Choosing to Forgive

There is a peculiar arithmetic to the High Holidays. We spend Elul and the Ten Days of Repentance mentioning our failures before G-d, certain that the hardest work of teshuvah is the reckoning we do with Heaven. The Talmud in Rosh Hashanah suggests the opposite: the shortest, surest path to divine forgiveness runs through the grievances we hold against other people. The Talmudic Sage Rava teaches “whoever forgoes the reckoning owed to him for wrongs done against him has all his own transgressions forgone by the Heavenly court in turn.” He grounds this in a verse from Micah: "He bears iniquity and passes over transgression." Rava reads the verse almost mathematically: whose iniquity does God bear? The iniquity of the one who himself passes over the transgressions done against him. Measure for measure. The forgiveness we extend becomes, quite literally, the forgiveness we receive. The Talmud doesn't leave this as abstraction. It tells us of Rav Huna the son of Rav Yehoshua, who fell gravely ill — so ill that Rav Pappa, visiting, quietly instructed the household to prepare his shrouds. Rav Huna recovered. When his friends later asked what he had seen at the threshold, he reported that the Heavenly court had indeed been prepared to judge him strictly until G-d intervened on his behalf: "Since he does not stand on what is owed to him, you too should not be exacting with him." The man's own willingness to let go of grievances became the very argument for his life. This is not a comfortable teaching, because letting go rarely is. And it lands differently when you consider how many of us are carrying these grievances. A 2025 YouGov survey found that 38% of American adults are currently estranged from a close family member — a sibling, a parent, a child, or a grandparent. That is not a fringe phenomenon. It is more than one in three of the people sitting beside us in shul this Yom Kippur, and quite possibly some of us reading this. Estrangement has become so common that it barely registers as newsworthy anymore — which is itself the problem. We have normalized the silence. Researchers who study the trend, like the psychologist Joshua Coleman, point to something else worth naming: estrangement has become culturally destigmatized in a way it wasn't a generation ago. What was once a private shame is now, on social media, sometimes framed as an act of self-protection or identity — a closed door celebrated rather than mourned. That shift makes Rava's teaching more urgent, not less. A culture that increasingly rewards walking away needs, more than ever, a countervailing voice that asks what is gained by staying in the account. The Talmud is not asking us to pretend the wrong didn't happen, or to reconcile with someone who remains unsafe. Choosing to forgive is not naivete; it is a deliberate relinquishing of the accounting — the decision to stop keeping score even when the ledger is accurate. What Rava promises is that this act, difficult as it is, is precisely what unlocks Heaven's own accounting on our behalf. So before the gates close, there is a question worth sitting with: Is there someone whose debt to me I am still holding? A sibling I haven't called. A parent whose apology I'm still waiting for. A child who cut off contact I've never truly examined my part in. Rava's teaching offers a striking trade: let go of what is owed to you, and Heaven lets go of what you owe. This Yom Kippur, that may be the most direct route to being written and sealed in the Book of Life. Have a Peaceful Shabbos and a Meaningful Yom Kippur, ​ Rabbi Yaakov Fisch

Rosh Hashanah and 9/11 Converge

Tonight, as we usher in Rosh Hashanah 5787, we cross a threshold that will not come again: the twenty-fifth anniversary of September 11th falls on the very evening that zichronos — remembrance — becomes the operative theme of our prayers. We did not engineer this coincidence. The Jewish calendar simply placed it before us, and it is worth pausing on before the shofar sounds. Zichronos is one of three central sections of the Rosh Hashanah Mussaf, alongside Malchuyos (Kingship of G-d) and Shofros (Sound of Shofar), each crafted from ten verses in Tanach. The Zichronos verses describe G-d "remembering": "וַיִּזְכֹּר אֱלֹקִים אֶת נֹחַ". Translation: "And G-d remembered Noach"; the covenant with the Patriarchs and the cry that precipitates the Exodus (Shemos 2:24). On its surface, the language is strange. Does the Master of the Universe forget? The Maimonides answers this the way he answers all anthropomorphic language about G-d: "remembering," applied to Hashem, cannot mean recall. Unlike frail humans, G-d does not forget. Rather, it means the covenant becomes operative—providence enters into a specific relationship, at a specific moment, with consequence attached. In Zichronos, memory is not a mental event. It is the hinge on which judgment turns. This is, in fact, how memory works throughout Jewish law generally. Our obligation to remember Shabbos or the Exodus is not an invitation to nostalgia. The Haggadah does not ask us to recall the Exodus; it obligates each of us, in every generation, to see ourselves as though we personally left Egypt. Memory, in this context, is not preserved. It is transmitted, and the transmission itself is the mitzvah. That is the bridge to this particular anniversary. A member of our shul born after 2001 has no personal memory of that Tuesday morning — no memory of the smoke over two cities, of a nation's synagogues filling that Shabbos, of neighbors checking on neighbors regardless of faith. In another decade, no one leading davening on a random Tuesday will have lived it firsthand. This is exactly the problem the machzor was built to solve for a covenant three thousand years old: how do you bind a generation to a memory it did not experience? Not by relying on the dwindling number of people who were there. By ritual seriousness, repeated with enough weight that the memory becomes structural rather than personal. There is a further layer particular to Zichronos that a purely civic day of remembrance does not carry: it ties memory to din or judgment, to consequence, to what we owe because of what we remember. A Jewish remembrance of September 11th is not only grief for what was lost. It asks what vigilance, what gratitude toward those who still stand guard, what unity across difference, we owe because we remember rightly. We enter 5787 tonight having been reminded, by the calendar itself, that memory and judgment arrive together. May we merit to remember well — and to be remembered for a year of life, health, and peace. כתיבה וחתימה טובה Rabbi Yaakov Fisch