by Ner Tamid | Oct 3, 2025 | Sermons
His was the ultimate redemption story. The destitute shepherd who became the wealthy leader, the man who said of himself that he would venomously bite a Torah scholar if he saw one who became the greatest Torah scholar to have ever lived, the loner who is the central character in the Talmud’s greatest love story.
I am referring, of course, to Rabbi Akiva.
Rabbi Akiva lived during one of the most tumultuous times in Jewish history. Born in the year 50 of the Common Era, he saw the destruction of the Second Temple, was an influential figure in the failed Bar Kochba revolt and as we will read later this morning, he died a martyr at the hands of the Romans. Despite the chaos he was surrounded by, he managed to elevate Torah scholarship to such a degree that the Talmud (Menachos 29a) compares him to Moshe.
He is also responsible for the most well-known and widely practiced Jewish custom, the recital of Kaddish. The earliest source that connect Rabbi Akiva to the custom of a mourner saying Kaddish is found in the Machzor Vitri, an 11th century prayerbook, that shares the following story:
One day, Rabbi Akiva was walking through a cemetery when he encountered a terrifying-looking man. Unclothed, filthy, and most notably, wearing a crown of thorns. The man was running at full speed, chopping wood and loading the wood on his back. Rabbi Akiva caught up to him. Who are you? And who is your master? “I will free you!” declared Rabbi Akiva. Undoubtedly, reminded of his own humble beginnings, Rabbi Akiva always had a soft spot for the poor.
The man tried to brush Rabbi Akiva off. But Rabbi Akiva was persistent. “Who are you? I want to help you!”
אמר לו אותו האיש, ‘that man’ replied: “I am actually not alive. I died years ago. But every day, I am sent to chop wood. I have no rest, not in heaven and not in hell. I am damned to this eternal existence.”
Rabbi Akiva was not one to give up easily. “Why? What’s your story? What’s your name? I am going to see what I can do for you.”
The man informs Rabbi Akiva that his name is also Akiva. He was a tax collector who favored the rich and persecuted the poor. “I lived such an evil life that there is nothing that could be done for me.” And with that, he runs off into the darkness.
Rabbi Akiva travels through the region, stopping in every city, and asking them if they knew of this man. Finally, he arrives at one city, and oh did they know him. They share with Rabbi Akiva story after story of how evil this man was. “Not only that,” they say, “he fathered a child out of wedlock!”
Rabbi Akiva finds the child; he is living on the streets. Nobody wants to have anything to do with him. Rabbi clothes him, educates him, and after months of hard work and practice, the boy stands before the congregation and says Kaddish.
That night, the other Akiva appears to Rabbi Akiva in a dream, to thank him. He is clothed, he is clean, and his face is shining. This, concludes the Machzor Vitri, is why children say Kaddish for their parents.
There are two oddities of the text that are worth highlighting. I know, you’re tired and hungry, but let’s do a little Talmudic analysis.
“Oso ha’ish, that man,” is a way of saying, a man whose name we will not mention. He is “wearing a crown of thorns.”
Whose name do many Jews not mention? Who is depicted as wearing a crown of thorns?
Yes, the man in this story is a not-so-subtle allusion to Jesus. You have to appreciate, Machzor Vitri was written in France in the immediate aftermath of the Crusades. This was not a time of peaceful coexistence between Jews and Christians. And yet, the author, a prime student of Rashi, sends us a full-throated reminder, Yisrael af al pi shechata, Yisrael hu! That a Jew is a Jew is a Jew. No matter what we do, no matter how far we fall, there is always a chance for redemption. Even a man who started another religion, whose practitioners were massacring Jews as this book was being written, nonetheless, every Jew can turn his or her life around.
But the second oddity is even more shocking than the first. When this man finally gives his name, it is – Akiva. The man is chopping wood. Before becoming a shepherd, Avot D’Rav Nosson informs us that Rabbi Akiva’s profession was that of a woodchopper.
You see, Rabbi Akiva was not looking at a ghost. Rabbi Akiva was looking in the mirror. He was looking at an alternative to his own life. He saw this ‘Other Akiva,’ he saw the life of spiritual ignorance, of ethical failures, and he said, “That could have been me.”
***
Long before he was governor, Wes Moore wrote a book called, The Other Wes Moore.
Love him or hate him, our governor, Wes Moore, has a very inspiring life story. A troubled youth but thanks to the influence of a number of incredible role models, he turned his life around.
By the time he was 21, in the year 2000, he was a Rhodes Scholar traveling in South Africa. One day his mother shared with him a newspaper clipping from the Baltimore Sun. There was a young man, the same age, who grew up just a few blocks away, and was being charged with manslaughter for killing a police office after a botched burglary in downtown Baltimore. The other man’s name was Wes Moore.
Governor Moore remembers thinking to himself: “The other Wes Moore is a drug dealer, a robber, a murderer. I am a Rhodes scholar, a White House Fellow, a former Army officer.”
And yet, “Our situations could easily have been reversed.”
All of us have numerous paths before us. Rabbi Akiva, Wes Moore, all of us have an Other. Had I not gone to that school, had I not met this person, had I not made that choice, my life would be radically different than it is. Do you ever wonder about the infinite possible paths your life could have taken?
The mistake we make is that we think that our path-choosing is done. That by the time Wes Moore wrote that book, at the age of 30, his life trajectory was already set in motion. Rabbi Akiva, the ever-growing, the ever-evolving, the ever-optimistic Rabbi Akiva rejects this. He was at least 80 years old when that story took place. He saw the Other Akiva and he said, “This could be me. I don’t want this life. I could do better!” And he did.
It was at around this time that he grappled with the fall-out of the failed Bar Kochba revolt, it was at around this time that thousands of his students died, his life work seemed finished. But Rabbi Akiva was undeterred. At every juncture, he saw two paths before him, and each time, Rabbi Akiva reinvented himself. “I don’t want this life. I could do better!” And he did. (See Yevamos 62b)
This, suggests Rav Samson Raphael Hirsch, is the meaning behind the Yom Kippur service in the temple. There were two identical goats that were part of the service. One was brought as an offering; its blood sprinkled in the Holy of Holies. The other was thrown off a cliff, la’azazel. Says Rav Samson Raphael Hirsch, every year on Yom Kippur we are reminded of the two, and really, not just two, but the endless paths before us. Which path will we choose?
***
One of the greatest techniques for helping us see the different paths open before us is by thinking about our parents. We have their genes, and thanks to nature and nurture, we can see ourselves in them. Some of us had magnificent loving parents, some had horrific abusive parents, and many had parents somewhere in between. All of us have traits that are a direct result of our mother and father.
The goal of life is not to simply perpetuate our parents’ legacy; it is to take it further, higher, grander. The term for child in Hebrew is ben from the word binyan; we are meant to build on their successes and failures. They remind us of who we could be, and that knowledge is meant to motivate us to be better. Because there are so many possible versions of ourself that are just waiting to be realized.
It is not a coincidence that when Rabbi Akiva came face to face with the Other Akiva, he instituted Kaddish. Kaddish, the prayer we say for our parents, the prayer that focuses not on the past but on a radical version of peace in the future, is meant to remind us of our possible future, the other you waiting to be realized.
***
Menachem Begin, former Prime Minister of Israel, once shared the following story: “I’ve been to jail three times,” he said. “The first time the communists arrested me in Vilna. The Soviets locked me up in one of their prisons. I was held there for six weeks and all I could think about was getting back home. The second prison was a forced labor camp in Siberia. By my sixth week in Siberia, I dreamt of being back in that first prison cell. The third time, the Soviets put me in solitary confinement, and I dreamt of being back in that Siberian labor camp.”
“The Jewish People as a nation have been through so many years of suffering, humiliation, and abuse. When they think of peace, they’re content when people aren’t shooting at them. When they think of freedom, they’re content by not being slaves. My job,” he concluded, “as prime minister of Israel is to make sure that Jewish children never dream of labor camps or of prisons, but that they dream the dreams of a free people.”
How many of us are simply content with survival, with living another year? How many of us are okay with keeping the status quo of our current relationships, with loved ones, with G-d?
Like the Jewish People as a whole, we’ve been conditioned through so many failures, that we’re content with so little.
And what a pity that is.
Because there is another version of you waiting to be realized. The ‘other you’ who overcomes the anger, the laziness, the jealousy, the judgmentalism, once and for all. Who says, just because I lived with these negative traits for decades, doesn’t mean I cannot overcome them.
There is another version of you who reconciles with his or her brother, sister, spouse, child, old friend. There is another version of you who is not content with an okay relationship with a loved one; but wants to live with passion and forgiveness and safety and works tirelessly until you get there.
There is another version of you who deepens their knowledge of their tradition. A version of you not content with an elementary understanding of this faith that our ancestors lived and died for. But who wants to speak to G-d as an intimate lover and to feel His presence through the good times and in the valley of death.
Let’s take advantage of these next few moments when many of us think about our parents and ask ourselves how we can take their legacy further. Let’s take advantage of these next few hours, as we read of the two goats, as we recall the story of Rabbi Akiva, and ask ourselves who we can be.
There is another version of you just waiting to be realized.
(h/t to Rabbi Jon Gross esq. for the brilliant Wes Moore-Rav Hirsch connection and to Rabbi Joe Wolfson for the majestic read of the Machzor Vitri)
by Ner Tamid | Oct 3, 2025 | Sermons
Alfred Dehodencq was one of the most accomplished artists of the 19th century. Born in France, he chose to live in Morrocco for over a decade, where his most famous paintings were produced. Many of his painting depict typical Jewish scenes, but one stands out, known as, The Execution of a Jewess in Morocco.
Made in 1861, it is a powerful picture with a Jewish girl at the center being forced to kneel on a large platform. There is a large Arab standing over her with a knife to her neck. In the crowd there are two groups; one jeering and excited to see this execution. The other group somber and scared. In the foreground, there is a rabbi, depicting the leader of the community, deep in prayer, hunched over and broken.
The Jewess in the painting is Solica Hachuel.
I shared her story with some of you on Tisha B’av, but her story and specifically this painting has been haunting me ever since. There are differing versions as to what exactly took place; what I will be sharing with you is from Eugenio Maria Romero, a Spaniard who visited Morrocco shortly after this affair.
Solica was a 17-year-old Jewish girl who lived in Tangier, Morrocco. She was exceptionally beautiful and strong-willed; two factors that would play an important role in her life. She was friends with a Muslim neighbor, which was common at the time. At one point, her Muslim neighbor tried to get Solica to convert to Islam. Solica was not interested. However, it seems like her neighbor was as strong-willed as Solica and kept encouraging her to accept Muhammad as the true prophet. Solica repeatedly declined.
Exasperated, the neighbor turned to the local authorities and claimed that Solica had secretly converted to Islam. Her intention was possibly to get the authorities to force Solica to start practicing as a Muslim. However, the punishment for practicing Judaism after converting to Islam was death. Solica was brought before the local governor who accepted the Muslim girl’s testimony and then turned to Solica informing her that unless she accepted to live her life as a Muslim she would die.
After being threatened by death, Solica, the 17-year-old girl, replied to the governor: “I will patiently bear the weight of your chains; I will give my limbs to be torn by wild beasts. I will renounce forever the light of the day; I will perish of hunger. And when all the evils of life are accumulated on me by your orders, I will smile at your indignation, and the anger of your prophet since neither he nor you are able to overcome a weak female!”
The Jewish community mobilized and attempted to use whatever connections they had to free Solica. The most high-ranking individual they could reach was the Spanish Vice-Consul, who made a feeble attempt, but was unsuccessful.
Eventually, thanks to the public outcry, the case made its way to the Sultan. Allegedly, the sultan’s son was so taken by Solica’s beauty that he offered to marry her and make her a princess, if only she would convert. She refused. “A Jewess I was born, and a Jewess I will die,” is what she said.
One of the many people who came to visit her while she was waiting for her execution was one of the community’s leading rabbis. He explained to her that technically she could just pretend to accept Muhammad. He pleaded with her to do so, explaining how it would be extremely helpful for the Jewish community’s safety if she converts.
She refused.
On June 5th, 1834, Solica was dragged to the marketplace, where she was executed publicly with the words of Shema Yisrael proudly on her lips. If you visit Fez, you can join the many people who visit her grave.
Solica’s execution is most obviously a tragic tale. But the real tragedy is not her execution. The real tragedy is the community’s impotence; their inability to do anything about those false charges. The most heartbreaking tragedy of all is the rabbi, the rabbi depicted in that famous painting, who pathetically begged this heroine to renounce her faith.
I’m being a little harsh, I know. Who could blame him? The Jews, in the 19th century were powerless and completely dependent on the goodwill of their rulers. Of course, the rabbi had to meekly beg her to hide her true faith. Who can blame the community for not doing more? The Jews, in the 19th century, did not have political power.
But imagine for a moment that this story happened today. Do you know what kind of political pressure there would be on Morocco? How many presidents and prime ministers would weigh in and force the Moroccan government to let her go?
And if Morocco would refuse to listen, can you imagine the field day Mossad agents would have? Do you how many Moroccan beepers would blow up? How many nuclear scientists would mysteriously die?
And if they still refused, I could see Netanyahu sending fighter jets to blow up the prison and rescue her. I could even imagine Yair Lapid congratulating him for doing so.
And that pathetic, meek, rabbi, pleading with Solica to denounce her own faith, can you even imagine such a thing happening today?! Not. A. Chance.
There is a lot of handwringing in our community these days. Yes, antisemitic incidents are on the rise, yes, Israel is more isolated than she’s been in decades, yes, what is going on in Gaza is an absolute nightmare. But in over 2000 years, it has never been this good to be a Jew.
Since the creation of the State of Israel, have the enemies of the Jewish state been more afraid than they are today? Scared to use their phones, scared to meet in groups, scared to breathe.
There is a lot that is imperfect and terrible. We will not rest until the hostages come home, until the soldiers go back to their families, and until there is peace in Israel, but don’t tell me this has not been one of the most momentous years in recent Jewish history. Annihilation of Hezbollah in Hollywood fashion, near-decimation of Hamas, attacking the nuclear facilities of Iran and bringing the country to its knees?
If there is one thing history books will be saying about this year, it is that in 5785, the world learned that Jewish blood is not cheap.
Too bad Solica did not live in 2025, because if she did, she would still be alive. She would be walking the streets of Jerusalem with her head held high.
There are two ways to enter into Yom Kippur. We could be burdened by our inadequacies and how far we are from where we need to be, as individuals and as a people. We could look like that hunched over rabbi in that picture, weighed down by guilt and by shame. Or we could walk into Yom Kippur filled with gratitude; reflecting on a year in which G-d conveyed to us how after 2000 years of exile, He is watching over us and He cares.
Atoning for our sins is critical, but atonement is the trees of Yom Kippur. The forest – is how G-d is giving us an opportunity to reignite our relationship with Him. You know why He does this for us? You know why He gives us an opportunity to apologize to Him, to reconcile, to reconnect? Because Jewish blood is not cheap. Because we are precious to Him. And He wants us to know that.
We just said the blessing of She’hechiyanu, thanking G-d for bringing us to this day. On the Yom Kippur of 1834, in Tangier, Morrocco, Solica’s parents said this blessing with a stream of tears falling from their eyes. Despite all they went through, despite the pain and shame, they clung to their faith with bowed heads.
If Solica Hachuel lived today, she’d be screaming Shehechiyanu from the rooftops. And so should we.
Thank you, Hashem, for this past year, with all its hardships and all the unfinished business.
Thank you, Hashem, for eliminating so many of our neighboring enemies; Hezbollah, the Syrians, and most of Hamas.
Thank you, Hashem, for releasing our fear of the Iranians; we had been so scared of them for so long, and you have showed us their weakness.
Thank you, Hashem, for allowing the IDF and its security forces to be so successful, and showing the world that Jewish blood is not cheap
Thank you, Hashem, for reminding us that we matter, for allowing us to live in these glorious times. We are looking forward to spending these next 24 hours expressing our gratitude and rekindling our relationship. She’hechiyanu v’kiy’manu v’higiyanu lazman hazeh.
by Ner Tamid | Oct 1, 2025 | Sermons
A rabbi and his disciple were once walking together deep in discussion. They arrived at the bank of a river and saw a young woman in tears. “Why are you crying?” asked the rabbi. She told him that she was deathly afraid of water, but she really needed to get to the other side of the river. “No problem,” said the rabbi. He suggested that she climb on his back, which she did. And he carried her across the river.
The student followed behind, the entire time, shaking his head. The woman thanked the rabbi profusely, went on her way, and the rabbi and his student continued walking. The student kept shaking his head and muttering under his breath.
After about two miles, the rabbi turned to his student and said, “What’s bothering you?”
Incredulous, the student responded: “Rabbi, we’re not allowed to touch a woman other than our wife! You let this woman on your back. You held onto her!”
“Yes,” said the rabbi. “I did.”
“But I let go of her two miles ago at the crossing. Why are you still carrying her?”
We’re starting the holiest day of the year. Many of us are dressed in white, as we emulate the angels and attempt to fly to the heights of spirituality. But our wings are just not strong enough to bear all that we carry. All of us here have memories, all of us here have strong emotions that we can’t seem to shake. And now, at this sacred moment, it would be a good idea to think about what we are carrying and what’s holding us down.
I’d venture to say that we are weighed down with pain from family. We are so often hurt by those closest to us, the people we’ve depended on, the people who know our most shameful vulnerabilities. We carry the burden of that pain.
I’d venture to say that we are weighed down with indignity. We feel ignored by our spouse, we feel like our opinion does not matter in our own home, we feel, in the place and with the person who is supposed to make us feel most important, we feel most small. We carry the burden of indignity.
We are weighed down by feelings of being ignored. We went through a hard time, and our friends were nowhere to be seen. We called them and texted and emailed, but they never responded. We carry the burden of being invisible.
We are weighed down by ingratitude. We worked tirelessly to support our co-workers, or our bosses and they walk away with all the praise, they get the raises and attention, and they don’t even bother to say thanks. There are children who owe us gratitude; they just take and take and take. They don’t realize how hard we work, what we’ve sacrificed. We love them but it hurts. We carry the burden of being taken for granted.
We are weighed down by a longing for love. All the bids for attention from our parents that went ignored. All the times we were hoping they’d swoop in with a hug or a kiss or a kind word, and instead they left us cold. We carry the burden of feeling unloved.
I used to think that our shoulders sag as we get older because of a loss of muscle. But I don’t believe that anymore. It’s all the pain we’re trying to carry. Each year, each decade, it grows. It’s a lot to carry.
Sometimes, someone comes by and apologizes from the bottom of their heart. They express remorse over what they’ve done, the pain they caused, and they remove some of the burden. But too often we’re left carrying a terribly heavy load.
It’s not only the elderly that are weighed down. Allow me to share with you a story of a young couple who were debilitated by the pain caused by a stranger:
Dovid and Tamar Sheinberg are two Israelis in their lower 20’s. They got engaged in early 2020 and were planning on getting married in the spring. However, at the end of February 2020, the Israeli government started making plans for a lockdown and Dovid and Tamar were concerned that they would not be able to get married. No problem. They were resourceful. They decided to make a wedding in March. The government had already instituted limits on crowd sizes. Dovid and Tamar were very conscientious to do everything legally. They invited their immediate family and their rabbi, rented a small hall, and had a wedding.
Despite the small crowd, despite not having their friends and cousins at their wedding, they went all out. They made sure that the wedding was picture perfect. After all, this was not of their dreams. The servings were elegant, the décor was beautiful, the music was stirring. Everything was going as planned, the young couple were on top of the moon – until the police barged in.
The police were quickly followed by soldiers who started barking orders. “Disperse! Everyone must leave immediately!”
Dovid ran over to the mefaked, the captain, and explained, “Officer, everything is being done legally. We have the right amount of people here. Please! This is our wedding!!”
Not only was he ignored, they started writing tickets to the guests, who all immediately ran off.
And so there they were, Dovid and Tamar and their parents getting fined 5000 shekels each for being in violation of a crime they did not commit, surrounded not by friends, not even by family, but by soldiers with guns, on their wedding night.
When the police left, Dovid, a popular young man, stood outside, pleading with strangers to please join him for five minutes so they could say Sheva Berachos with a minyan.
The couple was crushed. The night of their dreams, which they had planned so meticulously, turned into a nightmare. When the pictures arrived from the photographer, they threw them into a drawer, they were too traumatized to relive that night of horror. They made sure to never drive past their wedding hall. They never spoke of their wedding. It was just too painful. This young couple, who had such beautiful dreams of wonderful marriage kick-started with a magnificent wedding, was now living under a cloud. Weighed down by hurt. Trudging along with pain.
Seven months later, on a Friday afternoon, right before Shabbos, Dovid received a call from his father. His father had a received a message from a young man he did not know. The young man admitted to being the one who called the police. He wanted to speak to Dovid and Tamar. He wanted to apologize. Would Dovid and Tamar take a call from this young man?
It was Friday, a few minutes before Shabbos, Dovid told his father that he and Tamar would discuss it. And they did. It was the worst Shabbos of their life. They relived every moment of that horrible nightmare. They went back and forth. Jewish Law does not demand that we forgive. We are not obligated to forgive if we cannot. The pain, the hurt, the impact was undoable. They considered saying no. But towards the end of Shabbos as they sang the Zemiros of Shalosh Seudos, “Yedid Nefesh Av Harachaman, The soul’s beloved – G-d – the compassionate Father,” they resolved they would indeed speak to this man.
Right after Shabbos, they let their father know and a few minutes later the man called. He couldn’t speak. He choked on his tears, but eventually he got out an apology. He explained to them that on the night of the wedding, he heard music, he realized there was a wedding taking place, he assumed these people were breaking the law and was petrified of Covid, so he called the police. He realized now that he made a terrible terrible mistake. He realized how much pain he had caused them. He begged them to forgive him.
By the time he was done, they were all crying. Dovid and Tamar looked at each other, shook their heads and told him: “We were hurt, we are still hurt, but we realize you made a mistake, and we forgive you. With a complete heart, we forgive you.”
The next day was Yom Kippur. Dovid and Tamar went into the holy day feeling lighter than they’d ever felt before. If they can find it in their hearts to forgive, then maybe just maybe G-d can forgive them for all the mistakes they have made in their lives. The burden they were carrying for all those months was no longer. Yes, their wedding was ruined. Yes, the first months of their marriage was shrouded in darkness. But they forgave. They removed the burden of pain from their backs, and they felt it.
Two days later, Dovid received a frantic call from his sister-in-law. Tamar, his wife, was in a terrible accident. She had been the front car in a four car pile-up and was rushed to the hospital. Dovid immediately made his way to the hospital, to his wife’s room, burst in, only to see his wife sitting up in the hospital bed. She was fine. Shaken but okay.
The doctor walked into the room and said, “You must have angels looking out for you. Based on the impact from the other cars, your airbag should have been deployed, but for some unknown reason it malfunctioned. Had it deployed, the baby in your stomach” – Tamar was six months pregnant – “the baby in your stomach would not have made it.” (as told to Yoel Gold)
Now I don’t like miracle stories; do good and good will happen to you. It’s not how we believe the world works. So, I cannot guarantee that if you forgive someone then angels will protect you. What I can guarantee is that if you forgive someone, if you truly remove the pain that you’ve been carrying, you will feel more like an angel. You will feel as light and as free as a malach.
It would be nice if all those who pained us, if all those who burdened us, if all those who weighed us down, would call us, begging us to forgive. But we do not only forgive for others; we also forgive for ourselves.
Or sages teach us that if we want G-d to forgive us, then we should forgive others. How does that work? Is it magic? We’re nice so G-d is nice to us? It sounds juvenile.
But it’s not. When we forgive someone else, we are not only absolving them of their guilt, of their crime. We are also lightening the burden on our back. We are also allowing our shoulders to straighten. We are also enabling our wings to fly.
We just said Kol Nidrei. We released all the vows that we made over the course of the year. Did you make any vows this year? I didn’t make any vows this year. I am not holding to any vows that I needed to absolve. I don’t think any of us are. But are you holding on to shame?
Are you holding on to indignity?
Are you feeling burdened by being ignored? By not being thanked? By not being loved? By being hurt?
Let me introduce you to a different prayer that many people say as Yom Kippur begins. It’s called Tefilas Zakah. In this prayer, there is one paragraph in which we forgive all those who wronged us. This is a prayer that is relevant to us all.
I invite you to join me in saying this passage together. You are not obligated to forgive. But if you can, if you are able, forgiving, even though we have not been asked to forgive will help us let go, will help relieve the burden on our backs, and the weight on our wings.
Please open your machzor to page 41 and recite the paragraph along with me:
But since I know that there is hardly a righteous person in the world who never sins between man and his neighbor, either monetarily or physically, in deed or in speech, therefore my heart aches within me, because for a sin between man and his neighbor, Yom Kippur does not atone util one appeases his neighbor. For this I am inwardly broken and my bones shudder, because even the day of death does not atone. Therefore, I cast my supplication before You that You have mercy on me and allow me to find favor, kindness, and mercy in Your eyes and in the eyes of all people. Behold! I extend complete forgiveness to everyone who has sinned against me, whether physically or monetarily, or who has gossiped about me or even slandered me. So, too, to anyone who has injured me, whether physically or financially, and for any human sins between man and his neighbor – except for money that I wish to claim and that I can recover by law, and except for someone who sins against me and says, ‘I will sin against him and he will forgive me’ – except for these I grant complete forgiveness; and may no person be punished on my account. And just as I forgive everyone, so may You grant me favor in every person’s eyes, so that he or she will grant me complete forgiveness.
