In a military class, the professor asked the students, “What is the difference between an engagement and a battle?”
No one in the group answered. The professor was frustrated. “Didn’t anyone read the material in the book?” he thundered.
Finally, one guy said that he knew the answer.
“An engagement is the thing that came before marriage,” he said, “while the battle is what followed it.”
There once was a kid named Ben who was rebellious from the day he was born.
At his Brit Milah, he had a spiked haircut, and when the mohel came toward him with that scary-looking knife, Ben refused to cry!
By five, he was spelling dirty words with his Alpha-Bet cereal. By ten, he was carving tattoos into his sister’s Barbie. And as a teenager, he stayed out all night, ignored his parents, skipped his chores, and got into constant trouble at school.
He even broke into the teachers’ lounge and stole $200.
Finally, his parents were at their wits’ end. One night, they called the police and said, “Take him away. Lock him up for life. We don’t want him becoming a danger to society.”
As Ben was led away, his parents didn't even say goodbye.
Now, let me ask you:
Could this really happen?
Of course not.
No matter how rebellious a child becomes, no parent would ever say, “He is no longer my child.”
And that is exactly the question the Torah is forcing us to confront:
Can a Jewish child ever become so rebellious that we give up on him?
The Torah's answer is profound, and it begins with the strange law of the rebellious son.
The Torah presents, in this week’s Torah portion Ki Teitzei, the shocking case of a rebellious thirteen-year-old whose parents bring him before the court, where he is sentenced to death.
Can you imagine a Jewish mother saying, “Ben, I packed you some cookies. And don't forget your sweater, it gets cold in the death chamber!”
Even Moses struggled with this law. The Zohar says he asked G-d: “Will there ever be a father who does this to his son?”
The Talmud answers that “there never was and never will be” such a case. The conditions are so impossible that the law could never practically be carried out.
So why did the Torah write it?
Study it and receive its reward.
But there is an even deeper question. The Torah says the child is punished because of where his behavior will eventually lead.
How can Judaism say that about a thirteen-year-old?
What happened to Teshuvah?
The answer is the very opposite of giving up on a child.
The Torah is teaching us: Never ignore destructive patterns.
A child may change, but we cannot wait until the damage is done.
And perhaps the greatest lesson is this:
A child’s behavior is not his destiny.
Don't say, “This is who he is.”
Say:
“This is where he is, and with love, boundaries, and guidance, he can become something entirely different.”
That is the power of Teshuvah.
Every child, even the most troubled child, is still holy. He carries the spiritual DNA of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. His Jewish soul remains eternally connected to Hashem.
The question is: Can he still feel that connection?
The Torah teaches that a child who experiences his parents’ love and forgiveness remains connected to his roots, and those roots give him the strength to change.
When we refuse to forgive, a child may conclude that he is beyond repair. But when we forgive him, we give him the courage to forgive himself and begin again.
Never give up on your child. Never sever the connection.
Behind the mistakes, the anger, and even the deepest failures is a Jewish soul, a spark of the Divine, carrying a four-thousand-year-old legacy.
Sometimes the most powerful thing a parent can say is:
“I still believe in you. I still love you. You are still my child. You are still part of us.”
Several years ago, I taught a class about the idea that every person is sent into this world with a unique mission—and with the abilities necessary to fulfill it. Sometimes those abilities are hidden beneath weakness and struggle.
Our sacred responsibility is to help uncover them.
A child may see only his failures. We must learn to see his potential.
Our job is not only to correct what is wrong, but to awaken what is right—to help a child discover the greatness within his soul and give him the courage to become who he was created to be.
Sometimes, believing in someone is what finally teaches them to believe in themselves.
After my class, a striking young man approached me. As he got closer, I saw that he suffered from some motor complications. He asked to speak with me privately. After everyone left, we sat down, and he began to tell me his story. His words came out slowly due to a speech impediment, and he shared with me that he was born with a rare disease that affected his nervous system, which also impaired his mental capacity and growth. He later discovered that his parents gave him away as a newborn, after hearing that he was diagnosed with severe mental handicaps. Over the years, it turned out that the diagnosis was not completely accurate, though he still suffered from many problems. At that point, his parents were not willing or able to handle him, and they chose to have no contact with him.
His parents were wealthy and prominent. They gave him excellent care, but they never visited.
He was, in effect, an orphan. A “privileged orphan.” Everything was provided except the one thing he needed most: unconditional love.
And yet, despite his pain, he had developed an extraordinary capacity for warmth, kindness, and love.
After one of my classes, he approached me.
“Rabbi, I know I have limitations. But I also know I have strengths. Can you help me discover them?”
I was deeply moved.
He could not see what I saw: a soul of extraordinary beauty, refined through suffering.
He continued coming to my classes, and we became close. He spoke about his rejection and his longing to confront his parents. He had found them.
But he was terrified to face them.
Because sometimes the deepest wound is not what someone did to you.
It is the love you never received.
I began to wonder: Should I call his parents myself?
Who was I to confront them? I tried not to judge. Perhaps they had their own pain, their own reasons, their own story.
But one question would not leave me:
Can any reason ever justify a parent abandoning a child?
And another question haunted me:
Was it my place to confront them, or was it my place to help their son find his way back to himself?
After a few months of hesitation, I got the number, and I finally made the call.
“Hello, good afternoon. I am a friend of your son and would like to speak to you about him.” Deathly silence on the other end of the line. What do I say now?
“Hello, hi, may we speak for a few moments?”
“What can I do for you?” was the cold response.
“I know your son. He is an extraordinary man, and I thought that would make you proud.”
Click. The father hung up the phone.
What do I do now? Call back? I decided to wait. A few days later I tried again. This time his secretary did not let the call through, so I left a message saying that “this matter is very personal and can have profound long-term consequences for good or for bad.”
I tried the next day, and what do you know, he took my call. Now what? I said: “Please understand. I am not in the business of meddling. I am not being critical or judgmental. I feel from the depths of my heart that it would be life-transforming for you and your wife to meet your son.”
“We don’t want to talk about it; we don’t want to go there; we did what we felt was best for everyone.”
“I am sure you did. Still, today, your son has grown to be a tremendous soul. He needs to see you, and you need to see him. Please consider that.”
“I’ll get back to you.”
He didn’t. But now I was on the warpath. So I called again. He did apologize for not getting back, almost making me respect his cordiality, until I remembered why we were here in the first place, and said that his wife would not be able to do it. Too uncomfortable. He mumbled something about having “long ago buried this.” But I persisted.
“So then I’ll arrange for you to meet your son without your wife.”
“No, not yet.”
After a few months, he finally relented, and together with his wife we scheduled the fateful meeting they dreaded. At their insistence, which surprised me, they wanted me to be present at the meeting, I figured, to serve as a bit of a buffer.
The big day came. We met in their lavish living room, tea and biscuits on the table, all choreographed, except for the emotions being released.
Oh man, this was one of the most heart-wrenching experiences I would ever endure, and I wondered what havoc I would wreak, but it was too late. Here we were. Initially, everybody was cordial, even detached, like strangers meeting about buying a house. “What do you do?” “Where have you traveled?” “Are you a Yankee fan?” “How’s the weather?” You get the idea? After sitting silent, trying to be invisible and letting things take their natural, biological course (or so I hoped), I finally piped in the first serious statement of the evening. “Your son told me his story. He must have a lot of anger inside of him, but he hasn’t shown it to me, or maybe not even to himself. You must have many feelings yourselves. I really don’t belong here, but since I am here, allow me to say that your son is one of the most beautiful people I know. I have discovered new horizons of human dignity and the capacity to shine in this harsh world. I think it would be truly life-changing for you to get to know each other.”
Before I stood up to leave, our hero turned to his parents and uttered a few words that could melt any heart. With a stutter and a bit slowly, his speech was impeded; as you may recall, he began:
“Mumma, Puppa... I, I am not perfect. You, too, you are also not perfect. I have forgiven you. Can you forgive me?”
We all burst into tears. I made my way out the door, leaving them alone...
“Mumma, Puppa... I, I am not perfect. You aren't perfect, either. I have forgiven you. Can you forgive me?” Can you forgive me for not being perfect, their handicapped child asked. Can you forgive me for putting into your life a child who is less than perfect?...
Can you forgive your child for not being perfect? Can you forgive your loved one for not being perfect? Can you forgive yourself for being imperfect?
Shabbat Shalom and Shana Tova
Rabbi Yoseph Geisinsky
Graham wrote...