 | We've explored the kinds of strength we need to weather troubled times and better our lives –strength both soft and tough, moral and flexible, personal and communal. Now we tap into courage, which sometimes seems most hidden when we need it most. The hidden path to our inner courage – to face who we are and truly better our lives – turns out to be shorter and closer than we might imagine: As close as our fragile hearts, and as clear as what we most fear to lose. |
By Rabbi David Evan Markus
Yom Kippur 5786
Gut Yontif. From my heart to yours, may this sacred day bless us all.
This season we are exploring the kinds of strength we need to weather troubled times and better our lives – strength both soft and tough, moral and flexible, personal and communal. Today we tap into courage, which sometimes seems most hidden when we need it most.
To begin, here's a true story about David Gregory, former host of NBC's Meet the Press. This story came to me in two parts: the first from my teacher, Dr. Erica Brown; the second from David's writings.
Part One: In 2010, Erica invited me to dinner at her home near Washington, D.C. We swapped stories of political life – mine in New York, Erica's from teaching in the nation's capital. We observed how some officials seem well-adjusted to the idea that they might lose a job or an election – their identity doesn't rely on holding office – while others risk emotional and spiritual freefall. We mused: "Who would they be if they lost it all?" Erica happened to mention that she had a number of students named David, including me and David Gregory.
Part Two: David wrote a 2015 book recounting how in 2010, his teacher, Erica Brown, asked him our question: "Who would you be if you lost it all?" It didn't land for David: after all, he was Mr. Meet the Press, sitting atop world journalism, rubbing shoulders with world leaders. He couldn't feel beyond his current high-riding reality.
Four years later, in 2014, NBC fired David from Meet the Press. David went into freefall. He still had his family and health – but he felt lost, like he didn't have the strength to go on, like part of him had died.
David wrote that the hardest part wasn't losing Meet the Press, but his unrequited hunger for recognition and prestige. So as David mourned Meet the Press, he also faced the part of him that needed Meet the Press. He had no clue from where came his courage to face this insatiably needy part of himself. It wasn't courage he knew in his old self, but it was there all along, hiding. Now, at last, David was truly happy – not to lose such a big job, but to stop being so small.
"Who would you be if you lost it all?" David's book offered his answer:
Yom Kippur 5786
Gut Yontif. From my heart to yours, may this sacred day bless us all.
This season we are exploring the kinds of strength we need to weather troubled times and better our lives – strength both soft and tough, moral and flexible, personal and communal. Today we tap into courage, which sometimes seems most hidden when we need it most.
To begin, here's a true story about David Gregory, former host of NBC's Meet the Press. This story came to me in two parts: the first from my teacher, Dr. Erica Brown; the second from David's writings.
Part One: In 2010, Erica invited me to dinner at her home near Washington, D.C. We swapped stories of political life – mine in New York, Erica's from teaching in the nation's capital. We observed how some officials seem well-adjusted to the idea that they might lose a job or an election – their identity doesn't rely on holding office – while others risk emotional and spiritual freefall. We mused: "Who would they be if they lost it all?" Erica happened to mention that she had a number of students named David, including me and David Gregory.
Part Two: David wrote a 2015 book recounting how in 2010, his teacher, Erica Brown, asked him our question: "Who would you be if you lost it all?" It didn't land for David: after all, he was Mr. Meet the Press, sitting atop world journalism, rubbing shoulders with world leaders. He couldn't feel beyond his current high-riding reality.
Four years later, in 2014, NBC fired David from Meet the Press. David went into freefall. He still had his family and health – but he felt lost, like he didn't have the strength to go on, like part of him had died.
David wrote that the hardest part wasn't losing Meet the Press, but his unrequited hunger for recognition and prestige. So as David mourned Meet the Press, he also faced the part of him that needed Meet the Press. He had no clue from where came his courage to face this insatiably needy part of himself. It wasn't courage he knew in his old self, but it was there all along, hiding. Now, at last, David was truly happy – not to lose such a big job, but to stop being so small.
"Who would you be if you lost it all?" David's book offered his answer:
"The humbling loss of Meet the Press turned out to be a gift, for I saw how many fresh opportunities for growth and happiness await – even if not according to plan. Most plainly, I understand [that in] joy, pain and even in personal failure, God is close."
"Who would you be if you lost it all?" This question is the core of Yom Kippur. When nobody is looking, when we lay our head down, who are we – our bodies, our ideas, our feelings, our family roles, our finances, our relationships, our social standing, our self-image?
All of these are impermanent: all of them have a limited shelf life, and so do we, and much about Yom Kippur conspires to remind us so – for a reason. Yom Kippur calls us into that part of ourselves beyond all that we ever can do, all we ever can lose. Yom Kippur reflects at us our sometimes smallness so that we might emerge into greatness – happier and stronger, without necessarily needing a high-profile loss like David Gregory and Meet the Press to force it through suffering.
Of course, many of us have suffered – a plan that didn't pan out, a dream that fizzled, a relationship that failed, a body that betrays. Maybe it taught some of what David learned. In the throes of struggle or crisis, maybe we cannot hear David's assurance that some losses can reveal "fresh opportunities for growth and happiness." The heart can't always see around dark corners for what comes next.
But Yom Kippur can. Yom Kippur arrays before us the truth of who we are – what is fleeting, and what stays; our smallness, and our greatness; our hurts, and their causes in what we falsely clutch. Do we have the courage to deeply ask who we would be if we lost it all, and seek the truth as if our lives depend on it? In truth, our lives do depend on it. Insecurities, fears, inhibitions, old tapes, poor habits, laziness, despair – they all wield power over us in part because we clutch them, though ultimately we are sure to lose what drives them.
Yom Kippur reminds us that whoever we are, whatever our fears or beliefs, "this too shall pass." This elemental truth, as Psalm 90 puts it, offers wisdom and joy by prodding us to treasure each day and leap over inhibitions – not later, but now. Therefore this day is a paradox: as we touch our mortality, we also touch what is most alive – lifting us to new heights that can see beyond our horizon and renew our lives.
Easy words for a rabbi; harder words for a David. The heart that doesn't see around corners also is the heart that protects itself from what it fears might be there. Each of us knows what that might be for us, and each of us knows the kind of courage it asks of us.
The science of spirituality – yes, there is such a thing – sheds light on this subject. It may sound counter-intuitive, but the master key to courage is vulnerability – either one we choose or, for the rest of us, when life pierces our protective skin. This groundbreaking research is by Dr. Brené Brown. Her TED Talk – in same week Dr. Erica Brown and I mused who we would be if we lost it all – awaits you right here:
All of these are impermanent: all of them have a limited shelf life, and so do we, and much about Yom Kippur conspires to remind us so – for a reason. Yom Kippur calls us into that part of ourselves beyond all that we ever can do, all we ever can lose. Yom Kippur reflects at us our sometimes smallness so that we might emerge into greatness – happier and stronger, without necessarily needing a high-profile loss like David Gregory and Meet the Press to force it through suffering.
Of course, many of us have suffered – a plan that didn't pan out, a dream that fizzled, a relationship that failed, a body that betrays. Maybe it taught some of what David learned. In the throes of struggle or crisis, maybe we cannot hear David's assurance that some losses can reveal "fresh opportunities for growth and happiness." The heart can't always see around dark corners for what comes next.
But Yom Kippur can. Yom Kippur arrays before us the truth of who we are – what is fleeting, and what stays; our smallness, and our greatness; our hurts, and their causes in what we falsely clutch. Do we have the courage to deeply ask who we would be if we lost it all, and seek the truth as if our lives depend on it? In truth, our lives do depend on it. Insecurities, fears, inhibitions, old tapes, poor habits, laziness, despair – they all wield power over us in part because we clutch them, though ultimately we are sure to lose what drives them.
Yom Kippur reminds us that whoever we are, whatever our fears or beliefs, "this too shall pass." This elemental truth, as Psalm 90 puts it, offers wisdom and joy by prodding us to treasure each day and leap over inhibitions – not later, but now. Therefore this day is a paradox: as we touch our mortality, we also touch what is most alive – lifting us to new heights that can see beyond our horizon and renew our lives.
Easy words for a rabbi; harder words for a David. The heart that doesn't see around corners also is the heart that protects itself from what it fears might be there. Each of us knows what that might be for us, and each of us knows the kind of courage it asks of us.
The science of spirituality – yes, there is such a thing – sheds light on this subject. It may sound counter-intuitive, but the master key to courage is vulnerability – either one we choose or, for the rest of us, when life pierces our protective skin. This groundbreaking research is by Dr. Brené Brown. Her TED Talk – in same week Dr. Erica Brown and I mused who we would be if we lost it all – awaits you right here:
Analyzing thousands of life stories, what Brené calls "data with soul," she found a common path of "walk[ing] through vulnerability to get to courage, and therefore embrac[ing] the suck." Why? Because vulnerability is an express route through fear and shame, because vulnerability also is the prerequisite for joy, creativity, care and love. To Brené, courage – from the French cœur (heart) – is a result, not a method, because hearts naturally self-protect. David Gregory needed big loss to open his heart. Chosen vulnerability can be gentler.
But instinctively we numb our vulnerability. Past hurt taught us to avoid future hurt – so we tend to distract ourselves, fill our days, tell ourselves stories, wall off hurt. Yet Brené's research confirms that we do a lousy job numbing emotion selectively. If we numb vulnerability, we also numb joy, creativity, care and love. We live half asleep; our Book of Life fills on autopilot. But it never works: nobody likes feeling less joy, creativity, care or love, so we numb ourselves some more.
We must break this cycle: the way through is to disrupt autopilot numbing. "Only then," she says, "can we let ourselves be deeply seen, vulnerably seen, and love with the whole heart even though there's no guarantee. To be this vulnerable is what it means to be alive."
Yom Kippur teaches the same thing, offers this very disruption to our autopilot numbing, and wisely offers itself to us together so we're not alone in it. If we bring God on our journey, Yom Kippur assures us that God sees deeply and lovingly. As Richard Rohr teaches in his terrific book, Falling Upward: Spirituality for the Second Half of Life, "God doesn't love us if we change. God loves us so we can change." And if to us God is an outdated idea, Yom Kippur still offers the same assurance by reminding us that it all passes – this is what it means to be alive – so we need not clutch our fears and inhibitions.
In essence, Brené and Yom Kippur both urge us to make vulnerability into a cherished friend – to reimagine the banged up heart as strength. Some may resist this idea: sometimes, I do too. After all, why must hearts break? Don't we have enough brokenness, especially now? Why must we unlearn, year after year? Why do specific losses tend to be more impactful than timeless wisdom? Why does it take pain to show us how much more we are than what we clutch or what we fear?
Menahem Twersky of Chernobyl offers this spiritual answer in his 1700s book Me'or Eynayim ("Light of the Eyes"):
But instinctively we numb our vulnerability. Past hurt taught us to avoid future hurt – so we tend to distract ourselves, fill our days, tell ourselves stories, wall off hurt. Yet Brené's research confirms that we do a lousy job numbing emotion selectively. If we numb vulnerability, we also numb joy, creativity, care and love. We live half asleep; our Book of Life fills on autopilot. But it never works: nobody likes feeling less joy, creativity, care or love, so we numb ourselves some more.
We must break this cycle: the way through is to disrupt autopilot numbing. "Only then," she says, "can we let ourselves be deeply seen, vulnerably seen, and love with the whole heart even though there's no guarantee. To be this vulnerable is what it means to be alive."
Yom Kippur teaches the same thing, offers this very disruption to our autopilot numbing, and wisely offers itself to us together so we're not alone in it. If we bring God on our journey, Yom Kippur assures us that God sees deeply and lovingly. As Richard Rohr teaches in his terrific book, Falling Upward: Spirituality for the Second Half of Life, "God doesn't love us if we change. God loves us so we can change." And if to us God is an outdated idea, Yom Kippur still offers the same assurance by reminding us that it all passes – this is what it means to be alive – so we need not clutch our fears and inhibitions.
In essence, Brené and Yom Kippur both urge us to make vulnerability into a cherished friend – to reimagine the banged up heart as strength. Some may resist this idea: sometimes, I do too. After all, why must hearts break? Don't we have enough brokenness, especially now? Why must we unlearn, year after year? Why do specific losses tend to be more impactful than timeless wisdom? Why does it take pain to show us how much more we are than what we clutch or what we fear?
Menahem Twersky of Chernobyl offers this spiritual answer in his 1700s book Me'or Eynayim ("Light of the Eyes"):
| הָאֱמֶת שֶׁהָאָדָם אֵינוֹ יָכוֹל לַעֲמוֹד תָמִיד עַל מַדְרֵגָה אֲחַת. ... לָמָה צַרִיךְ לִיפוֹל מֵמַּדְרֵגַתוֹ? וְטַעַם הוּא כְּדֵי שֶׁיָבוֹא א׳׳כ לְמַדְרֵגָה יוֹתֵר גְדוֹלָה. שֶׁבְּכָל דְבַר צָרִיךְ לִהְיוֹת הֶעְדֵר... וּכְשֶׁרוֹצִים לְהַגְבִּיה לְמַדְרֵגָה יוֹתֵר גְדוֹלָה צָרִיךְ לִהְיוֹת הֶעְדֵר קוֹדֵם לָכֵן צָרִיךְ לִיפוֹל מֵמַּדְרֵגָה שֶׁהוּא עַכְשָׁיו. | The truth is that one can't stay always at one level.... Why must one fall from one's level? The reason is so that one will come after to an even higher level. In all things, one first needs to lack... to yearn lifting oneself to a higher level. So one first must lack, and so fall from one's present level [to rise higher]. |
This essential human journey is יֵרִידָה צוֹרֵךְ עַלִיָּה / descent for the sake of ascent. Letting ourselves touch hurt and loss can lift us high. Seeking and yearning, even in pain, can be jet fuel. And along the way, we learn that we are more than our loss. We are more than we ever can lose. We are stronger and more resilient than we know.
It's why on Yom Kippur we touch our mortality, so we can rise up more alive and loving. It's how David Gregory rose up after losing Meet the Press. It's how only a great ordeal revealed to the Cowardly Lion in The Wizard of Oz that courage was not a magic gift for some wizard to bestow, but a quality already within.
It's not automatic: it asks taking our seeking seriously. And it means something that maybe you never heard a rabbi say. It means that whatever you believe, whatever your faith or none at all – you have daily chats with God, or you call yourself agnostic or atheist – no matter. Your spiritual journey is where you are now. We must lose to find. We must fall to rise. The issue isn't whether we doubt, lose and fall, but what we do next.
Here's another implication that maybe you never heard a rabbi say: we must stray from our ideal selves in order to rise higher. Against a mythic standard of perfection, we all come up short. The issue is not whether we are imperfect, but what we do next. Will we touch the hurt we caused, make repair and try to be better, or will we so accept our flaws on autopilot – and our fears of vulnerability – that we won't use them as springboards to rise high? That's why Talmud (Berakhot 34b) says, "In the place where penitents stand, not even the purely righteous can stand." One who strays and lets our broken-hearted yearning to be better guide us, rises higher than a mythic perfect person who never strayed.
On David Gregory's last day at Meet the Press, Erica sent David a note reminding him to trust the unseen force as he stepped into the unknown. She quoted Isaiah 46:4 with divine words of comfort: "I am the Eternal. I made you. I carry you. I sustain you. I will deliver you."
As for Erica and David, so for all of us. May this Yom Kippur day rouse our better angels, summon our yearning for our best life, and open us to holy vulnerability as our path through fear. May our seeking open us to what is most alive, beyond all that we ever could lose, revealing in us the hidden courage that has been within us all along.
In that merit, may this holy day inspire transformation, release and renewed life – for all of us, and for our shadowy world just waiting for us to show up and shine.
It's why on Yom Kippur we touch our mortality, so we can rise up more alive and loving. It's how David Gregory rose up after losing Meet the Press. It's how only a great ordeal revealed to the Cowardly Lion in The Wizard of Oz that courage was not a magic gift for some wizard to bestow, but a quality already within.
It's not automatic: it asks taking our seeking seriously. And it means something that maybe you never heard a rabbi say. It means that whatever you believe, whatever your faith or none at all – you have daily chats with God, or you call yourself agnostic or atheist – no matter. Your spiritual journey is where you are now. We must lose to find. We must fall to rise. The issue isn't whether we doubt, lose and fall, but what we do next.
Here's another implication that maybe you never heard a rabbi say: we must stray from our ideal selves in order to rise higher. Against a mythic standard of perfection, we all come up short. The issue is not whether we are imperfect, but what we do next. Will we touch the hurt we caused, make repair and try to be better, or will we so accept our flaws on autopilot – and our fears of vulnerability – that we won't use them as springboards to rise high? That's why Talmud (Berakhot 34b) says, "In the place where penitents stand, not even the purely righteous can stand." One who strays and lets our broken-hearted yearning to be better guide us, rises higher than a mythic perfect person who never strayed.
On David Gregory's last day at Meet the Press, Erica sent David a note reminding him to trust the unseen force as he stepped into the unknown. She quoted Isaiah 46:4 with divine words of comfort: "I am the Eternal. I made you. I carry you. I sustain you. I will deliver you."
As for Erica and David, so for all of us. May this Yom Kippur day rouse our better angels, summon our yearning for our best life, and open us to holy vulnerability as our path through fear. May our seeking open us to what is most alive, beyond all that we ever could lose, revealing in us the hidden courage that has been within us all along.
In that merit, may this holy day inspire transformation, release and renewed life – for all of us, and for our shadowy world just waiting for us to show up and shine.
RSS Feed