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

A famed microbiologist, Stanley Falkow, died this month. Falkow’s work was described as writing the operating manual for how bacteria cause disease. While his accomplishments were monumental, it was the description of his parents in the obituary that drew my attention and called to mind a lesson from Torah this week.

Falkow’s father was from Kiev, Ukraine and worked as a shoe salesman in Albany, NY. His mother from Poland rented rooms and later opened a corset shop. Neither parent is named in the obituary. As the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, I imagine that Stanley Falkow’s brilliance came from the genetic legacy of two brave, working class parents who sustained a family with ordinary labor. Torah tells us that this work was holy in its necessity and sacred in its normality.

In reading parshat Naso, we get great detail about the role of three priestly Levite families assigned the mundane tasks of schlepping, assembling, and disassembling the mishkan, the portable tabernacle where God’s presence lodged among the people in the desert. While portage and construction tasks might seem ordinary, the tasks were holy service needed for the deployment of a hallowed structure to make God manifest among the people. And Torah makes certain that we do not forget their names. They are the Gershonites, Merarites and Kohathites.

Perhaps some of these Levites didn’t enjoy toting the dolphin skins and hanging the draperies as a profession. Perhaps they were intelligent enough to be leaders, skilled artisans or physicians. Yet, the work was necessary and the task was sacred. How similar they are to the vast generation of immigrants to this country who took jobs far below their skills or without intellectual challenge because they were engaged in the sacred task of supporting families they had brought to safety in America. Their dedication, resilience, and strength made it possible that their children were well educated, and made manifest in this world God’s gifts such as enabling immunologists to block disease causing bacteria.

We have the opportunity to take lesson of the story of the Levite families from Torah then, and apply it to the stories of that followed. How can we understand that the priestly families were the porters and maintenance men of the traveling tabernacle? This is not merely a commentary on individual acceptance of God’s employment plan for us. Rather, I see this as a demonstration of faith in a story greater than one’s work history.

We don’t quite have the Kohenic caste system anymore, but we do have the lesson that schlepping can be holy. It makes possible the “v’shochanti b’tocham” lesson of Torah, that God still dwells among us, no longer in the mishkan, but within each of us. That Godliness is demonstrated by our commitment to a better future built on the hard work of past generations.

Few of us will ever win a Nobel Prize for discovering a cure for disease. But none of us stand alone in our accomplishments. Rather we are the legacy of generations of people who have preceded us, eking out a living and dedicating themselves to the holy endeavor of enabling future generations to dream, discover and design a better future for the world. In their stories we find a legacy of resilience that stands as testament to their faith in the future and God. Let’s tell their holy stories in the Torah of our lives and not let future generations forget their names. And don’t ever forget who you are really working for.

R’ Evan J. Krame

Part of a series in a year long exploration of resilience.

One key to a satisfying life may be taking long break from our routines. This is a Jewish concept we first read in the Torah this week, requiring a sabbatical for the land every seven years. To uphold a sabbatical, one must have faith that productivity and yield will be restored. And if a sabbatical works for making farming more fruitful it should work to help make us more productive. Taking a sabbatical is not only a key to continued fecundity for the land but also a chance for the individual to flourish.

Here’s a sabbatical that really amazes me. A couple I know in their 50s set out to spend a year on a boat traveling through the Caribbean. They found their dog a new owner, rented out their home and set sail. At each port they might do water aerobics or play beach volleyball, sip cocktails whenever they want, and watch the sunset each night. I suspect what they may have missed out in income doesn’t compare with the value of soul-restoration from a yearlong seaward sabbatical.

For some academics and clergy, the sabbatical from work is engrained in the arc of a professional career. For the rest of us, the idea of a mere two-week vacation away from our work can invoke anxiety. I marvel at the Europeans who typically take a month long vacation in August. And Torah suggests a year long sabbatical! For most Americans I think that the concept of a yearlong reboot is as mythical as the unicorn.

Just writing about such a sabbatical makes me anxious. Could I leave family and friends behind for a year? Would I be able to leave my work for a year, and would I even have any work when I returned? And yet the lure of sipping a pina colada every night at dusk on a soft white beach certainly is enticing. And the reboot of a long retreat might just help me to be more resilient when tough times are upon me.

I suspect that one has to build up to a real sabbatical. Like taking off one day a week, rather than one year in seven. Just one day a week of no cell phone and no work, no shopping and no schlepping. Perhaps it means allowing myself a glass of wine with lunch, time to read a book, sitting with friends, and quietude to allow my thoughts to flow freely again. Yes, that’s shabbat.

As we read parshat Behar in synagogues on Saturday May 12, I’ll be leading a hike to the Potomac River. I plan to make time to sit quietly, listen deeply and hear my own heart song over the rush of the water. As it says in Psalm 23,  “God leads me to water in places of repose; God renews my life.” I might never get a full year sabbatical, but I can take a weekly retreat to the paradise of my soul. Will I see you there?

Rabbi Evan J. Krame

Goats are all the rage. Check out the many goat’s milk products on the shelves at Whole foods. Have you tried baby goat yoga?

In Torah this week, goats also figure prominently. A Yom Kippur ritual is described, where one goat is slaughtered and one goat is tossed into a valley. Either way, the hapless goat is being sacrificed to relieve the entire community of their sins.

Happily for the goats, our tradition has developed a less violent way to atone. The methodology, described by Maimonides, includes recognition of the sin, regret, recompense, and recommitment to avoid such behavior in the future.  And we are obligated to both ask for and offer forgiveness.

Generally, the only people thinking about Yom Kippur in April are rabbis. But the lessons for us to learn is that atonement should be a daily practice. Rabbi Zalman Schachter Shalomi, z”l, urged each of us to take time before sleep to review our day, recall our errors, and notice those offenses that have harmed us. The goal is to maintain a practice of forgiveness.  Zalman urged that we should both seek forgiveness from those we have harmed and we should be open to offer forgiveness to those who have harmed us. The atonement process is multi-directional.

I have had trouble forgiving some offenses I have experienced in my life. Forgiveness is particularly challenging when the offense comes from someone who has been in a position of power or has been privy to intimate aspects of my life. Yet, I have learned that forgiveness is a gift we give ourselves, as we are unburdened from the anxiety and tension associated with victimhood and regretfulness.

Cue up the story of the Buddhist monk who carries an elderly woman across a river but receives no thanks. He continues to be angry for hours until his companion asks, why are you still carrying that woman on your back?

I don’t think we are required to excuse all bad behavior. But our lives can be improved if we learn how to unburden ourselves of the anger and fear that results from our being harmed by others. The brilliance of the daily multi-directional forgiveness practice is that to the extent we are honest about our own fallibilities we are better able to forgive the failings of others. In the process of forgiving, we can regularly experience the benefits of emancipating ourselves from the cycle of wounding and woundedness. A forgiveness practice is an opportunity for us to find resilience even when we have been hurt.

Besides, opening our hearts and releasing our pain seems a much better atonement technique than tossing goats off of a cliff.

Rabbi Evan J. Krame

Part of an ongoing series about resilience in Jewish spiritual life.

“I’m an optimist who worries a lot,” said former Secretary of State Madeleine Albright on NPR recently. In that phrase, Albright summed up our daily existence.

Each day I wake planning to rise out of bed and fulfill my responsibilities, reflecting an optimism that the world won’t implode. At the same time, each day I wake wary that the day will include some disaster. I don’t even need to turn on the news before I start to worry.

It seems part of Jewish DNA to anticipate calamity. It is no wonder. Jewish history is an endless stream of adversity stretched across millennia: exile, pogroms, and the Shoah.  Madeleine Albright’s family experienced the Shoah as they escaped Europe. Accordingly, enduring tragedy has become part of the greater Jewish identity. And still all tragedies are personal. Our perseverance collectively is made possible by our steadfastness individually.

The call into resilience emerges within our response to calamity.

The Jewish story of unexpected tragedy roots deep in Torah. In Leviticus 10, after Aaron made ritual sacrifices to culminate his dedication of the Mishkan – the holiness-infused traveling tabernacle in the desert – Aaron’s two oldest sons, Nadav and Avihu, made their own offerings and got zapped by fire from above. Aaron didn’t see that disaster coming. It left him literally dumbstruck.

We’ve all been Aaron. The fire that burns, the disease that kills, and the accident that maims, all can leave survivors bereft and dumbstruck. These and countless other tragedies defy explanation, but we still crave to know why. We’re left feeling like the world isn’t predictable and it isn’t always safe.

Our ancestors responded by imagining, even insisting on, some predictability to explain Aaron’s tragedy. Were Aaron’s sons deserving of destruction because they were drunk or bursting with ego? Was Aaron’s silence a natural reaction or a reflection of his priestly responsibilities? There’s no definitive correct answer. Like our ancestors, we are left to grope with the questions and also with our inability to answer fully.

But we know one thing more: the next morning, somehow Aaron got up and continued with his work and his life.

These days, I find myself less eager to explanation calamity and more curious about Aaron’s psycho-spiritual capacity to wake another day and continue his service as High Priest.

Maybe Aaron is our ultimate resilience teacher. After the horrific loss of his sons, somehow he persevered and, what’s more, he continued to serve the same God that Torah says sent the fire from above that consumed Aaron’s sons. How did Aaron do it? Was it his faith in God?  Was it love for God? Was it fear that ceasing service would cause more adversity? Was it worry that such horrific loss could be found random or meaninglessness? Many questions remain about Aaron’s resilience after losing his sons.

I would love to see a panel of psychiatrists and theologians interview Aaron about his reaction to this tragedy. It seems almost miraculous that a human being could carry such heartbreak and still persevere – but we see it every day, sometimes hiding in plain sight, among ordinary people carrying extraordinary loss, whose names and stories are less prominent than Aaron in Torah.

What is the wellspring of this seemingly super-human resilience?  Is it also the Source of Life, the One who creates?  If so, the resilience roots in the supernal source of every challenge: every challenge, however insurmountable it may seem, contains also the seeds of super-human resilience.

Resilience doesn’t mean that life doesn’t touch us, change us, and even sometimes burn us.  Resilience means that we don’t quit living, and that we summon the strength – whether within us or from beyond us – to live as if a better tomorrow will come, even with the memory of calamity and the anticipation of more to follow. Perhaps the fire from above sets our hearts ablaze with determination.

Maybe you recall a poster that half-jokingly summarizes each religion in a few words: Confucianism is “Shit happens” and Hinduism is “This shit has happened before.”  For Jews, the poster says, “Why does this shit always happen to us?” Let’s offer an alternative: “When shit happens, we get back up.”

Just ask Aaron and Madeline Albright, this week’s resilience teachers.

R. Evan Krame & R. David Markus