There are moments in life when words lose their meaning. Moments when language itself collapses under the unbearable weight of pain. Judaism recognizes this frightening reality, and perhaps nowhere is it expressed more poignantly than in the words of the Talmud in Tractate Berachot.
The Gemara speaks of one who failed to bring his sacrifice at the designated time. The opportunity passes forever. The sacred moment is gone. And the Talmud declares: “Over zemano batal karbano,” once the appointed time has passed, the sacrifice is invalid. The chance is lost.
To this the Sages apply the haunting verse from Ecclesiastes: “Me’uvas lo yuchal litkon” – that which has been twisted can no longer be repaired.
How terrifying those words are.
There are mistakes that can be corrected. There are wounds that can heal. There are failures from which one can recover. But then there are moments in human existence where the damage is so profound, so irreversible, that no apology can truly mend what has been shattered.
“I’m sorry” sometimes simply is not enough.
These words echo painfully in my mind whenever I witness tragedy, cruelty, or human insensitivity. They reverberate whenever I see people throw words carelessly at one another, unaware that words themselves can become eternal scars.
There is an old Yiddish expression: “A shmeis dergeit uber, a vort derbleibt.”
A slap heals and passes. But a hurtful word remains forever.
A bruise fades. A wound closes. But words penetrate the soul. They become engraved upon the neshama. A cruel sentence uttered in anger can linger in a person’s heart for decades. One insensitive remark can revisit someone in the loneliness of night long after the speaker has forgotten it.
How many parents carry silent heartbreak because a child once screamed, “I hate you?” Children may later apologize. They may cry. They may embrace their parents and beg forgiveness. Yet somewhere deep inside, the wound remains. Not because the parent refuses to forgive, but because pain once spoken cannot be entirely erased.
And if this is true regarding words, how much more so regarding actions.
Years ago, I received the horrific news about my dear friends, Ari and Sari Horowitz. It was a beautiful Shabbat afternoon in East Brunswick. They were walking home from shul together with their beloved son Ami, a former student of mine, and several dear friends. In one sudden, unimaginable moment, a driver lost control of a vehicle and crashed onto the sidewalk.
Ari and Sari were killed instantly. Their son and friends were severely injured.
One second, they were speaking, smiling, enjoying the holiness and serenity of Shabbat. The next second, silence, darkness, destruction. There are tragedies that shake you. And there are tragedies that change your soul forever.
This was one of them.
How does a human being live through such suffering? How does one who caused such devastation ever utter the words, “I’m sorry?” What comfort can those words possibly provide to children who no longer have parents? To families whose worlds have collapsed? To empty Shabbat tables and silent homes?
No apology can restore stolen years. No remorse can return a soul to this world.
“I’m sorry” is not enough.
And then tragedy entered my own family.
I remember the phone call from my daughter in Silver Spring. Her son, my precious grandson, Dov Matityahu, had been struck by a car while walking home from yeshiva.
For an agonizing week we lived between hope and despair. Every prayer carried tears. Every Tehillim was recited with trembling hearts. We begged Hashem for mercy.
But in the end, the battle was lost. A beautiful young boy, vibrant and full of life, was taken from this world in his youth.
There are no words to describe the agony of burying a child. There are no words for parents sitting shiva over a son. The universe itself seemed shattered.
During the shiva, the woman who was driving the vehicle came to the house. “I want to say I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I want to ask forgiveness.” But mourners gently stopped her. “This is not the time,” they told her. “There is too much sorrow here.”
And beneath those words lay another truth too painful to articulate openly:
“I’m sorry” is just not enough.
Not because remorse is meaningless. Judaism treasures repentance. Teshuvah has immeasurable power. Human beings must apologize when they hurt others. We are commanded to seek forgiveness and to humble ourselves before those we have wronged.
But Judaism also teaches us something painfully honest: there are actions whose consequences can never fully be repaired. Some fractures remain forever.
And then came October 7.
How does one even begin to speak about that day?
How does language survive after witnessing such evil?
On that dark morning, Jewish families awoke to horror beyond imagination. Mothers clutching children. Fathers trying desperately to protect their homes. Young people dancing at a music festival suddenly running for their lives. Terror descended with a brutality that defies human comprehension.
Babies were murdered. Parents were slaughtered in front of their children. Children were slaughtered in front of their parents. Families were burned. Women were abused in acts of unspeakable cruelty. Elderly Holocaust survivors – who had already endured humanity’s darkest chapter – once again faced murderous hatred. Entire communities were shattered.
And even after death, the cruelty continued. Bodies were desecrated. Innocent civilians were dragged into captivity. Families waited in torment for news of sons, daughters, husbands, wives.
The Jewish soul was wounded in a way that words cannot fully describe.
And perhaps what hurts almost as much as the brutality itself is the realization that there are those in this world who justify it, celebrate it, or deny it.
How does one say “I’m sorry” for such savagery? How does humanity recover from witnessing human beings capable of such evil?
No apology can erase the screams of terrified children. No statement of regret can remove the trauma engraved forever into the souls of survivors. No words can restore the shattered innocence of a nation.
There are moments when evil leaves stains upon history itself. And in those moments, we stand before Heaven carrying questions too heavy to bear. As Jews, we have never claimed to possess all the answers. Ours is not always to understand. Ours is often simply to continue believing while living with the questions. Questions that pierce the heavens; questions asked by Abraham, Moses, Job, and generations of suffering Jews.
Where was the mercy? Where was the compassion? Where was the G-d who watches over His children?
We believe in a G-d who loves. A G-d who weeps with us. A G-d who counts every tear. Yet there are moments when His silence feels unbearable.
And still, somehow, the Jewish people continue.
We do not survive because we have all the answers. We survive because somewhere deep within us burns the stubborn conviction that even in darkness, G-d has not abandoned His people.
But we also hold one another tighter. We comfort the bereaved. We embrace the brokenhearted. We gather the shattered fragments of our people and refuse to let darkness have the final word.
May G-d, in His infinite mercy, bring comfort to all families who carry unbearable sorrow. May He heal the wounded souls of our people. May He protect those in danger and return peace to a suffering world.
And may the day come soon when death, hatred, terror, and cruelty disappear forever from creation. When no parent buries a child, when no family lives in fear, and when the words “I’m sorry” are no longer spoken over irreversible tragedy, but only over small human failings that love can heal.