September 5, 2024|ב' אלול ה' אלפים תשפ"ד The Humility of Responsibility: Lessons from Rachel Goldberg-Polin’s Eulogy By Rabbi Jonathan Muskat

Rachel Goldberg-Polin’s eulogy for her son Hersh was nothing short of devastating. Her voice, heavy with grief, expressed a mother’s profound anguish: “I ask your forgiveness. If ever I was impatient or insensitive to you during your life, or neglectful in some way, I deeply and sincerely request your forgiveness. If there was something we could have done to save you and we didn’t think of it, I beg your forgiveness. We tried so very hard. So deeply and desperately. I’m sorry.”

These words shatter the heart. After all she did—the countless speeches, tireless activism, and knocking on every possible door—Rachel’s deepest fear is that it wasn’t enough. Even after exhausting every avenue, her immediate reaction is to ask, Could I have done more?

President Herzog captured the magnitude of her efforts when he said, “There is no door in the world on which your beloved family did not knock for you, for your rescue and well-being.” Yet despite this, Rachel’s humility and responsibility shine through. She does not declare victory in effort or pride in how much she did; instead, she still seeks forgiveness for what might have been left undone. This profound humility—this sense of responsibility, even when we are blameless—is at the core of what it means to be Jewish.

We see this same humility in the Torah, specifically in the ritual of eglah arufah. When a murder victim is found between two towns, the elders of the nearest town declare, “Yadeinu lo shafchu et hadam hazeh,”—"Our hands did not spill this blood." They proclaim their innocence, yet they also beseech God for atonement, “Kaper l’amcha Yisrael,”—"Atone for Your people Israel."

Why ask for atonement if they are innocent? The Riva explains that even when no direct fault can be found, we are all responsible for one another. Perhaps we didn’t do enough to protect the victim, or maybe we could have prevented the tragedy. Even when we haven’t actively done wrong, we must consider if we did enough to prevent harm. The elders of the town understand this—their declaration is not a mere formality but a reflection of their deep humility and accountability.

This theme of humble responsibility resonates strongly as we approach the season of teshuva. In Parshat Ki Tavo, after completing the mitzvah of separating tithes, we make a declaration called vidui maasrot. The Torah instructs us to say, “Asiti k’chol asher tzivitani,”—"I have done approximately all that You commanded me." Rabbi Soloveitchik points out that we do not say we did everything that G-d commanded. We acknowledge that even when we strive to fulfill God’s will, there is always more to do. The word k’chol—approximately all—expresses the humility that drives us to never be complacent, to always push ourselves to do more.

This humility is precisely what Rachel Goldberg-Polin embodies. She did everything in her power to save her son, yet she still wonders if she could have done more. Her activism inspired us for nearly a year, and in her heartbreaking eulogy, her humility and sense of responsibility inspire us anew. She teaches us that no matter how much we give, no matter how hard we fight, there is always more we could have done, and that is the essence of living a Jewish life.

As we enter Elul, this message challenges each of us. Teshuva isn’t just about repenting for the wrongs we know we committed; it’s about reflecting on where we fell short—not out of malice, but because we simply didn’t do enough. While Rachel Goldberg-Polin did everything possible, most of us cannot say the same. We must take ownership not only of our sins of commission but also our sins of omission—the things we left undone, the actions we failed to take. It is through this humility that we begin the journey of true teshuva.

May Rachel’s words continue to inspire us, and may we learn from her example to strive always for more—to live with humility, responsibility, and a never-ending desire to do better.