The Jewish tradition wrestles with this question all the time, especially through the concept of teshuvah – repentance, return. And there's a powerful story in Pirkei DeRabbi Eliezer, chapter 43, that hits this idea head-on.
The story centers on Rabbi Simeon ben Lakish, also known as Resh Lakish. Now, Resh Lakish wasn't always a rabbi. Before he dedicated his life to Torah, he was… well, he was a bandit.
Imagine this: Resh Lakish and two of his buddies are holed up in the mountains, ambushing travelers, robbing them blind. A far cry from a life of religious study. But something shifts within him. What exactly sparked this change, the text doesn't say, but it tells us that Resh Lakish abandons his partners in crime.
He leaves behind the life of violence and returns to the God of his ancestors "with all his heart." He throws himself into prayer and fasting, rising early and staying up late, pouring over sacred texts. He dedicates himself to the poor, giving generously. He completely and utterly rejects his old ways.
And here's the key: he doesn't just dabble in repentance. He immerses himself in it. He dedicates the rest of his days to Torah study, to acts of kindness, to living a life of meaning. He never looks back. He never returns to his evil deeds.
The story concludes with a dramatic contrast. On the day that Resh Lakish dies, his two former partners, still plundering in the mountains, also meet their end. But where do they end up? Resh Lakish earns a place in the "treasury of the living," a symbolic reward of eternal life. His former companions, however, are consigned to the lowest depths of Sheol, the underworld.
What are we to make of this stark difference? The story, in its brevity, is actually incredibly powerful. It is teaching us about the transformative power of teshuvah. It is telling us that no matter how far someone has strayed, a genuine and complete return is possible. Resh Lakish didn't just change his actions; he changed his entire being. He transformed himself from a robber into a respected sage.
And that’s the enduring message. The past doesn’t have to define us. The capacity for change, for teshuvah, lies within each of us. Even Resh Lakish, the bandit, could become Rabbi Simeon ben Lakish, a man remembered for his wisdom and piety. It begs the question: What changes are we capable of making in our own lives?