The Big Sorry: Atoning All Year

Every fall millions of Jews worldwide solemnly observe Yom Kippur. The “Day of Atonement” is the holiest holiday of the year in Judaism. It ends the Ten Days of Repentance that start with Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year. 

Accordingly, the most devout among us – about half to two-thirds, it’s estimated, depending on whether you’re Orthodox, Conservative or Reform and also American, European or Israeli – demonstrate our commitment to a tradition dictated in the Torah’s Book of Leviticus. We congregate in synagogues on the 10th of the Hebrew month of Tishrei, the end to the Days of Awe. We abstain from working, washing our hands and other routine daily activities. We fast from sundown to sundown. And, above all, pray to God and our fellow humans for forgiveness for our sins. 

I, on the other hand, prefer to honor Yom Kippur differently. I atone year-round.

My rationale is simple. I believe that setting aside a single day for penance, especially given my numerous earthly transgressions, is abjectly insufficient. I have too much to be sorry about, too much atoning to pull off, too many mistakes to live down, to squeeze all the contrition that has accumulated over my lifetime into merely 24 hours. That would take nothing less than a miracle. 

I’m as sorry as I am because I’m so profoundly guilty — guilty as charged, guilty in the first degree, guilty on all counts, and every inch the guilty party. 

As a boy and young man, I was decidedly guiltless and unapologetic. I could enumerate my misconduct here – throwing snowballs at cars driving through the street, aiming at the windshields; making prank phone calls to strangers to ask, “Is your refrigerator running?” and then joking, “Maybe you better chase after it;” and talking to my sister about our mother behind her back in the same room because my mother was stricken deaf in infancy and would never be the wiser – but the rap sheet would get encyclopedic. 

But once I got married and we had two children, I learned to apologize. Indeed, I became a serial apologist. I’ve probably devoted roughly half of our 46-year marriage to apologizing to my wife for my frequent bouts of misbehavior, otherwise known to science as being a jerk. And even then it’s nowhere near enough.  

I’ve probably devoted roughly half of our 46-year marriage to apologizing to my wife for my frequent bouts of misbehavior, otherwise known to science as being a jerk. And even then it’s nowhere near enough. 

I’ve apologized to pretty much everyone else in my life owed an act of atonement, too – other family, friends, colleagues, neighbors. I apologized to my favorite uncle years after the fact for disregarding his spot-on advice about switching from freelancing to gainful employment. I apologized to my supervisor at a global corporation after she gave me a major raise and I blurted out, “I expected more.” I apologized to my fellow tenant in the apartment above ours for banging on the ceiling in protest of noises that I later learned came from a two-year-old playing with his toys on the floor. 

The examples of malfeasance I could cite here number approximately umpteen. 

I apologize so frequently that I’ve gotten really good at it. Somewhere along the line I even got into the habit of apologizing in advance, preemptively. I often start sentences with “Sorry to state the obvious” or “Forgive me if this is offensive.” 

No, I’ve never worn a hairshirt. Nor have I ever lashed myself bloody in acts of flagellation. And none of this confession should be construed as a bid for martyrdom.

Still, as I’ve long since discovered, guilt, despite its bad name, is actually good for me. Like regret and remorse and shame over my wrongdoings, guilt can be instructive and downright motivational. How else was I ever to grow a conscience? 

So even if I were to attend shul on this designated date – and face it: what better opportunity than the advent of a new year to pursue catharsis and redemption? – I would still atone the other 364 days of the year, too. By definition, atonement differs from apology – more than lip service, it entails taking action to make amends, repair damage inflicted, restore relationships and generally attempt to right a wrong. 

And for this lifestyle preference of mine, this article of faith, let it be noted, I make no apology.

Bob Brody, a consultant and essayist, is author of the memoir “Playing Catch with Strangers: A Family Guy (Reluctantly) Comes of Age.” His writings have appeared in The New York Times, The Wall Street Journal and The Washington Post, among other publications.