Rising After the Fall -- Avraham’s Model for Resilience: Chayei Sarah 5786

How do we raise ourselves up after loss—not merely to survive, but to rebuild life with meaning? It is a question that runs through the human story. There are times when events—personal or national—unsettle our sense of certainty. Eventually, routine returns; we go back to work, to family, to community. Yet the deeper challenge remains: How do we move forward with faith, purpose, and hope?

Sefer Bereishit offers several models of recovery. Noach survives the Flood but cannot rebuild; from an ish tzadik he becomes an ish ha’adamah, a man of the earth, weighed down by the destruction he has seen. Lot, too, emerges from catastrophe only to lose his moral bearings. Both are tragic figures—survivors who could not begin again.

Avraham Avinu shows another way.

At the start of Parshat Chayei Sarah, Avraham returns from the Akeidah only to face another heartbreak: the death of Sarah. The Midrash, quoted by Rashi, links the two—upon hearing of the Akeidah, Sarah’s soul departs. Avraham thus faces a double trauma: the near loss of his son and the actual loss of his wife.

And yet the emotional blow is only part of the picture. As Avraham nears the end of his life, God’s great promises still seem unfulfilled. He had been promised both a land and a nation—yet he owns no land, and his entire future rests on one son, Yitzchak, who is still unmarried. The divine vision appears to have stalled, the covenant incomplete. At such a moment, many would have given up. They would have cried out: What was it all for?

But Avraham responds differently. As Rabbi Sacks zt”l (whose fifth yahrtzeit fell this week) observed, Avraham understood that God’s promises are not fulfilled by waiting but by acting. He does not sit back in despair or passive faith. Instead, he takes initiative—buying a burial cave in Chevron, the first tangible foothold in the Promised Land, and finding a wife for Yitzchak, ensuring the continuity of the next generation. Through quiet, determined deeds, Avraham transforms faith into action and promise into reality.

Even the Torah’s small details reflect his inner strength. The word livkotah—“to weep for her”—is written with a small kaf, hinting that Avraham mourns, but not excessively. He grieves deeply, yet he does not allow sorrow to paralyze him.

Avraham’s greatness lies in this balance—the ability to weep and to act, to accept loss yet still believe in the future. His story reminds us that faith is not passive trust but courageous partnership—a readiness to build, to hope, and to help bring God’s promises to life in our own time. May we too continue that legacy and play our part in shaping the ongoing story of Am Yisrael.

Shabbat Shalom, Rabbi Joel Kenigsberg