The Story
Rabbi Abba (the scribe of the Zohar) once sat at the gateway of the Town of Lud. As he was sitting there, he saw a traveler sit down on a pile of rocks at the edge of a cliff overlooking a deep ravine. The traveler was apparently exhausted from his journey and immediately fell asleep upon the pile of rocks. Suddenly Rabbi Abba saw a deadly snake slither from out of the rocks and make its way towards the sleeping man.
Rabbi Abba found himself immobilized and transfixed by this unfolding drama. He watched helplessly as the snake slithered closer and closer towards the traveler, its forked tongue darting in and out of its mouth ready to strike, when all of a sudden a giant lizard jumped out from between the rocks and killed the serpent.
Rabbi Abba continued watching. Several minutes later the man awoke and stood up, perplexed to see a beheaded snake lying in front of him. He quickly gathered his possessions and rose to continue his journey. The very instant he rose, the pile of rocks he had been sitting on, collapsed and fell into the ravine below.
The man was about to walk off when Rabbi Abba, unable to contain himself any longer, ran after him and recounted everything he had witnessed. "My friend!" said Rabbi Abba in excitement, "to what do you attribute all these miracles that just transpired?"
The traveler at first did not want to answer, but Rabbi Abba persisted until the traveler, feeling the sincerity of Rabbi Abba's question, confided in him saying, "Throughout my life, I have never let a person harm me without finding a way to pacify him. Never have I gone to sleep without forgiving anyone who has hurt me in any way. And anyone who had hurt me, I would endeavor with all my heart to resolve whatever animosity was between us. And last of all, I always do my very best to transform the hateful situation by doing acts of kindness for the person involved in the misunderstanding."
When Rabbi Abba heard this, he burst into tears. This traveler's actions were greater than Joseph of the multicolored coat, who forgave his brothers for trying to kill him. For to forgive one's blood brothers is one thing, it is the kind of deed that can be generally understood and comprehended. But here was a man who forgave anyone and everyone who harmed him.
"It is no surprise," murmured Rabbi Abba as the traveler walked off, "that God performs miracles on a daily basis for this blessed man."
Understanding Forgiveness
I find this story particularly moving, because it seems to me that so often we find it difficult to forgive someone who has hurt us, whether the hurt was done intentionally or unintentionally.
How easy do we find it to make up stories about a person who has hurt us, attributing him or her with all manner of unattractive traits or imagining revenge? We might even be thankful for something bad happening to someone who has hurt us, saying, "It serves him right!"
Underneath whatever personas we may be using to help us maneuver our way through the day, so many of us are vulnerable and sensitive to criticism, harsh words, and to aggression, be it physical, verbal, or merely energetic.
From my own experience, I may contract in pain and automatically want to lash out when hurt or offended, and yet if I look deeper, I see the price I am paying for holding a grudge, or nurturing anger and revengeful instincts.
Perhaps you notice the pain you inflict upon yourself when you harden your heart and clench your jaw in mistrust and dislike? Perhaps you see that in adamantly holding on to anger you are perpetuating an endless loop of aggression, pain, and blocked communication, that in spite of some momentary or superficial relief it may offer, ultimately these negative feelings do not serve anybody?
Is it possible in moments of insult or hurt, to listen for something deeper then the reactive thoughts and impulses that immediately jump up, demanding our attention?
Is it possible to see the person who has hurt us as the human being he or she is, also susceptible to hurt and pain, also striving for happiness, also acting from out of an endless chain of causes and effects that have made him or her act the way he or she did?
Is it possible to soften the contraction of our heart, allowing mercy and care to take the place of hardness and anger? This is not to say that there is no place for the anger and hurt which so naturally arise when we feel wronged. Human emotions have every right to be acknowledged, and I believe our wounded selves deserve mercy and care.
But can we hold those difficult feelings just slightly more lightly then we used to? Can we open our hearts in a forgiveness that comes from a deep understanding and acceptance of the tender humanness of us all?
There is something beautiful and profound about enabling the sharp boundaries of separation to melt. There is something healing about allowing our pain and anger to flow into care and love.
What would it be like, as the traveler in our story, not to sleep before we have forgiven anyone who has hurt us in any way? What would it be like to hold the intention of releasing any misunderstandings?
What would it be like to have a heart - as one of my teachers puts it - as big and as wide as the world; a heart that can hold anger and love simultaneously, a heart that can forgive our own fickle humanness as well as the fickle humanness of others? Can we envision the possibility of such a heart? Can we sense that such a heart is perhaps already inherently ours? Is that not in itself a quite a miracle ?