September 25, 2025|ג' תשרי ה' אלפים תשפ"ו Can we forgive the unforgivable? By Rabbi Jonathan Muskat

Can We Forgive the Unforgivable?

At the memorial service for Charlie Kirk, his wife made a remarkable statement: she said she forgives the man who killed her husband. When I heard those words, I was moved – and unsettled. I found myself asking: is that really possible? Is that what Judaism expects of us – to forgive someone who has shown no regret, no repentance, no sign that they even see what they did was wrong? And can a wife forgive on behalf of her husband for the life that was taken from him?

This question has haunted others before. Simon Wiesenthal wrestled with it in his powerful book The Sunflower. As a young man in a concentration camp, he was summoned to the bedside of a dying Nazi soldier. The soldier confessed to participating in atrocities and begged Wiesenthal to grant him forgiveness on behalf of the Jewish people. Wiesenthal walked away in silence. He could not forgive – not for millions who were murdered, not even for one Jewish child. Later, he posed the question to others – thinkers, clergy, survivors: what would you have done? The responses were divided, but the weight of the question remains: can anyone forgive on behalf of someone else? And are there crimes so monstrous that forgiveness itself becomes impossible?

On the one hand, our tradition insists that forgiveness is possible. The Yerushalmi in Makkot describes a striking dialogue:

שאלו לחכמה חוטא מהו עונשו אמרו להם חטאים תרדף רעה
שאלו לנבואה חוטא מהו עונשו אמרה להן הנפש החוטאת היא תמות
שאלו לקודשא בריך הוא חוטא מהו עונשו אמר להן יעשו תשובה ויתכפר לו

They asked Wisdom, “What is the punishment of the sinner?” Wisdom replied: “Evil pursues the sinner.” They asked Prophecy, “What is the punishment of the sinner?” Prophecy replied: “The soul that sins shall die.” They asked the Holy One, Blessed be He, “What is the punishment of the sinner?” And God replied: “Let them repent – and they will be forgiven.”

Wisdom says there’s no way back. Prophecy says the sentence is death. Only God says: there is another way. Against all logic, God makes forgiveness possible. That means forgiveness is not natural – it’s divine. And if we are commanded to walk in God’s ways, then somehow, forgiveness must be part of our lives as well.

But Rambam reminds us that forgiveness isn’t automatic. When someone hurts us, we don’t just wave it away. They must acknowledge the harm, repair what can be repaired, and ask sincerely for forgiveness. Only then, Rambam says, does our obligation to forgive truly begin. That makes sense: if we forgive without repentance, we risk excusing the harm, teaching that people can wound others without consequence.

So how do we reconcile these two truths – that forgiveness is divine, but that forgiveness requires repentance?

I think the answer lies in something we do every year on the eve of Yom Kippur. Before Kol Nidrei, when we recite Tefillah Zakkah, we say:

וְהִנְנִי מוֹחֵל בִּמְחִילָה גְמוּרָה לְכָל מִי שֶׁחָטָא נֶגְדִּי, בֵּין בְּגוּפוֹ וּבֵין בְּמָמוֹנוֹ, אוֹ שֶׁדִּבֶּר עָלַי לָשׁוֹן הָרָע וַאֲפִלּוּ הוֹצָאַת שֵׁם רָע, וְכֵן לְכָל מִי שֶׁהִזִּיק לִי בְּגוּפִי אוֹ בְּמָמוֹנִי, וּלְכָל חַטֹּאת הָאָדָם אֲשֶׁר בֵּין אָדָם לַחֲבֵרוֹ

“I now forgive, with a full and complete heart, anyone who has wronged me – whether by harming me physically or financially, by speaking lashon hara about me, or even by spreading false rumors against me. I forgive anyone who has caused me pain, whether to my body or to my property, for all wrongs that fall into the realm of one person against another.”

This prayer is not said to the person who wronged me. It’s said to God. It doesn’t repair the relationship. It doesn’t erase the need for justice. What it does is cleanse my own heart. It says: I refuse to live consumed by hatred. I will not let bitterness define me.

But that is very different from forgiving on behalf of someone else. Charlie Kirk’s wife may forgive what was done to her – the theft of her husband, the shattering of her life. But only Charlie himself could forgive the taking of his own life. Just as Elie Wiesel could not forgive on behalf of the murdered Jews, we cannot grant forgiveness for wrongs suffered by others. Forgiveness can only ever belong to the victim.

And yet, I can’t ignore the other side. When someone is murdered, we don’t just say “I forgive.” We say Hashem yikom damo – “May God avenge his blood.” Not out of vengeance, but out of moral clarity. Evil must not go unanswered. October 7th taught us this anew: it was not only an attack on Israel, it was an attack on decency itself. To forgive without demanding justice would be to tolerate evil, and Judaism will never allow that.

So where does that leave us? Forgiveness in Judaism is real, but it is not cheap. It is not instant, and it is not unconditional. It asks for repentance, reconciliation, and repair. And sometimes, as Elie Wiesel reminded us, the crimes are so monstrous that forgiveness may not be humanly possible.

But even then, we are invited to follow the path of Tefillah Zakkah: to let go of hatred in our hearts, even as we cry out for justice in the world. To forgive in one sense – not to excuse, not to forget, but to refuse to let evil have the final say.

That is the balance Judaism asks of us: to hold both forgiveness and justice together. To imitate God, who forgives, but who also demands righteousness.

And maybe that’s the message we need this Yom Kippur: we can forgive without forgetting, we can let go without letting evil win, and we can keep our hearts soft even as we keep our moral standards strong.