Judging Others, Judging Ourselves
Yom Kippur, September 25, 2004/5765
Rabbi Jeffrey Summit

Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, is also called Yom Hadin, the Day of Judgment. During this day of reflection and introspection, we have the opportunity to think about judgment on many levels. Certainly, we are judged by our actions. Even more, the quality of our lives and the nature of our communities are shaped by the way in which we judge others, and the way that we judge ourselves. To illustrate this, I want to start with a story.

I learned this story from the writings of Rabbi Jack Riemer. The story is called, "The Rabbi's Gift."

"The story is told of a monastery that had fallen upon hard times. Once it was a great order, but as a result of the waves of anti monastic persecution in the seventeen and eighteen centuries and the rise of secularism in the nineteen, all its branch houses were lost and it had become decimated to the extent that there were only five monks left in the decaying mother house: the abbot and four others, all over seventy in age. Clearly it was a dying order.

Now, in the deep woods surrounding the monastery there was a little cabin that a rabbi from a nearby town occasionally used as a retreat. Through their many years of prayer and contemplation the old monks had become a bit psychic, so they could always sense when the rabbi was visiting the cabin. "The rabbi is in the woods, the rabbi is in the woods again." they would whisper to each other. As he agonized over the imminent death of his order, it occurred to the abbot at one time to visit the rabbi and ask, if by some possible chance, he could offer any advice that might save the monastery.

The rabbi welcomed the abbot at his hut. But when the abbot explained the purpose of this visit, the rabbi could only commiserate with him. "Yes. I know how it is, "he exclaimed, "The spirit has gone out of the people. It is the same in my town. Almost no one comes to the synagogue anymore." So the old abbot and the old rabbi wept together. Then they read parts of the Torah and quietly spoke of deep things. When the time came for the abbot to leave, they embraced one another. "It has been a wonderful thing that we should talk after all these years," the abbot said. "But I have still failed in my purpose for coming here. Is there nothing you can tell me, no piece of advice you can give me that would help me save my dying order?

"No, I am sorry, the rabbi responded, "I have no advice to give you. But then the rabbi paused and said quietly to the abbot. "Yes, there is one thing I have to tell you: One of you is the Messiah."

When the abbot returned to the monastery his fellow monks gathered around him and asked, "Well, what did the rabbi say?"

"He couldn't help," the abbot answered. "We just wept and read the Torah together. The only thing he did say, just as I was leaving--it was something cryptic-he said that one of us was the Messiah! Maybe it's something from Jewish mysticism. I don't know what he meant."

In the days and weeks and months that followed, the old monks began to think about this and wondered whether the rabbi's words could actually be true? The Messiah is one of us? Could he possibly have meant one of us monks here at the monastery? If that's the case, who is it? Do you suppose he meant the abbot? Yes, if he meant anyone he probably meant Father Abbot. He has been our leader for more than a generation. On the other hand, he might have meant that Brother Thomas is a holy man. Everyone knows that Thomas is a man of light. Certainly he couldn't have meant Brother Jonathan! Jonathan gets crotchety at times. But come to think of it, even though he is a thorn in people's sides, when you look back on it, Jonathan is virtually always right, often very right. Maybe the rabbi did mean Brother Jonathan, but surely not Brother Philip. Philip is so passive, a real nobody. But then almost mysteriously he has a gift for somehow always being there when you need him. He just magically appears by your side. Could Philip be the Messiah? Of course, the rabbi didn't mean me. He couldn't possibly have meant me. I'm just an ordinary person. Yet supposing he did? Suppose I am the Messiah? Oh God, me?

As they contemplated in this manner, the old monks began to treat each other with extraordinary respect on the off chance that one of them might actually be the Messiah. And on the off, off chance that each monk himself might be the Messiah, they began to treat themselves with extraordinary respect.

Because the monastery was situated in a beautiful forest, it so happened that people occasionally came to visit the monastery to picnic on its tiny lawn, to wander along some of its paths, even now and then to go into the dilapidated chapel to meditate. And as they did so, without even being conscious of it, they sensed this aura of extraordinary respect that now began to surround the five old monks and seemed to radiate out from them and permeate the atmosphere of the place. There was something strangely attractive, even compelling, about it. Hardly knowing why, people began to come back to the monastery more frequently to picnic, to play, to pray. They began to bring their friends to show them this special place. And their friends brought their friends.

Then it happened that some of the younger men who came to visit the monastery started to talk more and more with the old monks. After a while one asked if he could join them. Then another. And another. And it happened, that within a few years the monastery had once again become a thriving order and, thanks to the rabbi's gift, a vibrant center of light and spirit."

I love this story. It tells such a compelling truth: How we judge and treat the people around us, on a simple day to day level, not only determines our relationship with them but the very quality of life in our community. Whether that community is the floor of a dorm, a culture house, an apartment, a sorority or fraternity, an organization, the administration or the faculty of the University, our small worlds can be transformed when we look at another human being and understand: this person has merit and worth. There are things I can learn from her. The rabbis in the Mishna teach that we should judge every person l'kaf zehut, weighing in our judgment of them on the positive side of the scale. Indeed, in the rabbinic tradition, this approach to how we judge other people is seen as one of the definitions of wisdom: Azeh hu hacham? Halomed m'kol adam. Who is the person who is wise? The one who has the ability to learn something from every person. A wise person is able to really hear and appreciate that every individual can make a valuable contribution to our life, to our community.

This is so hard. Maybe we make quick judgments because it's too difficult or time consuming to really open our hearts to every person we encounter. Sometimes when I'm in a big city, I feel like I have to put on blinders, close out the people around me to just make it from one place to the next. When I do that, I become conscious how much I'm contributing to the feeling of disconnection around me: we create a faceless society when we can't look into the faces of the people around us.

Here's a story that I'm not especially proud of, but I learn a lot from it. There's a coffee shop not far from our house where I'll buy a muffin or a bagel and last year, there was this homeless man, with a shopping cart who took up semi-permanent residency on the bench outside the shop. He'd ask for spare change; Often I'd put in a quarter as I rushed by to get to work. But one morning, I reached in my pocket and realized I just spent the money I was carrying on bagels and we had already made eye contact, so I couldn't just walk away. Instead I sat down on the bench and offered him a bagel and we talked for a bit. Now this is nothing big, but I did learn that he had gone to the same high school my kids had gone to, and he was in contact with the people in social services, but a disability from a car accident had him on the street. When I got up to leave, he thanked me for the bagel but it was clear to me: but much more than I helped him, he helped me not to be so smart or quick in my judgment.

I am not saying that we have to love everyone we meet and immediately take them in as our best and closest friends. I'm saying that when we are too quick to pass judgment on another person because of the way they are dressed, or the job they are doing or how they wear their hair or their age or any numbers of other bad reasons that we fail to see the human being in front of us, it's a triple loss: ours, theirs and the loss of the potential to create a community where people are valued and respected.

I'll share another example of how this gets played out daily in our community. That's the issue of gossip, a topic near and dear to my heart. Not long ago, a group of us from Hillel and the University College organized a symposium on speech and gossip in community, something I hope we'll do again this year. It's instructive to see how the Talmud describes and defines a gossip: A gossip is a person who "sits and says: this person did such and such, their parents did so and so." and the text continues, "Even through the gossiper speaks the truth, that person destroys the world." There are two things I would point out from this text. The first is why does the text use the word "sits" and says? Why not just "says." I believe that reason is because "sits and says" implies "sitting in judgment." One thing that is so wrong about gossip is that the gossiper puts him or herself above the person being spoken about as the gossiper passes judgment on others. It's one thing to thoughtfully and responsibly discuss a friend's actions or mistakes, if your intent is to figure out the best way to help that person. It's very much another thing to pull someone's actions and character apart for your own amusement or the amusement of others. Do we really have the right to sit securely in secret and pass judgment on our friends and acquaintances?

Next, we have to ask how passing this kind of judgment, in the words of the Talmud, "destroys the world." Isn't this a little overstated? One way gossip destroys the world is by creating rifts and conflicts between people in a community. Gossip is also destructive because it creates an atmosphere in a community where people are not able to change because their past mistakes are constantly circulated and discussed as common knowledge. There's a deeper issue here as well: the rabbis felt strongly that if you were angry with someone, you were obligated to go and speak to that person honestly and directly. The rabbis specifically wanted to create a society that promoted and reinforced connections between people. Speaking about them behind their backs was not only cowardly, but it creates separation and conflict. Direct confrontation may take courage but at least it gives the offending party the opportunity to do teshuvah and change.

I want to briefly mention one more aspect of our propensity to judge others too quickly or too harshly. While it's important to be thoughtfully self-critical, you should take care not to judge yourself so harshly that you do yourself a disservice. I'll illustrate this by another one of my favorite stories. This is a story of one of my personal heroes, Rabbi Israel Mayer haKohen, whose pen name was the Chafetz Haim (the one who seeks life). The Chafetz Chaim was one of the greatest authorities on practical ethical topics. His book on gossip was a run away best seller through Eastern Europe and Russia in the late 19th century and he also wrote books on business ethics and how Jewish soldiers should act when conscripted in the army. People said, "Finally, a rabbi is writing about something with relevance, that makes a difference in our lives!" That's the history: this is the story. One day a baal gala, Jewish wagon driver, went to find the Chafitz Hayim to buy some of his books. (People often sold their own books those days.) So this big strapping guy gets to the street where the Chafitz Hayim lives and shouts out "I'm looking for the wise and famous Chafitz Hayim." Now the Chafitz Hayim was extremely modest and so he poked his head out the window and says, "He's not all that wise." The wagon driver gets mad and says, "Don't talk that way about the Chafetz Hayim! Besides, I want to buy some of his books." The rabbi responds, "I can sell you those books." and he walks downstairs and opens the door. The wagon driver proceeds to praise Chafitz Hayim's work saying, "These books are the best, clearest books anyone has written on these subjects." to which the Chafitz Hayim, still incognito, responds, "The books aren't that good." The Wagon driver completely looses it and starts beating up on the Chafitz Hayim, who finally, from sheer pain, admits who is so the guy will stop pounding on him. The wagon driver is mortified and falls down at the rabbi's feet to beg his forgiveness but the Chafitz Hayim says, "Please, it is I who is at fault and you have taught me something tremendously valuable. I have always known that it is wrong to judge others too harshly and say bad things about them. You have taught me that it is also wrong to judge ourselves too harshly and speak badly against ourselves."

I'm not sure if the messiah is among us today, sitting in Cabot Auditorium/The Hillel Center, waiting for someone here to perform an unexpected act of love or kindness before revealing his or her identity. In all truth, the concept of a personal messiah, a strong charismatic leader or a miracle worker, makes me very nervous. AND YET, to the core of my being, I believe that that when we treat those around us with respect, when we judge them positively, when we understand that each person is an important resource and teacher, we create communities into which the messiah could come. Change is within our power, and all change, political and spiritual, starts on a very, very local level.

As Franz Kafka wrote, the messiah won't come on the last day, the messiah will come on the day after the last day, when we have already completed the work of creating families, organizations and communities marked by mutual respect and justice. This is not an impossible task and we should be comforted that the rabbis said that it is not up to us to finish the work. It is our responsibility to begin it. I hope this Yom Kippur is a time for merciful judgments and strong and important beginnings in our lives.