I gave a talk at a local synagogue on textual activism; ways of using our Torah to support civic engagement. Afterward, I received a critique. I can sermonize all I want, but wasn’t it more important to be acting instead – even on Shabbat? So I have had to consider the role of prayer and study in relation to mobilizing for change. Having found inspiration in Torah, I understand the need for both, understanding Torah to operate like a navigation system to keep me on the right path.

In Parshat Eikev Moses redresses the people for being stiff-necked, for their fecklessness, and for their infidelity to God. The prescription for a better future is to love God, obey the rules, exhibit gratitude and open your hearts. “Israel, what does the LORD your God demand of you? Only this: to revere the LORD your God, to walk only in His paths, to love Him, and to serve the LORD your God with all your heart and soul, . . .” This admonition contains elements of both internal processes and demonstrable actions.

The impulse to act can be rooted in a religious commitment that reaches out from heart and soul.  Accordingly, my desire to change the world begins with a change in me. The Jewish guidance system I attempt to follow is living a life that emulates God. The first steps along the path are for me to work on my heart-centered God connection through reverence and love. Only then will my demonstrable service likely have the proper focus and intention and energy. The journey to freedom, human rights, and economic opportunity, begin as an internal passage.

The moral compass by which we operate cannot set true north by personal calibration. Rather, our direction must align with values suitable to all our pursuits for a better world.

Back to synagogue. Two weeks after I spoke, I returned to hear Rabbi Michael Pollack speak to the congregation. He employed the priestly blessing image of God’s face turning toward us. In the light of God’s countenance, we also turn and direct our faces to God. This for me is the crux of textual activism. There is a mutuality of operation when we receive this world as God’s looking toward us and we endeavor to care for the world with that appreciation. In this way, we remember to love others as we are loved by God. And we act in service of God employing the unselfish passion of heart and soul.

Ultimately, the strength and resilience needed to bring about appropriate change in a time of contentiousness will best come when we begin with an internal process. The fuel for the journey might be our love for God and all that God has created. The best navigation system is our Jewish values. Reminders of the love and values are found in the Torah we absorb each week. In this way, we must begin with our Jewish texts to send us on the right path to improving this world.  Both teaching Torah and advocating for change go hand in hand.

Rabbi Evan J. Krame

Modern spirituality seems to echo advice of an old standard: “accentuate the positive and eliminate the negative.” Who doesn’t groove on light, love and can-do spirit? Each “yes” of affirmation and empowerment tends to feel good: a spirituality of “yes” energizes, validates and comforts. By comparison, negatives like restriction, redirection and disappointment can seem like lesser spirituality or even non-spirituality.

But every life encounters “no.” Every life needs “no.” Limits and redirection can re-inspire us and keep us healthy and safe. Disappointment can deepen awareness and build resilience. Life without “no” isn’t real life. A spirituality that hews mainly to “yes” and recoils from “no” will miss key parts of life. It’ll be calcified and brittle. It won’t be fully real.

How do we incubate real spirituality when life’s answer is “no”?

Moses faced this question. In this week’s Torah portion (Va’etchanan), Moses reached the Land of Promise after 40 years. His life goal before his eyes but already told he wouldn’t enter, Moses pleaded once more. God’s answer was blunt: no. “Enough! Don’t speak to Me of this again!” (Deut. 3:26). God then had Moses climb a hill to see a Land he’d never touch.

How could Moses go on? How can we? What is real spirituality when life’s answer is “no”?

These questions come at a time seemingly full of negatives. U.S. democracy is troubled, even dangerously so. Many feel too overwhelmed to look much less act. The world is less free, less safe, less fair and less just. And with Tisha b’Av now history, world Jewry turns to face Rosh Hashanah – and odds are that you’d rather not think about it.

Me neither. The constant drip (sometimes torrent) of shockingly bad news wears me down. I’d rather luxuriate in spring’s vibrant beauty than summer’s slow wane. I don’t want to notice the occasional yellowing leaf. I don’t want to see “back to school” commercials on TV.

Too bad. To my wish that democracy were healthier, to my craving for endless summer, to my inclination to turn away, life’s answer is “no.” And these negatives are trivial compared to illness and loss that we all must face, some more than others.

Rabbi David Ingber observed that God’s “no” to Moses hid deep meaning. Most traditional commentators describe Moses’ re-telling of God’s “no” as angry: vayit’aber YHVH bi – “God was angry with me” for asking to enter the Land. One, Bachya ben Asher ibn Halawa (1255-1340), translated vayit’aber bi to suggest that a new time was being incubated.

Turns out vayit’aber bi can be read as “made me pregnant” – yes, pregnant. Ingber put the pieces together: with this divine “no,” God impregnated Moses – not literally, but with a new spiritual vision that helped lift Moses to new heights. This holy “no” incubated in Moses new capacity, new vision and a healthy way to integrate this most disappointing “no” into his life.

As for Moses, so potentially for us if we allow it. We can’t always know why life’s “no” moments come, some so unfair and painful. But if we can summon the strength to hold just the possibility that each “no” somehow can incubate a capacity, vision or healthy way to move forward, then the “no” might well contain the seed of some future “yes.”

That kind of vision, pregnant with possibility even amidst life’s negative, is what Moses saw in the Land. It’s what God impregnated Moses to incubate, and what Torah now calls us to incubate in our lives. It’s the very seed of resilience itself.

– Rabbi David Evan Markus

Memories may light the corners of Barbra’s mind, but they often darken our own psyche. Resilience is found in your ability to understand memory as a particular tool that can be employed to bring understanding, comfort or inspiration.

The way we remember our lives is shaped by both the context in which events occurred and the later circumstances in which those same events are recalled. When you think of a challenging episode in your life, you can discover new perspective with the leverage of time and maturity and faith.

In the opening of Deuteronomy, Moses begins by revisiting the past 40 years of arduous desert travel. The memory Moses shares does not exactly line up with the facts described in earlier books of Torah.  An empathetic reader might understand that Moses is recalling the past through a lens of grief.  After all, he is being denied access to the Promised Land and his leadership is ending.

Moses may be reinventing the past to self-soothe, as his disappointment is crushing. With great devotion to God and the Children of Israel, Moses is also in a process of “revisioning” so that he can reconcile with the past and find the inspiration to urge the people forward. As his speech progresses he comes to terms with his fate and urges the people to be obedient and love God.

It’s certainly common today to hear about individuals “rewriting history.” Whether we are critical or cynical, distorting facts is a dangerous endeavor, especially when used for self-aggrandizement. But there’s another kind of history rewrite that is an exploration of psyche and soul. Psychologist Leon Seltzer describes this as “revisiting the past to correct (or “revision”) the unfavorable conclusions you came to about yourself.”

The “revisioning” concept began with psychologist James Hillman in the 1950s who taught that the tool of revisioning the past can be used to positive effect. Rather than get trapped in an old paradigm of guilt, shame, or pain, we can revision our past to interpret our lives anew. After all, if maturing brings the benefits of enhanced perspective, the way we can understand events in our lives now should be far more cognitively astute than when we were younger.

The effect of divorce on children is a good example. Psychologists often warn that we must assure the child that the separation of parents is not their fault. If the child moves forward in life with a sense of guilt because they are implicated in their parents divorce, then his or her adulthood will be guided by a misperception of self, not being good enough, feeling shameful or unforgiveable. Revisioning would bring awareness, understanding and healing.

Another example comes from the movie “Good Will Hunting.” Late in the film, Matt Damon, as the genius cum janitor, has a break-through with his therapist, played by Robin Williams.  The key phrase prompting Damon’s character is Williams saying repeatedly, “it’s not your fault.” The therapist encourages the patient to revision the past with new understanding and to confront the negative emotions carried forward into adulthood.

As we mature, we have the opportunity to engage in a life review. Doing so we can assert our adult prerogative to revision the events that shaped our identity.  In reviewing the past we can discover where self-defeating or self-invalidating beliefs originated.  With mature cognition and awareness, we can modify those feelings that have influenced our behaviors and kept burning fires of conflict.

There is a spiritual component to revisioning. Even as the psyche is disturbed the soul remains pure. By revisioning our history, we clear away the scar tissue of psyche enabling the soul to emerge brighter. As Moses revisioned the past, he revealed and activated a soul that could then guide the people toward God with great love.

If you have been hard on yourself, consider revisioning your past to bring new understanding to the events that bruised your psyche. Releasing some of the pain can open pathways for your soul to better guide you.

Regarding your past differently–that is, revisioning it–enables you to make peace with it. Accepting what can never be changed helps you exonerate yourself (and everybody else) for whatever went wrong in the past. Revisioning times gone by offers an ideal opportunity to activate your resilience and your soul.

R’ Evan Krame

Part of a yearlong series on resilience in Jewish spiritual life.

I’ve heard it countless times, especially over the last few weeks: “Depending on where I look around me, I see either beauty or devastation, hope or despair.”

True that: it’s all there, all at the same time, especially nowadays. Some would say that where we choose to look, what we emphasize in our seeing and thinking, is our master key of resilience.

To me, however, resilience is less selective vision than collective vision. Resilience is less about narrowing our focus to what most pleases or eases us, and more about expanding our focus to see it all, hold it all, and live well in it all. This week’s Torah double portion (Matot-Masei) proves the point.

Depending on where I look, I can see either spiritual audacity in keeping vows (Num. 30:3), or ancient society’s sexism in Torah treating male and female vows differently (Num. 30:4-16). I can see ancient Israelite violence and xenophobia (Num. 31:1-17), or attempted spiritualization of war booty (Num. 31:26-30). I can see selfish cowardice in peoples seeking to freeload on others, or wise practicality in treating differently situated peoples differently (Num. 32:1-9). I can see desert journeys delayed by repeated stops or made feasible by repeated stops (Num. 33:1-37). I can see in “refuge cities” either murderousness or wise compassion (Num. 35:9-34).

All of this and more in the same Torah portion. All of this and more in today’s news, today’s society, today’s lives. It’s a lot to see; sometimes, often, increasingly, it feels like too much.

When it’s too much, narrowing focus can be natural, wise, healthy and necessary. Capacity to narrowcast is a tried and true resilience tool. But if we all narrowcast, there’s no chance for seeing the whole, challenging our vision, or building our capacity. Often we’ll choose to see only the world we want to see: consider how you tend to choose your news sources based on what you want to see and hear. It’s a natural and comforting habit, but it’s not a long-term strategy for living well together (political sociologists call it homophily) much less bridging gaps and solving conflicts.

That’s why the highest calling of spiritual resilience isn’t to narrowcast but to broadcast. not to strategically see less but to courageously see more. We need to see it all – what pleases us and what displeases us, what comforts and what chides, what we can help heal and what we think we can’t (yet).

Only then can we cultivate the truest capacity not to shrink and shrivel from what we see. Only then can we truly help and heal. Only then can we truly be resilient – for ourselves, each other and a world that needs the widest possible vision of what the world still can be.

– Rabbi David Evan Markus

Counting the people of the tribes of Israel is a recurring event of the Book of Numbers, so I thought I’d do a little modern counting of my own.

18.  White supremacists killed 18 people in 2017, twice the number killed by Muslim extremists, in the United States.

19.  Every day, 19 children are shot by guns in the United States.  That’s over 1,300 each year, and roughly 26,000 killed between 1999 and 2017.

27. At least 27 transgender people were fatally shot or killed by other violent means in 2017.

1,147.  Of the 1,147 people killed by police in 2017, less than 1/3 were suspected of a violent crime and 25% were African American – a percentage twice that of the general population.

1,986.  There were 1,986 anti-Semitic incidents reported across the United States in 2017, an  increase of 60% over the prior year.

2,342. Since early May at least 2,342 children have been separated from their parents at the U.S. border.

3,000. In the 500 days since he took the oath of office, President Trump has made more than 3,000 false or misleading claims, such as stating 34 times that a border wall will end drug trafficking into this country even though the DEA says that is not correct.

3,500. Some 3,500 sex trafficking cases were reported in the U.S. in 2017 alone, with a specific concentration in and around Atlanta, Georgia.

68,000.  According to the World Health Organization, 68,000 women die annually from unsafe abortions worldwide.

80,000.  80,000 U.S. children are sexually abused each year – and that’s only the number reported.

5.7 million.  Approximately 5.7 million adults are living with Alzheimer’s disease, with an average lifetime cost of $341,840.

41 million. According to U.S. Department of Agriculture statistics for 2017, 41 million people in the United States live in food-insecure households, 13 million of whom are children.

As we move forward through the history of our era, take these numbers forward with you. Make this your Torah for the week. What is God asking of us? Who will lead us out of the wilderness of abuse, hunger, hatred and violence? Who will take us to the promised United States of America that calls itself a nation striving for freedom, liberty and peace? Start with whatever you can do.

R’ Evan J. Krame

Part of a yearlong series on resilience in Jewish spiritual life.

Ever feel like you’re pushing a boulder up a hill and soon will reach the top if you just keep going – but the top never comes? Mythical Greek king Sisyphus was condemned to this futility, and philosopher Albert Camus saw in it a metaphor for all human life. Camus wrote in 1942: “One must imagine Sisyphus happy [because] the struggle itself to the heights is enough to fill [the human] heart.”

Oh? Is the uphill climb all there is? When is it more resilient to catch a tailwind than defy gravity? When should we quit to get ahead?

All year, we’ve been blogging about resilience in Jewish spiritual life. We’ve met resilience teachers in Torah characters, personality traits, challenges and blunders. This week’s Torah portion (Balak) teaches that sometimes what we call resilience is just blind stubbornness.

Balak is a king aiming to curse the Israelites traversing his territory. His cleric is Bilam, whom Balak sent to curse them. Bilam pursued his master’s mission with zeal: to Bilam, perseverance probably felt like resilience.

But God wanted to bless Israel, not curse Israel, so God sent an angel to block Bilam’s way. Bilam, however, wouldn’t be deterred: he couldn’t or wouldn’t see what was in front of him. After hilarious plot twists that include Bilam’s donkey seeing the angel, crushing Bilam’s foot underneath and then talking to Bilam as if a talking donkey were ordinary, finally Bilam saw the angel and “saw the light.” From then on, Bilam said and did only as God instructed.

But Balak also wouldn’t be deterred. Even as Bilam blessed Israel, Balak kept trying to get Israel cursed. Balak hauled Bilam from one place to another, as if changing Bilam’s location would change his words. Like Bilam before him, Balak’s perseverance probably felt like resilience: he’d push until he prevailed. In the end, God prevailed: Israel received ever more blessings from Bilam’s own mouth.

Sometimes what we call perseverance and resilience are just our egoic willfulness. Yes, life asks determination and grit, but life also asks discernment. Sometimes we’re on the right train to the wrong station. As The New York Times put it recently, “winners are people who know when to quit“.

Resilience means seeing what’s in front of us and letting what we see change us when change is wise. Resilience means not letting ego keep us from needed redirection. Resilience means not letting the “sunk cost” of past effort keep us from cutting losses.

Had Bilam been paying the right kind of attention, maybe he would’ve seen signs that he was on the wrong path. Maybe he would’ve seen repeated obstacles as holy forces of redirection. Same for Balak: had he really listened to his otherwise loyal cleric, maybe Balak would’ve heard a deeper message.

In most life situations, we’re not Sisyphus: we have the power to choose and the duty to choose wisely. In many life situations, we might experience an impulse of holy re-direction. Real resilience is unafraid to ask if we’re still on the right path, and unafraid to be re-directed for the better – whatever the cost.

Just ask Balak, Bilam and his holy angel of re-direction – this week’s resilience teachers.

– Rabbi David Evan Markus

Bitching is easy. Holy bitching is another matter.

Easy bitching is what our Torah ancestors did after 39 years in the desert – and who could blame them? Having buried beloved leaders Miriam and Aaron, the people called Israel were miserable: 39 years on the move, in the wilderness, eating manna. It is human nature to notice frustrations and start complaining.

Letting off steam and expressing discontent can be healthy and cleansing. Expressing discontent that commits us and others to concrete actions for betterment is how all social reform movements begin. But complaining without end, without gratitude and without action can undermine community and disrupt society – and there’s nothing holy about that.

Our Torah ancestors complained without end and without gratitude. Simply put, they bitched – and not for the first time. The bitching that Numbers chapter 21 describes isn’t the first time that the people bemoan their fate, blaming God and Moses.

But this time, God conjured a way to tame the people’s fury: snakes. The snakes came biting and the people ran to Moses for relief. God told Moses to create a serpent figure and fix it to a pole. Anyone bitten by a snake could run to view the snake on a stick and they wouldn’t die.  (If the image sounds familiar, look at the emblem for the American Medical Association.)

The scene sounds crazy, but the symbolism is poignant. The consequence of disruptive behavior was a snake bite, and the remedy was to look at a copper snake. The snake is the animal that deceived Eve and Adam in Eden.  The snake’s sharp tongue prompted dissatisfaction, disobedience and expulsion. So too here: endless ungrateful bitching was poised to deny our ancestors the promised land.

The snake story’s resilience lesson is a bit of spiritual homeopathy: the “cure” lay within the “illness” itself. Bitching was poisonous, and only seeing the poison for what it was could lead to healing.

The next time you feel the impulse to complain, ask if what’s arising is a healthy steam-letting, a constructive criticism, a call to action or just bitching. All are human, but not all are holy – and not all are pathways to resilience.

R’ Evan J. Krame & R’ David Evan Markus

Part of a yearlong series on resilience in Jewish spiritual life.

Watch enough cable or online “news,” and you might sense a U.S. society more polarized than ever before by political party, class, race, ethnicity, geography and religion. Public disagreements speedily become disagreeable, and disputes fuel scorched-earth campaigns to destroy disputants.

What are we to do? What’s a loving God to do? Turns out that our ancient narrative of God has bloody hands, too – which might be trying to teach us something by shocking our conscience. This lesson, it turns out, offers a key to navigating our complex and conflict-riddled world with spiritual and emotional resilience.

In one of Torah’s most poignant and perplexing narratives, from this week’s Torah portion (Korach), an understandable rebellion against Moses becomes deadly. Moses responds with humility and genuine leadership, by falling on his face. By contrast, this narrative’s God responds with alarming pique: “Stand back from this community that I may consume them instantly” (Num. 16:21).

Yes, you read that right. Torah records God to respond with not only a death sentence but also a communal death sentence that would be levied against everyone. No, not against only the rebels: everyone!

Nachmanides confirms this interpretation, and he offers no justification. Rashi, who usually has much to say about everything, seems shocked into silence: for once, Rashi has nothing to say. He’s left speechless.

Thankfully, the story turns out better than it starts: Moses talks God down from the rafters, and God limits divine punishment only against the rebels. Whatever we might make of the rebellion or the response, at least innocents aren’t condemned with the rest.

But what are we to make of God’s conscience-shocking over-generalizing threat against everyone?

If we’re brutally honest with ourselves, we must admit that we too paint with over-broad brushes against perceived adversaries and people who seems different from us. So affirms social identity theory, but we don’t need highfalutin psychologists to tell us what we already know from experience. Racism, sexism, anti-Semitism, homophobia and other forms of group discrimination are only the most noxious forms of the very human (and very flawed) trend of lumping people into in-groups and out-groups, then painting out-groups with broad brushes that paint them negatively.

In other words, our brains are wired to generalize criticism of others. Think about all the times you say, feel or think about “them” (or any subset of “them”) as a group. Check the news and watch this facet of social identity theory play out. Once we see it, it seems to be most everywhere.

Resilience lies in naming this dynamic (in psychological terms, thus “inoculating” somewhat against it). Name the dynamic and we become less likely to paint with such broad brushes, with all its flawed us-them thinking that’s often so damaging. If we all could honestly name our own us-them thinking and expose it to genuine light, odds are that much of today’s public vitriol, racism and hatred would wane.

Maybe Torah teaches us this lesson precisely by positioning God as the One to go so far over the top. If an ostensibly omniscient God can look again and repent of painting with too broad a brush, then perhaps we can too. And if we do our parts, we and our world can become more fair, more safe and more resilient for it.

– Rabbi David Evan Markus

Part of a yearlong series about resilience in Jewish spiritual life.

Have you ever imagined yourself with a different name? My grandmother wanted to shed her Yiddish name and be known as Shirley, an American sounding first name. For similar reasons my father changed his surname from Kramowitz to Krame. Their motivations reflected the values of assimilation. Yet, name changing is also deeply rooted in Jewish tradition. And with the proper intention, a name change can transform us. From Torah this week we learn that resetting a person’s name can not only elevate a person’s soul but is a marker of greatness.

In parshat Sh’lach, Moses “names” Hosea ben Nun to lead a band of scouts into the land of Canaan. All of those who are familiar with the text know that the spies will return with a false report, afraid of the people they encountered and lacking in faith that they can conquer the land. Theirs’ is a sinfulness that damns the people to wander for 38 more years. But Hosea ben Nun is not among those sinful scouts. Just a few verses earlier, Moses had changed Hosea’s name to Yehoshua (Joshua) by adding a yud. The yud added represents God, just as yud is the first letter of God’s name. With that reminder, Joshua is sent on the scouting mission. By taking God into the name, Joshua is sanctified and guided in his service as a leader. And he is made more resilient.

Not every name is easily upgraded with the addition of the “yud” of the Divine name. But each of us has the opportunity to incorporate Godliness into our lives if we consider our names to designate us as representatives of God. Perhaps that is an insight as to why the protection of a name is so important in our tradition. We are taught to value names. Names are a portal to righteousness. We do not take God’s name in vain and we do not slander the name of our peers. We learn at Pirke Avot 4:17 “Rabbi Shimon said, there are three crowns: the crown of Torah, the crown of priesthood, and the crown of kingship. And the crown of a good name is superior to them all.”

And for those who would take on leadership roles, their name or title can serve as a powerful reminder to know before Whom they stand and Whom they serve. Whether leaders are named or elected, how would it be if each considered their oath of office as if spiritually incorporating a “yud” into their name?

A name change might not be sufficient for those who are power hungry or lead without skill. But for the true public servant, the lesson we learn from Joshua and the scouts is that we need leaders who operate from faith and not fear, from the pursuit of Godliness and not greed. Perhaps there would be far better Government if our leaders had names that reminded them that their service was named by God.

R’ Evan J. Krame

Part of a yearlong series about resilience in Jewish spiritual life.

“Waiting to Exhale.” No, not the 1995 Whitney Houston movie hit. I mean life’s occasional sense of waiting – waiting with anticipation, waiting with diminishing patience, maybe even Waiting for Godot.

When we must wait, how can we wait with inner healthfulness, even resilience?

We moderns crave our agency – our autonomy, our capacity to act – and with good reason. For hundreds of years since the Enlightenment emphasized the rights and liberties of the individual, Western society has trended toward the ingrained belief that each of us controls our destiny. In Thomas Jefferson’s immortal words, each of us enjoys the rights of “life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.” We usually believe that we claim these rights by our own means.

True enough. But sometimes our own means and agency aren’t all they’re cracked up to be. Sometimes they’re even illusions.

Into all lives come things we can’t control. Often we wait, because what we await is beyond our control. Waiting can challenge us. Rather than name this challenge and work out its difficulties on their terms, sometimes we deflect the challenge into things that don’t serve us.

Suddenly far from living in our own agency, the challenge of waiting controls us. We become quiet victims of impatience, deflection and the inner drive to control precisely what we can’t control.

Cue this week’s Torah portion (Beha’alotecha).

Not once but five times in the same paragraph, Torah recounts that our desert ancestors followed a cloud by day and fire by night atop the Mishkan. They moved when it moved and stopped when it stopped. “Whether the cloud was on the Mishkan for days, a month or a year,” they waited and moved only when it moved (Num. 9:22).

When Torah repeats herself, Torah is focusing attention. By repeating herself five times, Torah emphasizes that our ancestors had no control of when and where they went. Their desert wandering was precisely to teach trust and patience in a transcendent reality beyond themselves.

Among life’s deep truths is that sometimes we control less than we may think. In pivotal moments, some choose rebellion, sublimation or passive fatalism. Torah offers another choice: trust and patience.

What fire do you follow? What fire is worth your trust and patience – however dark the night, however long it takes, wherever it leads?

Find that fire and you’ll find your resilience. You might even find that it’s not about waiting to exhale: it’s about our journey, and what lights our way.

– Rabbi David Markus