MUSINGS

Standing in Judgment

Yitti Berkovic

Last year was the Year of the Application in the Berkovic household.

Over the span of a few months, we had children applying to elementary school, high school, new camps, and a slew of other programs. It seemed like I spent every night bonding with a stack of papers that barked out its demands: List all schools that your children currently attend. List all previous camps your child has attended. List the names and phone numbers of every medical professional you have encountered in the last ten years.

Fun stuff.

Pretty soon, I could fill out an application in my sleep. I had our Rav’s phone number memorized, I had our three emergency contacts picked out, and (most importantly!), I knew my credit card number and CVV code by heart. 

One night, I reached for an application I thought would be just like the rest of them, and I expected to whip through it in just a few minutes. But just as I filled out my child’s three references, I encountered a question that left me completely stumped: List any chessed organizations you are involved with.

I put down my pen and felt my cheeks burn. How embarrassing. What was I supposed to write on that long line staring back at me? None? N/A? Please skip to the next line?

I could recite my child’s immunization schedule in alphabetical order, I could list my child’s interests and talents, and I could tell you who to call in case of a dental emergency, but I could not come up with a single chessed organization that I was involved with.

At first, I felt intense shame sear through me. I berated myself for my shortcomings: You belong to the nation of gomlei chasadim. Shouldn’t you have an easy answer? Shouldn’t you be using some of your free time to pack boxes for Tomchei Shabbos or to deliver meals to the hospital’s bikur cholim room? Shouldn’t you be a role model for your children and carve time in your schedule to be osek b’tzarchei hatzibur?

But pretty quickly, my shame was replaced with a sharp defensiveness, even anger. How was it fair for the school to include that question on an application? Don’t they realize how much women today are juggling? Should it be held against my child that I am overwhelmed with the everyday tasks that consume my day?

Frustrated, I called a friend who I knew was also applying to that school. “What did you put down for the chessed question?” I asked in a whisper.

Unflustered, my friend shared that she occasionally volunteered for Chai Lifeline (my shame returned, fast and furious!), but she offered me a quick suggestion: “Just write down an organization that you’ve donated to. That’s not a lie. Donating is a way of participating, right?”

When I hung up the phone, I thought, at least for a split second, that my problem was solved. But when I picked up my pen, the solution didn’t sit right with me. I didn’t want to lie. I didn’t even want to bend the truth. I wanted to be understood. I wanted the school to know that I admire those women who run a busy household but also make time for chessed, but, unfortunately, I am not (yet) one of those women.

I was tempted to attach a letter to the application and explain myself. It would sound something like this:

Dear Esteemed Admissions Committee,

I really, truly wish I could invest more time in chessed organizations. But you know how you teach your students that chessed begins at home? The same applies to me.

I work full time.

I have a son with special needs.

I am not one of those naturally geshikt women who seems to be able to balance a million different plates at the same.

That is why I am not currently involved in any chessed organizations. 

Thanks for your understanding.  

In the end, I didn’t have the guts to attach that letter. Instead, I left the question blank. I slipped the application into its envelope and put it in the mailbox, feeling inadequate. Feeling misunderstood. Feeling judged.

I wish there was a great ending to this story. I wish I could tell you that my child got into that school in spite of my failings or because the administration understood why I didn’t have a good answer.  The truth is, though, we ended up withdrawing the application when we realized the school wasn’t the right choice for our child, so I couldn’t tell you if my lack of an answer hurt us or not.

But I still find myself thinking about that question and the bad taste it left in my mouth, especially as I prepare for Elul and the Yomim Nora’im. The application made me feel judged, and like most people, I hate that feeling. Judgment makes me feel defensive. It makes me feel misunderstood.

It should follow that if I dread judgment, I should dread the Yomim Nora’im. But the older I get, the more grateful I have become for the gift that Hashem gives us every year. Yes, we stand in judgment before Hakadosh Baruch Hu, and it is awesome, humbling, and terrifying.  But I don’t dread Hashem’s judgment, because the gift of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur is that it’s nothing like the application process, where we are judged by mere mortals who evaluate our merits without really knowing us.

We are judged for who we really are. For what we did with the tools Hashem has given us. For what we should have done and should not have done. For how we behaved in the context of our lives about which Hashem knows every nook and crevice.  

We don’t need to attach a letter to explain ourselves. We don’t need to come up with clever responses that could obfuscate our shortcomings. We don’t need to feel misunderstood. Because, as we say during Vidui every Yom Kippur, Atah chofes kol chad’rei beten, u’vochen k’layos va’lev. You probe all innermost chambers and test thoughts and emotions. Hashem knows our hearts. He knows our failings, but He also knows our intentions. He sees where we were unsuccessful, but he also sees the tiny triumphs, the ones no one else knows about. He sees how we make do with the circumstances we’ve been given, and He sees what the people in our lives sometimes struggle to understand about us. Ein davar ne’lam mimecha, v’ein nistar mineged eineicha. Nothing is hidden from You, and nothing is concealed from Your eyes.

It is the fairest judgment that can ever be.

When I stand with my machzor, all pretenses are dropped. All facades are stripped bare. When I do a cheshbon hanefesh, there is no need to offer lame excuses, but there are also no excuses I can hide lamely behind. 

Hashem sees it all – for better and for worse.

It’s frightening. It’s uncomfortable. The shame I feel is intense as I promise to do better next year.

But the foundation of a strong relationship is when we can show up without pretenses and be seen exactly as we are. And I am grateful to Hakadosh Baruch Hu that we know how it feels to be raw and real and vulnerable and understood– and above all – loved as we stand before Him in judgment. 

Kesivah vachasimah tova  to all of Klal Yisrael!