La Clemenza de Joseph

In the annals of our people’s history, there are few figures considered so wicked, so worthy of our contempt as Titus. As military general under Vespasian and then in his brief reign as Roman Emperor, he was responsible for the siege and sacking of our holy city of Jerusalem, the destruction of the Second Temple in the year 70 CE, and our people’s exile – memorialized by the Roman Arch bearing his name. The name Titus has come to represent the ruthless, pitiless, and cruel depths to which humanity can sink.

Which is why it was with great curiosity that I went last week to Lincoln Center to see La Clemenza de Tito – Mozart’s opera whose very title highlights the merciful and forgiving nature of this tyrant. To be sure, one does not attend the opera – sometimes defined as “a feast of the eyes and the ears at the expense of intelligence” – expecting historical accuracy or narrative coherence, but it was startling to watch how Mozart chose to depict Titus in a manner so unexpected, at least to this nice Jewish boy. It was a story of the personal, political and romantic betrayals endured by Titus, and how at each juncture, although the power to be vindictive was in his hands – he was after all the Emperor – Titus chose forgiveness over vengeance, clemency over retribution. No matter what the threat, the wrongdoing, the disloyalty, again and again, Titus responds with mercy. In his own words, “If I am deprived of showing mercy, what is left to me?” La Clemenza de Tito was Mozart’s final opera, and one wonders if the subject of clemency was somehow a conscious valedictory theme for a man seeking to  impart – or alternatively, receive – forgiveness. . Indeed, as with the proliferation of mercy in the final scene of Shakespeare’s final play, The Tempest, we sense that the subject matter of these great works is perhaps a window into the lives of our past masters coping with the subject of their own mortality.

But more than in Mozart, and even more than by the Bard, the virtuous beauty of forgiveness has never been sung as profoundly as in this morning’s tale of Joseph. The object of his brothers’ hatred as a youth, Joseph was thrown into a pit and sold into slavery. Now, years later, having risen to a position of extraordinary power – second only to Pharoah – with his brothers standing vulnerable before him, Joseph has every reason to exact his vengeance. There is absolutely nothing and nobody to stop him. And yet, as we know, at the critical moment of this morning’s Torah reading, Joseph responds with clemency, not retribution, with magnanimity, not reprisal. Often our focus is on the brothers, their remorse, regret and repentance that brought them to this point. But equally, if not more dramatic is the journey of Joseph’s soul, the process by which he transcends his right to and need for payback in order to arrive at the decision to embrace his brothers.

The text is altogether expressive. Upon hearing Judah’s plea, we are told, “V’lo yakhol Yosef l’hitapek” (Gen 45:1), which is often translated as “Joseph could not restrain himself,” but I think most literally it means “Joseph couldn’t keep it together.” As the medieval commentator Rashbam notes, up until this moment Joseph had deployed all his strength to control his internal struggle, but it was at this juncture that the emotional dam broke. His cry was heard across the land and his tears flowed freely. It was then and only then, in his tears, that he revealed himself to his brothers, assured them of his good intentions and extended to them clemency and hesed, kindness. From this point and into the years ahead, and as we will learn next week, even after Jacob’s passing, Joseph harbors no resentment and seeks no reckoning for past misdeeds. The brothers continue to fear that Joseph will take revenge, but Joseph repeatedly demonstrates a generosity of spirit fully worthy of his biblical predecessors. Indeed, it is arguably in Joseph’s tears that the Biblical reader encounters a sublime rachmones, a forgiving spirit exceeding that of Esau and Jacob, of Moses vis-a-vis Israel or that shown in any other narrative. And as we know from this morning’s haftorah, Joseph’s embrace of Judah signifies far more than an act of fraternal reconciliation. It embodies the cosmic significance proclaimed by the prophet Ezekiel, the profound reprieve that comes to all parties when one who is wronged, one who has every right to be aggrieved, chooses not to be.

There are in this world some wrongs whose hurt runs too deep or whose scope is too wide for forgiveness to be granted. Some wrongs simply cannot be righted, and forgiveness, whatever its virtues, will never undo the past. And sometimes, it is not our right to forgive wrongs committed against others in other places or times. Certainly in a week such as the one just passed, we know as Americans that there are limits to any discussions of forgiveness.

But we also know, each and every one of us, that in certain circumstances there are times when the act of extending forgiveness to one seeking atonement can be the most liberating and powerful arrow in the quiver of human behavior. It is all too easy to believe ourselves to be wronged, to let animosity and resentment build up within, and to allow a grudge to take hold. We know that with every grudge that takes root, there comes a gravitational pull of vindictiveness whose orbit is nigh impossible to escape. But it is also true that the liberating act of breaking forth and freeing ourselves from that destructive pull is mightier still. As the sage Ben Zoma declared, “Who is mighty? The one who conquers his urge.” An act of forgiveness not only mends a relationship, but also lifts a burdensome weight from us. If as Mandela wrote, “Resentment is like drinking poison and then hoping it will kill your enemies,” then forgiveness is the elixir that can liberate our souls.

The power of forgiveness extends even further. Think about how you felt the last time you were forgiven for a misdeed, small or large. Initially there may be only a sense of relief, but what really happens – what should happen – is that you experience being forgiven as both a vote of confidence and a challenge. You see yourself as a person worthy of forgiveness. The great hasidic master the Baal Shem Tov was once approached by a man whose son had strayed, had hurt many and had discarded the path of piety. “What shall I do, Rebbe?” the man asked. “Do you love your son?’ asked the rebbe. “Of course I do,” replied the man. “Then love him even more.” Being forgiven is not the same as being given a “free pass.” To give and receive forgiveness is a momentous act asking a huge amount of both parties. To be forgiven means that you are given the opportunity to prove to the person who forgave you, to prove to the world and most of all prove to yourself that the other person was right in forgiving you.

Joseph may have forgiven his brothers because they had mended their ways. Joseph may have forgiven his brothers because he believed all that had happened to him to be God’s doing, that sufficient time had passed, the wound had healed and it was time to move on. Joseph may have forgiven them because in that act he was extending to them the opportunity to prove themselves worthy of his forgiveness. We will never know the exact reasons. What I do know is that at that critical juncture, when the scale in his heart teetered back and forth, Joseph took a daring leap forward, believing that the greater good called on him to challenge his brothers, challenge himself and challenge their relationship with the possibility that their future could be brighter than their past. It wasn’t easy and it bore risk. There was no guarantee that his courageous act, his tears, would bear fruit. Indeed, perhaps the most important thing to say about forgiveness is that it is an act of faith that has no equal in the span of human activity. After all, whenever we forgive, we do so without knowing if the person we forgive will fail us again, we do so with no assurances as to what the next day will bring.

There is a beautiful midrash that explains that as God was creating the world, the attribute of din (justice) insisted that the world be created with it alone, for otherwise the world would be filled only with violence, crime and chaos. At which point, the attribute of rahamim (mercy) insisted that the world should be created with it alone; otherwise, God would no doubt destroy the world, given man’s propensity for sin. So what did God decide? God compromised and combined din and rahamim, justice and mercy, and created our world with these polarities in balance. Ever since, the rabbis explain, as each and every day begins, God utters a prayer to the divine self, “May it be My will that My attribute of mercy overpowers My attribute of justice.” (B.T. Berachot 7a). In the presence of an imperfect world and a flawed humanity, God has to dig deep every single day to find the strength to forgive.

I imagine that many of us, as may have been the case with Joseph during those years in jail, sit imprisoned by our hurt, imagining the day when the wrongs will be righted, grudges will be settled and the scales of justice set straight. The point of the midrash is that our world demands both justice and mercy and it is hard, God knows, to let the attribute of mercy carry the day. Like Joseph, we come to learn that true liberation is brought about not merely by being freed from physical shackles, but also by being liberated from the bitterness and hatreds of yesteryear. Not everybody is worthy, timing is everything and it is a gesture that must be earned, but make no mistake about it. Strong as the urge for justice may be, the most powerful force in this world is not vengeance but forgiveness. With every drop of it, with every tear, like Joseph, we can retrieve the fullness of our humanity, the fullness of our relationships and our God-given and Godlike ability to forgive.