The Short Vort by Rabbi Eisenman

He would never make eye contact, no matter how hard I thought I tried.

This had been going on for ten years.

Even during Covid, when I approached him in what I hoped would perhaps pave the way to reconciliation, things did not work out as planned.

I had long forgotten the reason for our pained and palpable silence.

Yet, I knew there was hostility towards me.

Perhaps we had once exchanged a few emails, or perhaps not.

Maybe I improperly answered his polite question?

Maybe I was curt in my answer?

Whatever the reason, the cold, chilly silence radiating from his entire being was painful.

I planned to stop him in the street and say, "I know I have offended you somehow; please be Mochel me."

However, each time the possible reconciliatory opportunity arose, he seemed to telepath me the emphatic message: "Stay Away from Me!"

Was I being honest with myself?

Did I really attempt to reach out to him?

Perhaps my perceived impression of his desire for me to keep my distance was distorted and even fabricated by my own hubris?

In the interim, I lived in pain and emotional distress.

It's not pleasant to know someone is harboring hostility and resentment.

In fact, it's distressing and excruciating.

Outwardly, I portrayed myself with an air of indifference and not caring.

While in truth, inwardly, I struggled with the pain alone.

After all, who can a rabbi tell?

Rabbis don't have feelings.

They don't get hurt.

They are robotic and programmed to continually smile and maintain a professional impassivity to the vicissitudes of life.

Rabbis don't go to people for support and encouragement; people come to them.

I maintained my composed veneer on the outside, never letting on how I was suffering in silence on the inside.

And so life continued, year after year, until finally, after a decade of disquieting ache, the pain had mushroomed into a mountain of hurt and distrust.

It was after Rosh Chodesh Elul when I heard the words being said.

I had not heard the footsteps; only the words were audible.

"Excuse me, can I speak to the Rav for a minute?"

I turned and stood face to face, toe to toe, with my emotional antagonist.

I was frightened and startled.

What would he say?

Would he finally get it off his chest and list off a litany of my mistakes and mis-spokes?

I took a breath and looked him in the eye.

To my surprise and ultimate relief, the words that came out of his mouth were nothing short of a great relief.

The words were golden, and the look in his eyes was priceless.

"Rav, I want to ask Mechilla from you.

We are approaching Rosh Hashanah.

And I know, and you know, there are things we have very different views about.

However, I've learned that disagreeing with someone's views does not give you the right to hate them.

And I realize I've been holding a grudge against you, not just disagreeing with your opinions.

Before Rosh Hashanah, I want to ask Mechilla."

I have been a Rav for over a quarter of a century, yet never in all those years has someone said to me with complete sincerity, "I have to ask Mechilla from you."

I should have hugged my former antagonist and cried on his shoulder.

I did neither.

I was too stunned to react.

A weight was finally lifted from my shoulders after ten long years.

The wall of silence had been torn down.

The place in my heart that formerly housed animosity was now occupied by love.

And where resentment and pain reigned, compassion, understanding, and authentic Ahavas Yisroel filled the newly created void.

All it took were seven magical words, "I have to ask Mechilla from you."