The yetzer hara would like us to think that teshuvah usually fails

“The sons of Korach did not die.” (Bamidbar 26:11)

Although Korach’s sons had been involved in their father’s revolt, they later had thoughts of repentance. Therefore, they’re interred in a place between the surface of the Earth and Gehinnom. 

The Chofetz Chaim says that the yetzer hara would like us to think that teshuvah is a difficult undertaking that usually concludes in failure. But really, teshuvah isn’t difficult. (Rabbi A. Leib Scheinbaum, Peninim on the Torah)

A

yeshivah bochur was visiting a prominent gadol who asked him where he was learning. He named a famous baal teshuvah yeshivah, but hastened to reassure the rav that he wasn’t a real baal teshuvah.

“And why not?” asked the rav.

Why not indeed? It doesn’t matter if you’re FFB or BT or COBT or any other fancy set of initials you want to put before or after your lifestyle. We all need to be baalei teshuvah. Period.

There is no shortage of teshuvah stories; many people find their way back like the Bnei Korach. Yet, many of us have fleeting thoughts, but never stop long enough to carry through.

Here’s a personal baal teshuvah story that inspired me to make my own small steps toward emulating it.

Devora’s a friend of mine and also a freelance writer.  She’s mega-talented and I often send her my pieces to critique. When my recent emails to her went unanswered, I called her.

“Whatcha up to?” I asked. “Any great leaps for manuscripts? I emailed you something recently. You didn’t get it?”

There was a pause on the line and then she said cautiously, “I don’t have email anymore. I’ve switched jobs.”

“You’re not writing anymore?” To people like me and Devora that’s like saying we stopped breathing. “Why?”

“I don’t want this to sound preachy, but my husband and I decided we didn’t want a computer in the house now that the kids are older, so I’m working at an office job now.”

Words failed me. Devora?  A nine-to-five office job? Still, I managed to say sincerely, “That’s amazing. I wish I could do that.”

The following appears in Rabbi Yechiel Spero’s One Small Spark.

An elderly man entered a baal teshuvah yeshivah and approached the rosh yeshivah, Rav Feivelson, for help. Surprised at his age, Rav Feivelson asked the man what drew him to teshuvah at this late stage.

He shared his story. A child of survivors, he’d moved to Ashdod when he was nine, and his mother inadvertently registered him in a religious school in Bnei Brak established by the Ponevezher Rav.  When she realized it was a frum school, she was horrified and immediately ordered him to pack his bags and leave.

The Ponevezher Rav traveled to Ashdod to try to resolve the situation. Yet, despite his pleading, the mother was adamant that after what she and her husband had experienced, they wanted nothing to do with religion. Suddenly, the Rav’s knees began to shake, and he asked for a chair. He sat down by the table and began to cry silently, uncontrollably for many minutes. Finally, the Rav wiped his tears and left.

This mother didn’t allow her child to grow up religious. Yet that boy never forgot the image of the Rosh Yeshivah weeping copiously over the loss of one young soul. Many decades passed since that day, but now he had finally returned.

The conversation left me in turmoil. Did I really wish I could throw out my computer? Then I wouldn’t have a job, since creativity generally doesn’t follow nine to five. I love my job. (Just don’t tell my boss because I still want to get paid for it.) Writing keeps me elevated through the minutiae of daily life, transfering mundane details into a “parshah moment.”

Could I? Would I? Should I?

I wonder. And I wish. I seek that spark of teshuvah in this technology maelstrom we call the modern world.

You’re reading this, so I’m still here. But I push myself in small ways to try to emulate Devora. To keep my home, if not computer free, then free of what the computer can offer. Except for my writing. But does write = right?

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 952)