The Courage to Admit

There is a quality that I have always found deeply refreshing in our Jewish tradition: the willingness to admit that we are wrong. It takes far more courage to say, “I have sinned,” than to construct an elaborate explanation for why what we did was actually justified. We all make mistakes. We all occasionally fail to live up to the ideals we profess. The true test of character is not whether we fall, but whether we have the honesty to acknowledge that we have fallen.

I was reminded of this recently while reading the words of Maimonides. In one of his writings, the Rambam makes an extraordinary admission. He acknowledges that he is living in Egypt even though the Torah prohibits returning to Egypt, and he writes with remarkable candor that his continued residence there places him in violation of that prohibition.

Think about the magnitude of that statement. Here was Maimonides, perhaps the greatest halachic authority of the Middle Ages, who had devoted his life to clarifying the commandments of the Torah – yet he was willing to acknowledge that his own circumstances presented him with a conflict. He did not feel compelled to protect himself from criticism by pretending that there was no problem. He simply recognized the difficulty and stated it honestly.

That kind of honesty is rare and refreshing because we often do the opposite. When confronted with the questionable behavior of a great person, we instinctively search for an explanation. We find a reason why he must have been justified. We explain the circumstances, distinguish between cases, and construct an argument that allows us to conclude that what appears wrong was actually right. Sometimes those explanations are legitimate and are part of the careful process of halachic analysis. But there are also times when we must recognize that a great person simply made a mistake.

Our Tanach does not seem to be embarrassed by that possibility. In fact, it repeatedly teaches us that our greatest leaders were human beings who could fail.

Consider King David. The episode involving Bat Sheva has generated generations of rabbinic discussion, and our Sages went to great lengths to explain its complexities. Yet when the prophet Nathan confronted David, David ultimately responded with words that are among the most powerful in the entire biblical account:

 “I have sinned against Hashem.”

David was a king. He was the beloved of the Jewish people. He was the author of Tehillim and the ancestor of the future Mashiach. Nevertheless, when confronted with his failure, he did not insist that his position made him incapable of wrongdoing. He admitted his guilt.

We find a similar moment with King Saul. After failing to carry out the command given to him through the prophet Samuel, Saul eventually acknowledged:

 “I have sinned, for I have transgressed the command of Hashem and your words.”

These admissions are not weaknesses in the biblical record. They are part of what makes these figures worthy of our attention. The Torah is teaching us that greatness does not require perfection. It requires honesty. A person does not become smaller by admitting that he has failed. He becomes greater when he refuses to hide from the truth.

Unfortunately, I sometimes wonder whether we have lost some of that quality. We have become very skilled at rationalizing. When a behavior makes us uncomfortable, we search for an explanation that will allow us to continue without having to confront the underlying obligation. Rather than saying, “I know what the ideal is, but I am having difficulty living up to it,” we sometimes redefine the ideal itself.

That brings me to an issue that is particularly close to my heart: Yishuv Eretz Yisrael, the mitzvah and obligation of living in the Land of Israel.

The centrality of Eretz Yisrael to the Torah is difficult to ignore. Hashem's command to Avraham begins with the journey toward the Land:

“Go forth from your land... to the Land that I will show you.”

From that moment onward, the Land is woven into the story of the Jewish people. It is the Land promised to Avraham, Yitzchak, and Yaakov. It is the destination toward which the Exodus leads. It is repeatedly described as the inheritance of the Jewish people, and the Torah repeatedly commands us to enter it, possess it, and dwell within it. Eretz Yisrael is not a footnote to Judaism. It is part of the very fabric of our covenant with Hashem.

Yet over the generations, rather than confronting the full force of that idea, we have sometimes sought ways to make it less demanding. One such approach is to describe Yishuv Eretz Yisraelasa mitzvah kiyumis – something one may fulfill if one chooses, rather than an obligation that requires one to act.

There is a profound difference between saying, “I cannot fulfill this obligation,” and saying, “There is no obligation to fulfill.”

The first statement requires humility. The second is a rationalization.

This is precisely why the example of Maimonides speaks to me so strongly. He did not need to convince himself that the problem did not exist. He could acknowledge the tension between his circumstances and the Torah's command. Perhaps we should have the same courage when confronting the demands of Yishuv Eretz Yisrael.

And this distinction has become particularly important in our generation.

For nearly two thousand years, Jews dreamed of returning to Eretz Yisrael. Our ancestors prayed toward Jerusalem, ended their weddings by remembering its destruction, concluded the Seder with the words “Next year in Jerusalem,” and repeated throughout their lives the hope that they would once again see Zion. Jews endured poverty, persecution, and danger for the privilege of living in the Land of their ancestors.

Today, we are living in a moment that our ancestors could scarcely have imagined. The Jewish people have returned to the Land. A sovereign Jewish state exists. The gates are open. We can travel there in a matter of hours, build homes there, raise families there, learn Torah there, and participate in the extraordinary process of rebuilding the national life of our people.

Surely this should cause us to reconsider how we speak about Eretz Yisrael.

I am not suggesting that every Jew who lives outside Israel is a sinner, nor that every person can simply uproot his life without considering his responsibilities. Life is complicated, and halacha recognizes circumstances and exceptions. But I believe we should be very careful not to turn the difficulty of fulfilling a mitzvah into an argument that the mitzvah itself is voluntary.

That is where the lesson of Maimonides, David, and Saul becomes relevant.

They teach us that there is dignity in acknowledging the truth, even when the truth is uncomfortable. We should be able to say, “This is what the Torah asks of me. I am struggling to fulfill it.”

The Torah does not ask us to be perfect. It asks us to be honest.

David was honest enough to say, "I have sinned." Saul was honest enough to acknowledge that he had transgressed. Maimonides was honest enough to recognize the tension between his circumstances and the commandment.

When it comes to Eretz Yisrael, perhaps the most honest response is not to diminish its importance because fulfilling the ideal is difficult. It is to recognize its centrality, acknowledge the extraordinary privilege of our generation, and then ask ourselves a deeply personal question:

If generations of Jews dreamed of returning to this Land, and Hashem has now given us the opportunity to do so, what are we prepared to do with that gift?

And perhaps that is where honesty begins: not with finding another explanation, but with the courage to face the truth and act upon it.