“Each of us is more than the worst thing we’ve ever done.”
—Bryan Stevenson
That one sentence contains more theology than most sermons. It is also one of the most urgent moral claims Judaism makes—especially now.
We live in a culture that is often quicker to condemn than to restore. A single error, a wrong word, a poorly phrased joke, a tweet from 2009—these can be enough to exile a person from public space, often without conversation, without process, and without the possibility of return.
Let me be clear: accountability matters. Some actions are inexcusable. Some voices should lose their platforms. People who harm others must face real consequences. But somewhere along the way, the culture of accountability has curdled into something else—something colder, harder, and less hopeful. It has become cancel culture—not as a caricature, but as a lived social dynamic in which moral failure becomes a life sentence and redemption a fantasy.
Judaism offers a different path. A more difficult one. But also a more human one. It is the path of teshuvah.
Teshuvah is not “moving on.” It is not public relations. It is not forced forgiveness. It is the spiritual, emotional, and ethical process of change. Teshuvah means “return”—to the self, to one’s integrity, to the moral core that may have been buried but not extinguished.
Maimonides, in his Laws of Teshuvah, describes the process with clarity: recognition of wrongdoing, verbal confession, remorse, restitution where possible, and—most crucially—facing the same test again and choosing differently. That is when teshuvah is complete. When the person you once were gives way to the person you have become.
It is a demanding process. But it is not infinite. And it is not abstract.
In a teshuvah-based system, a person is not permanently defined by their worst moment. Their sin matters—but so does their struggle. Their capacity to grow. Their willingness to do the work.
Contrast that with the world of cancellation, which often offers no roadmap back. It flattens complexity. It punishes apology. It removes the distinction between those who misspeak and those who abuse, between the reckless and the unrepentant. It replaces the human with the headline.
Teshuvah refuses to do that.
In fact, the Talmud insists that in the place where baalei teshuvah—those who return—stand, even the completely righteous cannot stand (Berakhot 34b). Why? Because to fall and rise again is a greater spiritual feat than to never fall at all. Because teshuvah is not failure—it is courage.
It is easy to forget that. Especially when we are the ones who have been harmed. Especially when the wounds are fresh. Forgiveness cannot be forced. Trust cannot be rushed. Victims must be centered. But communities must also ask: What kind of culture are we building?
A cancel culture creates silence and self-protection. A teshuvah culture creates accountability and possibility.
A cancel culture makes people afraid to fail. A teshuvah culture invites people to grow.
A cancel culture exiles the sinner. A teshuvah culture demands that they change—and then welcomes them back.
We must not confuse softness with strength. Teshuvah is not leniency. It is not about letting people off the hook. It’s about keeping them on the hook long enough to change. It is spiritual rehabilitation, not moral erasure.
This vision is not easy. It requires us to hold multiple truths:
That someone can cause harm and be capable of good.
That someone’s past does not negate their future.
That justice without mercy is not justice—it is vengeance in disguise.
If you find that hard to accept, you’re not alone. The process of teshuvah is just as hard for the community as it is for the individual. We like our heroes flawless and our villains fully damned. We like moral clarity without moral complexity.
But Judaism does not flinch from complexity. Our tradition teaches that King David—who committed adultery and arranged for the death of Bathsheba’s husband—was still a servant of God. That Judah, who sold his brother into slavery, became the leader of the tribes. That Moses himself, banned from the Promised Land for a single act of rage, remained our greatest teacher.
Judaism insists on a deeper kind of justice. One that reckons honestly with harm but refuses to believe that any human being is irredeemable.
There are, of course, limits. There are people who refuse to change. There are harms so deep that teshuvah may never restore trust. Judaism does not require the victim to reconcile, nor does it absolve unrepentant wrongdoers. But it demands that the door remain open—not indefinitely, not uncritically, but open.
Because once we close that door on others, it’s only a matter of time before we close it on ourselves.
Each of us is more than the worst thing we’ve ever done.
This is not just a line from Bryan Stevenson. It is a theology. It is a politics. It is a test of our moral imagination.
And if we want to build Jewish communities that are not just reactive but redemptive—communities that reflect the moral grandeur of our tradition—we need to start taking teshuvah seriously.
Not just in Elul. Not just for others.
But for ourselves.