The Day After: Moving Forward When There’s No Regret
Eleven days following Charlie Kirk’s murder, his widow spoke at the memorial service. She took a moment to talk about her husband’s killer.
“That man,” she said, “I forgive him.”
And the crowd of 90,000 responded with a forty-five second standing ovation.
What Erika Kirk said did not surprise me. I still found it jarring.
Putting aside that it is the immediate victim of a crime who should be the one offering forgiveness – a person who by very nature of this crime cannot forgive – there is no indication that Charlie Kirk’s killer believes what he did to be unjust, let alone that he seeks forgiveness.
Erika Kirk’s words are rooted deeply in her Christian faith, and I pray that they bring her comfort.
As Jews though I think our reaction would – should – be different; because, for us, forgiveness requires acknowledgment of wrongdoing. Contrition is precondition for absolution.
Today, tomorrow, some time I pray in the not-too-distant future, we are going to find ourselves at a crossroad.
Please God, this war will end. The hostages will come home. Hamas will no longer be a threat. What follows, I pray, will be two peoples living with dignity and security side by side.
And when that time comes, I will leave it to the קדוש ברוך הוא to figure out how the two sides can get along.
But here, in Toronto and across the diaspora, a different question awaits us: What does our “day after” look like?
It is a question both individual and communal, local and transnational, of trifling effect and life altering.
Some of us have felt it in our own homes and friendships. People we love have said things about Israel and Jews that cut to the bone.
Perhaps it is a co-worker with a “From The River To The Sea” sticker – a slogan we reasonably hear as a call for Israel’s destruction. Perhaps a relative who camped on a university quad, upending the lives of Jewish students. Perhaps an entire professional association or union that found endless words to condemn Israel, but could not find one to plead for the captives.
For me, it is clergy of other religions who themselves or their denominations denounce ‘Israeli aggression,’ without mentioning Palestinian terrorism. Who call for a boycott of Israel, but not countries that rank at the bottom of human rights watchlists. Who say words like ethnic cleansing and genocide without appreciating their histories and meanings.
I wish that were all.
In the years to come, we will have to contend with something much larger – a society that failed us and that will continue to fail us.
We won’t know who now speaks in antisemitic tropes in private WhatsApp groups. We won’t know who will see us as permanent colonizers and oppressors.
Impressions will not reset once hostilities cease. Our enemies have forcefully impregnated the brains of the Jack and Jill Canadian.
Wars end. Memories linger. Our neighbours will not quickly forget – and we won’t forget their silence and complicity.
On this day devoted to forgiveness, the question presses hard:
How do we live with people who have caused real harm yet never admit it?
In Judaism’s most important chapters on repentance, Maimonides is unequivocal.
To deserve forgiveness, the offender must recognize his wrongs.
He must feel remorse.
He must seek forgiveness from God.
And when the injury is to another person, he must make amends.
Absent these, forgiveness is not only undeserved – it is hollow.
This is a theology of dignity.
It insists that human choices matter, that evil is not simply washed away by the passage of time or the generosity of victims. It is a theology that honours victims enough to say ‘your pain is real, and it cannot be erased by easy grace.’
But refusing forgiveness is not the same as feeding anger.
לֹא־תִקֹּם וְלֹא־תִטֹּר – do not take vengeance and do not hold a grudge, the Torah declares.
Rashi gives the classic example:
I deny you my sickle today; tomorrow you deny me your hatchet – that is vengeance.
You lend me your hatchet, while reminding me of my earlier stinginess – that is a grudge.
The sages limited these commands to fellow Jews, yet the moral wisdom is broader. The Torah does not say forgive and forget. It does not command that we call evil good. It commands that we not live chained to resentment.
This is not about letting the offender off the hook. It is about freeing ourselves from a life defined by bitterness.
Many siddurim, including ours, provide liturgy for bedtime that includes the unconditional granting of forgiveness to all who caused pain. The Mishna Berurah notes, ובזכות זה האדם מאריך ימים – “and by this merit, one’s days are lengthened.”
What the Mishna Berurah suggests is two-fold. First, living a life of open-heartedness is so great that it merits Divine reward. Second, a daily emotional purge is good for your health.
To summarize: Don’t forgive, but live life just the same. Let go of our feelings, and let God handle the consequences.
This all feels a little too neat.
Immediately before the mitzvot against vengeance and grudges, the Torah commands us “You shall not hate your kinsfolk in your heart”. It’s not enough to not act on negative feelings, we shouldn’t have them at all – and that’s a commandment!
It is, but it is a limited and instructive one. The verse begins, “Do not hate your kinsfolk in your heart”, then the Torah continues, הוֹכֵחַ תּוֹכִיחַ אֶת עֲמִיתֶךָ, “reprove your kin”. When the hurt comes from someone who can listen, we are commanded to speak to the offender, to invite reflection, to open a door for teshuvah.
If your friend posted something offensive on Facebook; if your colleague used Zionist as a slur; if you’ve been erased simply for the audacity of being Jewish, הוֹכֵחַ תּוֹכִיחַ אֶת עֲמִיתֶךָ, “reprove your kin”.
Figure out the best approach and start. If face to face is best, take your co-worker, or neighbour, or family member out for coffee. If eye contact could make the conversion too awkward, go for a walk or pick up the phone. It is hard, uncomfortable, and necessary work.
But even that is a little too simple.
What about those who hurt us and whose identities are unknown or who are beyond our reach? Students who hide their face while cursing at your children or Hollywood celebrities whose knowledge of the Middle East is minimal, but whose social media following is not?
The Rambam refers those who are exceedingly הדיוט – meaning boorish, but appropriately from the same root as the English word idiot. He also discusses those not savvy enough to understand basic history. For such people, rebuke isn’t necessary, and forgiveness is at the discretion of the offended.
But even that is too easy.
The Sefer HaChinuch, which elaborates on all 613 commandments, writes with respect to not hating someone in your heart, “on the hatred of wicked people, though, there is no prohibition. Rather, it is a religious duty to hate them after we reprove them many times… and they refuse to retract”.
And yet – how many are truly wicked?
Often the harm is more subtle: reputations damaged, seeds of suspicion sown, lies that keep rippling outward even after the speaker regrets them.
Your neighbour may repent of spreading a false rumour, yet the neighbourhood remains poisoned.
So too with much of the harm we face: even when the shouting stops, the damage echoes.
On ‘the day after’, life will calm down. The past will mostly be the past. But the damage done will continue to reverberate.
Those who reflect on their failings and harm caused and who publicly denounce their wrongdoings are deserving of our forgiveness. Let’s not kid ourselves though – they will be few in number.
For the rest whose past words continue to harm, the great Ashkenazi halakhist known as the Magen Avraham writes, forgiveness may be offered by those of humble character, but only after an apology.
And that forgiveness is offered on behalf of no one other than yourself.
The years ahead will demand a spiritual equilibrium: be firm without being hard, be proud without being cruel, be hopeful without being naïve.
Here are four guideposts for ‘the day after’:
1. Name the hurt. Silence corrodes. Whether to a friend, a colleague, or an institution, say: “This caused pain. This crossed a line.”
2. Refuse revenge. Do not strike back in kind. Do not nurse the slow poison of a grudge. This is לֹא־תִקֹּם וְלֹא־תִטֹּר – the Torah alive in us. Resentment is like drinking salt water: the more you drink, the thirstier and sicker you become.
3. Draw clear red lines. Protect your dignity and safety. Do not confuse forgiveness with passivity. To forgive does not mean to invite abuse, nor to accept lies as normal discourse.
4. Keep showing up. Stay engaged in civic life. As we would bristle if someone froze us out for being proudly Zionist, so too we model a better way: disagree fiercely, but keep the relationship open where possible. Holiness is not built behind walls; it is forged in the public square.
And for those who repeatedly and despite warning continue on a path of wickedness? Our tradition does not command forgiveness, we do not turn the other cheek. If anything, it is a mitzvah to hate them back.
This is what it means to be am kadosh – a holy people – a nation separate and apart, with our own identity and beliefs.
Our idea of holiness is not withdrawal.
It is courage with compassion.
Erika Kirk spoke of loving one’s enemies.
Our path will be more complex.
To engage.
To set boundaries.
To stand unafraid.
To believe, even now, that reconciliation is worth seeking where it can be found.
Peace, in our tradition, is not a sentimental mood. It is the hard labour of truth-telling and boundary-setting; the courage to confront and the patience to listen; the willingness to hope without self-deception.
Please God, may the guns fall silent soon.
And when that day comes, may we be ready – with clear eyes, strong hearts, and a faith deep enough to hold both justice and mercy.
May that day come speedily and in our time.
