The aftermath of disaster: Noah and choosing hope

There’s no shortage of manuals on surviving a flood. Yet it’s far harder to prepare for what comes after — how to keep going through the wreckage left behind when the waters recede.

But this is wisdom our people need. We’re no longer in the flood — the brutal shock as devastation swept over us. We’re in the aftertimes, just over a year since October 7th.

And the aftertimes are hard, confusing. They refuse to return to normalcy or follow a neat trajectory. Instead, we face waves of joy and grief, euphoria and despair. In Israel, we have military victories and enemies that begin to seem like paper tigers. But we also experience deep anguish. Just this last week, over 20 soldiers were killed, leaving behind orphans, widows, and grieving families. Sinwar is gone, but 101 of our precious hostages remain in Gaza’s tunnels.

Here in America, our communities have stood strong, but the upcoming election leaves us feeling dizzy – afraid of our fellow citizens – worrying that democracy, our security, and Israel’s safety hang in the balance.

Our wounds harden, numb, and crust over, only to become raw and tender again. We are definitely living in the “after” times.

The question we must ask then is this: How do we carry on after the flood? How do we rebuild, without a neat, happily-ever-after? 

This week’s Torah portion, Noah, depicts despair after disaster. But it also offers an alternative: living and rebuilding with grace, in a world shattered by the flood.

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The story of Noah and the flood is well-known: just 10 generations after creation, he is the only righteous man in a world overrun by evil.[1] God instructs him to build an ark to save his family and the animals, as the flood wipes the earth clean.

But much less discussed is Noah’s final chapter after the flood. He plants a vineyard, drinks wine, and lies naked in his tent, eventually cursing his son Ham, who exposed his nakedness.

Why does Noah’s story end in disgrace? I used to think it was survivor’s guilt. This year, I see it differently. The truth is that when Noah first exits the ark, he seems hopeful. He offers sacrifices to God and seems ready to rebuild. What changed that led Noah from optimism to pessimism?

It might be because despite the promise to never destroy the world again, God also shares that human nature will always have the capacity for evil (Genesis 8:21). The subsequent rainbow doesn’t symbolize redemption – just divine restraint upon recognizing that human evil will persist.

In this reading, Noah is shattered. He believed that the flood would lead to a repaired humanity. God’s oath makes the disaster feel almost meaningless. Its devastation did not lead to the world Noah envisioned. He survived the flood but could not bear to rebuild an imperfect world.

The Torah, however, does not leave us with Noah’s tragedy. It offers another survivor: Noah’s son Shem. We meet Shem when he covers his exposed father and gives him back his dignity (Genesis 9:23). Genesis tells us little more about him, except that he becomes the ancestor of the Abrahamic lineage.

But the rabbis did not just see Shem as Noah’s son – they present him as the antidote to despair. Rashi (1040–1105) paints Shem as the co-founder of a house of study that lasted for generations.[2] Rabbi Yaakov Kamenetsky, who helped rebuild American Orthodoxy after the Holocaust, described Shem’s school as a beacon of hope in a world that had lost its way. Shem developed a “Torah” for living among evil without losing sight of goodness by finding fellowship with others on the same path.[3] His study hall became a sanctuary – radiating goodness across generations and slowly making the world better (but not perfect).

After the flood, Shem does not allow his father’s despair to engulf him; instead, he chooses hope.

* * *

Shem’s legacy lives on. Just this week, we glimpsed this same extraordinary courage to rebuild amid pain. One of the fallen reservists was Rabbi Avi Goldberg, of blessed memory — a beloved educator, musician, and father of eight, renowned for his warmth.

After R’ Avi’s death, his widow Rachel and their children made a powerful request. They invited Israeli politicians to visit the shiva — not simply to pay respects, but to come with someone from across the aisle, fostering unity in a time of deep division.

Rachel’s response shows us what it means to repair a world that is both broken and blessed. Where Noah’s shattered hopes led him to despair, Rachel and her family teach us how to carry the world’s pain without succumbing to it. In doing so, they free themselves — and inspire others — to take heroic action.

Here in America, a week before an incredibly fraught election, this might be hard for some to fathom. But Noah’s story, along with the example set by those in Israel, offers a gentle reminder: when next week’s flood hits — when half of us feel not only that our candidate lost, but that our republic is in danger — we can still navigate the wreckage and uncertainty. We can choose to resist despair and keep pushing to make our society a little better.

Like Shem, we know that life does not move neatly from tragedy to triumph. And so we must find the courage to weather the floods and seek solid ground. We carry on — not out of certainty about what lies ahead, but because, in persisting, we honor those we have lost and forge a path for those who will follow.

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[1] This world-destructive evil is described in Genesis 6:11 with the fateful word Hamas (חָמָס).

[2] Based on midrashic literature, e.g., BT Megillah 17a.

[3] Emet LeYaakov on Genesis 28:11. Rabbi Kamenetsky describes Shem’s Torah as a Torah of exile.