Claus, I didnât want to ruin the magic, for
fear that he would never do it again. My father had to leave them stealthily at night so no one might catch him with his guard down. He was scared of human emotion, he didnât understand it or know how to deal with it. But he did know donuts.
And when I allow the floodgates to open up, there are other memories that come rushing back, memories of other tiny gestures, however incomplete, that showed that he did what he could.
So tonight, rather than focusing on what my father didnât do, I want to focus on all the things he did do, and on his own personal challenges. I want to stop judging him.
I have started reflecting on the fact that my father grew up in the South, in a very poor family. He came of age during the Depression, and his own father, who struggled to feed his children, showed little affection toward his family and raised my father and his siblings with an iron fist. Who could have imagined what it was like to grow up a poor black man in the South, robbed of dignity, bereft of hope, struggling to become a man in a world that saw my father as subordinate. I was the first black artist to be played on MTV and I remember how big a deal it was even then. And that was in the 1980s!
My father moved to Indiana and had a large family of his own, working long hours in the steel mills, work that kills the lungs and humbles the spirit, all to support his family. Is it any wonder that he found it difficult to expose his feelings? Is it any mystery that he hardened his heart, that he raised the emotional ramparts? What other choice does a man have when his life is a struggle just to get by? And most of all, is it any wonder why he pushed his sons so hard to succeed as performers so that they could be saved from what he knew to be a life of indignity and poverty? I have begun to see that even my fatherâs harshness was a kind of love, an imperfect love, to be sure, but love nonetheless. He pushed me because he loved me. Because he wanted no man to ever look down at his offspring.
And now, with time, rather than bitterness I feel blessing. In the place of anger, I have found absolution. And in the place of
revenge, I have found reconciliation. And my initial fury has slowly given way to forgiveness.
Almost a decade ago, I founded a charity called Heal the World. The title was something I felt inside me. Little did I know, as Shmuley later pointed out, that those two words form the cornerstone of Old-Testament prophecy. Do I really believe that we can heal this world that is riddled with war and hate and genocide even today? And do I really think that we can heal our children, the same children who can enter their schools with guns and hatred and shoot down their classmates like they did at Columbine; our children who can beat a defenseless toddler to death like the tragic story of Jamie Bulger [murdered in England by two ten-year-olds]? Of course I do, or I wouldnât be here tonight. But it all begins with forgiveness. Because to heal the world we first have to heal ourselves. And to heal the kids, we first have to heal the child within each and every one of us.
As an adult, and as a parent, I realize that I cannot be a whole human being, nor a parent capable of fully committed, unconditional love until I put to rest the ghosts of my own childhood.
And thatâs what Iâm asking all of us to do tonight. Live up to the Fifth of the Ten Commandments. Honor your parents by not judging them. Give them the benefit of the doubt. Understand that they had their own struggles, their own pains, their own traumas, and still did the best that they could.
That is why I want to forgive my father, and to stop judging him. I want to forgive him because I want a father and this is the only one that Iâve got . I want the weight of my past lifted from my shoulders, and I want to be free to step into a new relationship with my father for the rest of my life,
fear that he would never do it again. My father had to leave them stealthily at night so no one might catch him with his guard down. He was scared of human emotion, he didnât understand it or know how to deal with it. But he did know donuts.
And when I allow the floodgates to open up, there are other memories that come rushing back, memories of other tiny gestures, however incomplete, that showed that he did what he could.
So tonight, rather than focusing on what my father didnât do, I want to focus on all the things he did do, and on his own personal challenges. I want to stop judging him.
I have started reflecting on the fact that my father grew up in the South, in a very poor family. He came of age during the Depression, and his own father, who struggled to feed his children, showed little affection toward his family and raised my father and his siblings with an iron fist. Who could have imagined what it was like to grow up a poor black man in the South, robbed of dignity, bereft of hope, struggling to become a man in a world that saw my father as subordinate. I was the first black artist to be played on MTV and I remember how big a deal it was even then. And that was in the 1980s!
My father moved to Indiana and had a large family of his own, working long hours in the steel mills, work that kills the lungs and humbles the spirit, all to support his family. Is it any wonder that he found it difficult to expose his feelings? Is it any mystery that he hardened his heart, that he raised the emotional ramparts? What other choice does a man have when his life is a struggle just to get by? And most of all, is it any wonder why he pushed his sons so hard to succeed as performers so that they could be saved from what he knew to be a life of indignity and poverty? I have begun to see that even my fatherâs harshness was a kind of love, an imperfect love, to be sure, but love nonetheless. He pushed me because he loved me. Because he wanted no man to ever look down at his offspring.
And now, with time, rather than bitterness I feel blessing. In the place of anger, I have found absolution. And in the place of
revenge, I have found reconciliation. And my initial fury has slowly given way to forgiveness.
Almost a decade ago, I founded a charity called Heal the World. The title was something I felt inside me. Little did I know, as Shmuley later pointed out, that those two words form the cornerstone of Old-Testament prophecy. Do I really believe that we can heal this world that is riddled with war and hate and genocide even today? And do I really think that we can heal our children, the same children who can enter their schools with guns and hatred and shoot down their classmates like they did at Columbine; our children who can beat a defenseless toddler to death like the tragic story of Jamie Bulger [murdered in England by two ten-year-olds]? Of course I do, or I wouldnât be here tonight. But it all begins with forgiveness. Because to heal the world we first have to heal ourselves. And to heal the kids, we first have to heal the child within each and every one of us.
As an adult, and as a parent, I realize that I cannot be a whole human being, nor a parent capable of fully committed, unconditional love until I put to rest the ghosts of my own childhood.
And thatâs what Iâm asking all of us to do tonight. Live up to the Fifth of the Ten Commandments. Honor your parents by not judging them. Give them the benefit of the doubt. Understand that they had their own struggles, their own pains, their own traumas, and still did the best that they could.
That is why I want to forgive my father, and to stop judging him. I want to forgive him because I want a father and this is the only one that Iâve got . I want the weight of my past lifted from my shoulders, and I want to be free to step into a new relationship with my father for the rest of my life,
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