Simon Wiesenthal was one of only a handful of prisoners discovered in Mauthausen, Austria, when it was liberated by the U.S. Army in May of 1945. He was barely alive, weighing less than 100 pounds—one of the few survivors of the 149,000 prisoners who had been interned at the labor camp of Janowska, Poland. The rest had been worked to death, or executed, particularly during the increasingly frenzied attempts of the SS to hide its atrocities as the war turned against them.
Amazingly, Wiesenthal survived. And, amazingly, he was eventually reunited with his wife, when each had been sure the other was dead, and they were able to begin a family together.
When he regained his strength, he launched into what would become his life's work: to document the testimonials of concentration camp survivors, and gather dossiers on Nazi leaders in order to bring these war criminals to trial. He came to be called the "avenging archangel" of the Holocaust, persisting in this lonely work for decades, long after everyone around him wanted to forget. He would say it was not a desire for revenge that drove him, but rather the imperative to remember those who had been lost, and to demand that others remember the victims of these crimes.
But there was another memory that Wiesenthal could not put to rest. Over 20 years later, in 1969, he published his little book, The Sunflower, in order to address that memory and the questions it left unanswered. In the last pages he writes:
Was my silence at the bedside of the dying Nazi right, or wrong? This is a profound moral question that challenges the conscience of the reader, just as much as it challenged my heart and my mind…. You who have just read this sad and tragic episode in my life, can mentally change places with me and ask yourself the crucial question, "What would I have done?"
The episode, described in the story we heard earlier [see reading below], not only presents us with Simon Wiesenthal's moral conundrum of whether or not to forgive. It also shows us, very painfully, the soldier's situation. Can we imagine how this man was drawn inexorably into a terrible act that he could not undo, that he could not atone for except by torturing himself, with no faith to redeem him, and no forgiveness from his human judge? If we are willing to put ourselves in the place of this man also, the dilemma of whether or not to forgive is intensified.
In 1976 and again in 1998, The Sunflower was republished with a collection of essays following his original story. The essays are written by an assortment of activists, theologians, religious, political and moral leaders, writers, and artists—over 50 altogether—all of whom took upon themselves that crucial question: What would I have done? Although the writers enter into the particular conditions of the story, their reflections explore the nature forgiveness itself—its limits and its possibilities.
On this Sunday morning, which falls between Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur, we honor our Jewish brothers and sisters and we honor the Jewish tradition by reflecting on the themes of the High Holy Days, the themes of remorse, forgiveness, and returning to right relationship.
We are called to acknowledge those times when we failed to do the right thing, those sins of commission and omission by which we have injured others, injured ourselves, or dishonored our relationship with God or with our spiritual ideal. During these holy days we are encouraged to forgive those who have done us injury, especially when they have recognized their error and expressed their remorse.
Few of us, I pray, will be struggling with remorse or with forgiveness for crimes of the magnitude described in The Sunflower.
And yet any of us may find ourselves in a situation in which we either cannot forgive, or should not forgive, or perhaps should not be forgiven. Or, like the soldier, we many find ourselves burdened by guilt that we cannot resolve, unable to put right something we have done wrong, and longing to be forgiven even as we feel unworthy of that forgiveness.
Drawing upon the story of The Sunflower and a few of the essays that follow it, I'd like to spend some time with these moral and spiritual challenges.
First, we'll reflect on some of the conditions in which forgiveness may be impossible or even inappropriate-that is, the limits of forgiveness.
When Simon returns to his comrades in the camp after his interaction with the dying soldier, he tells his two closest friends about what happened. Struggling to make sense of the experience, Simon feels strangely shaken by its moral and spiritual implications.
One of his friends, Arthur, finds Simon's moral doubts to be foolishly sentimental. Arthur's contempt for the perpetrators is absolute. By their inhuman crimes they have fallen beneath deserving any compassion and certainly any forgiveness. "One less!" says Arthur in exasperation when he sees Simon continuing to brood. Arthur has perhaps entered into the same error of perception as his enemies: In his eyes, they have become an utterly dehumanized, undifferentiated mass. Therefore, Simon's concern is a pointless waste of energy.
Arthur's position illustrates one way in which forgiveness becomes impossible: when we believe that the guilty have permanently forfeited their right to forgiveness by committing the crime; therefore any suffering of conscience that the person experiences is a deserved and appropriate punishment.
Simon's other friend, Josek, has a more philosophical approach to life, as well as an understanding of Talmud. "Be careful, my friend," he says to Simon. "In each person's life there are historic moments which rarely occur-and today you have experienced one such. It is not a simple problem for you. I can see that you are not entirely pleased with yourself. But I can assure you I would have done the same as you did. The only difference perhaps is that I would have refused my pardon quite deliberately and openly, and yet with a clear conscience. What he has done to other people you are in no position to forgive."
He tells Simon he believes in Haolam Emes, life after death, and says, "Would not the dead people from Dnipropetrovs'k come to you and ask, 'Who gave you the right to forgive our murderer?'" In other words, he declares Simon's moral question moot on the basis that he never had any right to forgive on behalf of others in the first place.
Josek's perspective shows us another angle on the withholding of forgiveness: We cannot forgive for something that was done to another person. This idea shows up repeatedly in the essays following The Sunflower, and is a principle of Jewish law. That law declares that, while God can forgive us for a sin we have committed directly against God, God does not pardon us for a sin committed against a fellow human being unless we have first demonstrated our remorse to one we have injured and tried to make amends within that relationship. There is no loophole here, no escape from the human consequences of our actions. We are required to do the hard work of interpersonal reconciliation.
In Abraham Heschel's essay on The Sunflower, he tells the story of a man who insults someone sitting beside him on a train whom he believes to be inferior to him in class and importance. The rude man later discovers that the one he insulted is a great and revered rabbi. The man is mortified by his error and tries repeatedly to gain the rabbi's forgiveness, but the rabbi flatly refuses to forgive.
Eventually the man goes to the rabbi's son, asking him to intercede. According to Jewish law, when someone has sincerely sought forgiveness three times, we are obligated to give it, and so the son is bewildered by his father's lack of mercy. But the rabbi explains that he cannot forgive the man's transgression because it was not committed against himself, the rabbi. It was committed against the person he was mistaken to be. Clearly the man would not have treated him so disrespectfully if he had known who he really was. Rather, the rude man must make amends with those who he is in the habit of mistreating, believing them to be inferior to himself.
In the interaction between Simon and the dying officer, perhaps Simon must withhold forgiveness because the dying man also fails to recognize both the identity of Simon and of the people he participated in murdering. The soldier does not recognize Simon as an individual person. He does not even ask his name. He says, "I do not know who you are, only that you are a Jew, and that is enough." Although he understands that he is guilty of an abominable crime, the soldier remains ignorant of his original error, and the central error of all racial or ethnic prejudice that drives genocide: the refusal to recognize individuals as individuals and thus the denial of their essential personhood.
He sees Jewish people as an entirely undifferentiated population, all with the same characteristics. This anonymous Jew is able to stand in for the others, the ones he killed, and this Jew can forgive on their behalf, because he and they are one and the same.
The soldier also seems motivated primarily by his own suffering and the longing to be released from his personal hell, rather than comprehending the ongoing suffering of others or the implications of the ideology he served. He does not even seem to understand that the man standing before him is a prisoner and is at his bedside by no choice of his own. Utterly self-absorbed, he is tormented by the one incident he took part in as if it were a uniquely awful transgression, failing to see that the same crime goes on day after day after day against countless other victims, and failing to see that he is part of a much larger xxxxxx?????
Sometimes, when someone has hurt us, even when they show remorse, we can see that they clearly have not learned, they have not grown in understanding through the course of the situation. We want that person to understand the nature of their error. We want them to show insight into the implications of their actions. When they fail to do so, and seem more concerned with the unpleasantness of our anger and their own guilty feelings, it can be very difficult to forgive.
But, now, turning to the other side, by what principles might we find forgiveness in this situation, even given all of its troubling ambiguities?
Two years after Simon's experience with the soldier, though before the liberation, he finds himself dwelling again on the memory of that day and his own silence. He engages a Polish prisoner, Bolek, who had been a Catholic seminarian studying for the priesthood before being imprisoned. Simon asks him what his religion would say about such a situation.
Bolek answers, "In our religion, repentance is the most important element in seeking forgiveness…. So, this fellow showed signs of repentance, genuine, sincere repentance for his misdeeds?" "Yes" answers Simon, "I am still convinced of that." "Then, he deserved the mercy of forgiveness."
In Desmond Tutu's response to the story of The Sunflower, he does not judge Simon for the choice he made to remain silent. Tutu will not judge anyone who has suffered greatly at the hands of others and cannot bring himself or herself to forgive. He knows forgiveness should never be facile or cheap. But he tells of the amazing process of forgiveness and reconciliation that was unfolding in South Africa at the time.
Understanding the unforgivable nature of the crimes committed during the Apartheid regime, the willingness of many of the victims to forgive fills him with awe-their magnanimity is beyond understanding. He says he is moved to take off his shoes, knowing he is on holy ground.
Yet he also says, "If we only look to retributive justice, then we could just as well close up shop. Forgiveness is not some nebulous thing. It is practical politics, for without forgiveness, there is no future."
He is speaking of the healing of a torn nation, but it is true for us as individuals. Being unable to forgive, however justified, may end up arresting our own growth and freedom.
The essence of the High Holy Days is the work of Teshuva, turning, turning back, returning, toward the sustaining relationships of our lives that have been wounded or broken, and striving to mend them. We may understand this as reestablishing ourselves in God, or recommitting ourselves to what we love and whom we love, or recommitting ourselves to our ideals.
The work of forgiveness is often as much a part of this returning as is the expression of remorse, because the withholding of forgiveness may keep us frozen, imprisoned, separated from ourselves and others, just as much as does the guilt of misconduct can keep up frozen, imprisoned, and separated from ourselves and others.
At the end of The Sunflower, Simon Wiesenthal reminds us that "Forgiveness is an act of volition, and only the sufferer is qualified to make the decision" as to whether to forgive or not. So one cannot stand outside of another's experience and judge whether or not that person should forgive a transgression that has been committed against him or her.
In my own limited experience, I have found that when forgiveness is difficult, it is because I am starting in the wrong place. Rather than working on forgiveness, I need to work on my own spiritual centering, which is also a form of Teshuva, turning back to the source and strength of my being.
This spiritual centering is healing, and as I heal, I am released from the limited and injured sense of myself that I have been nursing. As I heal, my perception of myself and others becomes clearer and more spacious. I gradually begin to see more than my own perspective. And as my perception becomes clearer, forgiveness begins to unfold naturally.
This process of turning to our spiritual source as a path toward forgiveness applies not only to forgiveness of others, but forgiveness of ourselves.
Sometimes, forgiveness from an external source is not possible, and this can feel like an insurmountable obstacle to healing and finding peace. Remorse and forgiveness require a relational context, they call for the participation of others, and when the other will not or cannot participate, how are we to move toward resolution? And if we, like the soldier in the story, have no sense of a divine presence to whom we may turn to find peace, and do not believe that confession can absolve us, where is peace to be found?
In such occasions, forgiveness of ourselves may be the only way we will ever be able to move forward. Somehow, we must find a largeness within ourselves, we must find the spirit of compassion and understanding within ourselves, and allow that greater dimension of ourselves to hold and to forgive the wounded part of ourselves.
I hope that in these brief reflections, we have seen that forgiveness is no simple thing. Nor is forgiveness obligated simply because it has been asked, and it should never be given casually when the injury has been deep but the reconciliation has been shallow.
With these reflections to guide us, may we still seek and find the paths, however difficult, toward spiritual freedom-freedom from the prison of guilt and freedom from the prison of unforgiveness.
May it be so.
The reading is an excerpt from Simon Wiesenthal's work, The Sunflower, in which he recounts his experiences as a prisoner in a Nazi death camp. The book centers around one morning when he is summoned, randomly, to come to the bedside of a dying SS soldier. The young man, blind and shredded by shrapnel wounds, is tormented with the memory of a particular atrocity he and his troops committed while occupying a city in Ukraine that was a center of Jewish life. After recounting the horrifying story to Simon, he seeks forgiveness:
I saw that he was torturing himself. He was determined to gloss over nothing. Once again he groped for my hand, but I had withdrawn it sometime before and was sitting on it, out of his reach. I did not want to be touched by the hand of death. He sought my pity, but had he any right to pity?
"Look," he said, "those Jews died quickly, they did not suffer as I do—though, they were not guilty, as I am…. I am well aware of my condition, and all the time I have been lying here I have never stopped thinking about that horrible deed.... The pains in my body are terrible, but still worse is my conscience. It never ceases to remind me of the burning house and the family that jumped from the window…."
At this I stood up to go—but he held me fast with his white, bloodless hand. Whence could a man drained of blood derive such strength?
He lapsed into silence, seeking words. He wants something from me, I thought, for I could not imagine that he had brought me here merely as an audience.
"When I was still a boy," he said, "I believed with my mind and soul in God and in the commandments of the Church. Then everything was easier. If I still had that faith I am sure death would not be so hard... I cannot die … without coming clean. This must be my confession. But what sort of confession is this? A letter without an answer…."
No doubt he was referring to my silence. But what could I say? Here was a dying man—a murderer who did not want to be a murderer but who had been turned into a murderer by a murderous ideology. He was confessing his crime to a man who perhaps tomorrow would die at the hands of these same murderers. Yet, in his confession there was true repentance, even though he did not admit it in so many words. Nor was it necessary, for the way he spoke and the fact that he spoke to me was a proof of his repentance.
"Believe me," he went on, "I would be ready to suffer worse and longer pains if by that means I could bring back the dead.… But I am left here with my guilt. In the last hours of my life you are here with me. I do not know who you are, I only know that you are a Jew, and that is enough."
I said nothing. I imagined [the Jewish family] enveloped in flames jumping from the windows….
He sat up and put his hands together as if to pray. Between them seemed to rest a sunflower.
"I want to die in peace, and so I need.…"
I saw he could not get the words past his lips. But I was in no mood to help him. I kept silent.
"I know that what I have told you is terrible. In the long nights while I have been waiting for death, I have longed to talk about it with a Jew and beg for forgiveness from him…. I know what I am asking is almost too much for you, but without your answer I cannot die in peace."
Now there was an uncanny silence in the room. I looked through the window. The front of the building opposite was flooded with sunshine.
Two men who had never known each other had been brought together for a few hours by Fate. One asks the other for help. But the other is himself helpless and able to do nothing for him.
I stood up and looked in his direction, at his folded hands. At last I made up my mind. Without a word, I left the room.