In Hebrew, two different words, each with its own shade of meaning and weight, are used in the context of forgiveness. The first is mechila, which might be better translated as "pardon." It has the connotations of relinquishing a claim against the offender; it's transactional. It's not a warm, fuzzy embrace but rather the victim's acknowledgment that the perpetrator no longer owes them, that they have done the repair work necessary to settle the situation. You stole from me? OK, you acknowledged that you did so in a self-aware way, you're in therapy to work on why you stole, you paid me back, and you apologized in a way that I felt reflected an understanding of the impact your actions had on me—it seems that you're not going to do this to anyone else. Fine. It doesn't mean that we pretend that the theft never happened, and it doesn't (necessarily) mean that our relationship will return to how it was before or even that we return to any kind of ongoing relationship. With mechila, whatever else I may feel or not feel about you, I consider this chapter closed. Those pages are still written upon, but we're done here.
Slicha, on the other hand, may be better translated as "forgiveness"; it includes more emotion. It looks with a compassionate eye at the penitent perpetrator and sees their humanity and vulnerability, recognizes that, even if they have caused great harm, they are worthy of empathy and mercy. Like mechila, it does not denote a restored relationship between the perpetrator and the victim (neither does the English word, actually; "reconciliation" carries that meaning), nor does slicha include a requirement that the victim act like nothing happened. But it has more of the softness, that letting-go quality associated with "forgiveness" in English (171-172).
Slicha, on the other hand, may be better translated as "forgiveness"; it includes more emotion. It looks with a compassionate eye at the penitent perpetrator and sees their humanity and vulnerability, recognizes that, even if they have caused great harm, they are worthy of empathy and mercy. Like mechila, it does not denote a restored relationship between the perpetrator and the victim (neither does the English word, actually; "reconciliation" carries that meaning), nor does slicha include a requirement that the victim act like nothing happened. But it has more of the softness, that letting-go quality associated with "forgiveness" in English (171-172).
We have a vulnerable penitent coming repeatedly to the person that they hurt. The victim is not being asked to give slicha—an emotional, empathetic forgiveness, but rather mechila, to say, "OK, you know what? You've done enough. You don't owe me anymore. We can consider this a completed situation." It's not about being willing to return the relationship to what it had been before the harm, and it's not even about returning to any kind of relationship. Once again, that would be reconciliation, a whole other ball of wax. This mechila is also not about offering absolutism, atonement, to the penitent—only God can do that. But just as we ask the perpetrator to actually see the hurt person in front of them, we also ask the victim to try to recognize the hard, sincere repentance work that has been done, and to allow it to mean enough to settle accounts. To see the full human being standing there, a sincere penitent.
Maimonides' concern about the victim being unforgiving was likely at least in part a concern for their own emotional and spiritual development. I suspect he thought holding on to grudges was bad for the victim and their wholeness. That is, even if we're hurt, we must work on our own natural tendencies toward vengefulness, toward turning our woundedness into a power play that we can lord over the penitent, or toward wanting to stay forever in the narrative of our own hurt, for whatever reason. And perhaps he believed that the granting of mechila can be profoundly liberating in ways we don't always recognize before it happens (178-179).
Maimonides' concern about the victim being unforgiving was likely at least in part a concern for their own emotional and spiritual development. I suspect he thought holding on to grudges was bad for the victim and their wholeness. That is, even if we're hurt, we must work on our own natural tendencies toward vengefulness, toward turning our woundedness into a power play that we can lord over the penitent, or toward wanting to stay forever in the narrative of our own hurt, for whatever reason. And perhaps he believed that the granting of mechila can be profoundly liberating in ways we don't always recognize before it happens (178-179).
[K]apparah, in Leviticus, isn't about unification, or reconciliation, or forgiving and letting off the hook. It's a purification. A wiping clean. A sort of spiritual disinfectant.
That said, it's often translated as atonement (192).
That said, it's often translated as atonement (192).
In my tradition, forgiveness is something that people can grant to other people.… But atonement is, in the framework of my tradition, something that happens only in connection with the divine. And, as we've seen, if you've hurt someone else, atonement is up for discussion only after you've done all the work that must be done with regard to repair, apology, and amends. It's not the equivalent of being forgiven by the people you harmed or being off the hook with regard to consequences; it's not a way to force people to turn the page. It's a singular theological concept, at least in my world. (200).