I stood near the back wall and leaned against the bulletin board as I spoke. I felt awkward standing still – I usually pace back and forth or sit on one of the tables with my feet on a chair as I facilitate discussions – but the moment seemed to warrant stillness.
My sixth grade religious school students and I were talking about sins and sacrifices, the mistakes that define us as humans and the efforts we make to beg forgiveness. It wasn’t a fire and brimstone speech; that’s never been my style, nor is it the usual interpretation of God’s personality at our synagogue. But we did address the ideas of commitment to each other and to a higher authority and the different ways people work to demonstrate their growth and remorse.
The students’ facial expressions ranged from rapt attention to mild disinterest as the lesson went on.
But everyone sat up a bit straighter when I pulled out the box of matches.
I restored calm in the room and promised to answer all of their questions soon. Until then, I continued to remind the students of the differences between a sin bein adam lechavero – between a person and his friend – and a sin bein adam lamakom – between a person and God.1 I explained that sins between people had to be resolved between people; in other words, if Jackie had made fun of Katie,2 Jackie had to work things out with Katie directly before God would grant her a return to holiness. An apology to God without a genuine attempt to make amends with the person who had been harmed would be rejected.
“The other people we have to ask forgiveness from,” I continued, “aside from the people we hurt and from God, are ourselves.”
I began speaking about the concept of holding onto uncomfortable memories too long. I illustrated the damage that we end up doing to ourselves as guilt eats away at our mental health. I described various ways of freeing ourselves from the emotional burdens we continue to carry and the benefits of releasing those metaphorical shackles.
When it was clear that the students had understood, I passed out pieces of paper and instructed them to write down a sin that they had committed over the past year.
“This should be something you’re really upset about,” I said. “You messed up big time and it still bothers you today that you did this.”
They looked at each other nervously. One girl began to raise her hand slowly.
“I’m not going to read them,” I reassured her. She smiled and put her hand back down. “I promise, no one is going to read these. What’s written on the paper is only between you and God. You don’t have to describe the whole thing. Just put down a few words that represent the sin you’re thinking of.”
The students began writing, careful to conceal their transgressions from any wandering eyes. I walked around with a metal bowl and, one by one, the small pieces of folded paper clinked in.
I set the bowl down on the table and waited for the students to gather around.
I lit a match, held it for a moment for dramatic effect, and dropped it into the bowl.
The papers began to darken and crinkle immediately under the heat and weight of the flame. I reminded them about the ways that smoke from sacrifices travels up toward the heavens for God to evaluate. The students watched the flicker of orange and yellow transform into faint grey wisps rising toward the ceiling.
The fire gradually began to die out as the folded pieces of paper, the last remaining documentation of each of our confessionals,3 were each reduced to barely more than specks of grey ash. The students returned to their seats and I resumed my post leaning against the wall. I scanned the room, looking for the students’ reactions to the small spectacle that they had just witnessed. I noticed one girl’s shoulders rise as she took an audibly deep breath, then fall back down.
“What did you think?” I asked her.
“It feels…” she began, searching for the right words. “I feel… better. Like I don’t have to think about it anymore.”
“Right,” her classmate joined in. “It’s over and done with. We can start a new chapter.”
“A fresh start,” another student said.
The others nodded and voiced similar sentiments.
“The next step,” I said, bringing the discussion to a close, “is to recognize when you’re in a similar situation in the future. We’ve all – I hope – asked for forgiveness from the people we’ve harmed and offered our own prayers to God during Yom Kippur last month. Now it’s up to each of us to look out for these scenarios so that we can make a better choice the next time around.”
The students nodded again and remained quiet for a moment as the message sank in. I watched as they glanced around the room, making eye contact with some classmates and avoiding it with others. Then, slowly, the students rose from their seats and filed out of the classroom as silently as their sins that dissolved into the evening air.
1. Bein adam lamakom literally translates to “between a person and the place.” The idea is that God creates the places in which we live, so a ritual sin without a human victim is a sin against God.↩
2. Not real students.↩
3. “Our” is not a typo; I wrote one too.↩
