delson for their guidance.
Mature Content is a monthly feature from Age-Friendly Carbondale.