Is the World On Fire? Or Is the World Illuminated?

There’s a midrash told of a man on a journey, 

traveling from place to place, 

when he comes upon a bira doleket— 

Bira- meaning palace— and doleket, a word we’ll hang on to for a moment. 

The man looks around— 

wondering, 

“surely there must be someone who owns this palace, someone who cares for it"

The man calls out: “is there anyone there? 

Is anyone responsible for this palace? 

Is it possible that this palace has no caretaker?!”

At that moment, 

the owner of the palace peeks out and reveals himself.

The midrash continues by teaching 

that it is similar to the story of Abraham, 

who looks out on the world and wonders 

“Is it possible that this world has no one to look after it?” 

And the Holy One of Blessing looks out 

and says to him “I am the Master of the Universe– 

now,  Lech L’cha— Go forth and be a blessing. 

The palace, of course, is the world. 

The caretaker, of course, is God. 

But— are we Avram? 

Are we ready to begin that journey? 

The midrash offers two pathways into the metaphor: 

This man, 

on a journey, 

going from place to place, 

comes upon a bira doleket. 

The entire midrash hangs on these two words. 

One possibility: 

doleket can mean lit up and aglow. 

The man comes upon a palace illuminated— 

lit up and aglow, 

and asks in awe and disbelief— 

“Is it possible this palace has no one to look after it?”

Surely not. 

He knows someone is tending to it. 

It’s too beautiful, too coherent— 

there is too much wisdom 

in the architecture of this palace 

that glows with light, 

for it to be entirely uncared for. 

The midrash extends the metaphor— 

Avram looks out on the world, 

and God sees in him 

someone who understands 

the beauty and coherence 

of the world and of life, 

and God knows that this is someone 

who will be a partner 

in continuing to illuminate the world with goodness. 

And so God sends Avram forth 

with those two words: Lech L’cha. Get going. 

A second, darker possibility. 

Doleket can mean “on fire”. 

The man comes upon a palace on fire— 

engulfed in flames, and asks in awe and disbelief— 

“Is it possible this palace has no one to look after it?” 

There is worry in his words—

is the palace abandoned? 

And still: the caretaker calls out. 

The midrash extends the metaphor– 

Avram looks out on the world, 

and God sees in him 

someone who can be a partner 

in putting out the flames. 

Despite the flames of hatred and division 

that threaten to engulf our world, 

God still calls us into relationship. 

In moments like this one, 

we may relate to that man on a journey, 

as we try to discern: 

Is the world illuminated? 

Or is the world on fire? 

Unsurprisingly, the answer may be: both. 

Tonight, at this tender and painful moment 

in our nation’s history, 

I believe we have a choice, 

and even, 

a responsibility to read this story 

through both possible lenses.

As a bira doleket—- as a palace on fire.

And, a bira doleket— as a palace illuminated.

In either reading, 

Avram is marveling at the state of the world, 

and wondering who is responsible.  

It’s not hard for me to imagine—

Version 1:  Avram looks up and says 

“Wow. The palace is aglow— with love, learning, and beauty. How could such marvels exist if not by design?”

Version 2: Avram looks up and says 

“Oy. The palace is in flames— consumed by evil. Is it possible that there’s no one who cares?”

And truly, in either reading, 

there is the possibility for blessing.

Because it is true: the world is like a palace on fire. 

The winds of hatred 

fan the embers of cruelty and division 

around us— 

the fires of injustice 

have distilled a vision of America 

that we hate to see, 

and yet cannot look away from. 

But, it’s also true 

that the world is like a palace illuminated: 

the world is filled with people 

working to create change; 

filled with parents loving their children,

 teachers teaching their students, 

artists creating beauty and meaning.  

That is also true.

I know that for many of us, 

holding these two truths feels fearful and daunting. 

Like Avram,

we are being called forward into an unknown new land. 

I would pause here to say this: 

We are not a political monolith. 

Many of us are angry, fearful, and sad. 

Some of us may be ambivalent. 

Some of us may feel positively. 

The place of fear that many of us, 

myself included 

speak from 

is shaped by both experience, 

and by the promises 

made by the president-elect during his campaign.

I look at the deep chasms all around us, 

and I see and feel the world on fire: 

I fear for the future of our planet, 

I fear for the safety of trans people, 

I fear for the millions of people 

who will be harmed by deportation 

and harsh immigration reform, 

I fear for people I love 

who rely on IVF to build their family, 

and I fear for the many, many people 

who will suffer and lose their lives 

because of the 17 states in our country 

that currently ban 

or heavily restrict abortion access. 

It feels important to name 

that this election was not an aberration, 

though many of us wish it were. 

The democratic process has brought us to this place, 

and now we must figure out 

how to live here, in this new land.

On this Shabbat, 

I feel both humbled and daunted 

by the prospect of our work ahead. 

My job is to speak words of Torah 

that bring us closer together- 

to one another, 

and to our purpose as a sacred community. 

And the truth is: 

whether the world is illuminated or on fire, 

it doesn’t really change our mandate: 

the work of justice and community care continues. 

Most of all— 

what we are going to need to do, 

is practice (and get really good at!) 

being neighbors. 

We’re going to need to adopt a 

posture of radical neighborliness. 

In 1963, 

Rabbi Joachim Prinz 

spoke at the Civil Rights March in Washington

DC--- and strikingly, he taught:

“Our fathers taught us thousands of years ago 

that when God created man, [God] created him as everybody's neighbor. Neighbor is not a geographic term. It is a moral concept. It means our collective responsibility for the preservation of man's dignity and integrity.” 4

Neighbor is not a geographic term. It is a moral concept.

A number of years ago, 

the documentary 

“Won’t You Be My Neighbor?” 

came out— 

focusing on the life and legacy of Fred Rogers. 

Fred Rogers, 

a Presbyterian minister, 

famously spoke into the hearts of children, 

looking right at the camera 

when he reminded them to

“know that they are loved, and capable of loving”.  Simultaneously, 

he was giving parents the language 

for facing the challenges of their day: 

in his cardigan and sneakers, 

he faced everything 

from the assassination of Robert F. Kennedy, 

to race relations and nuclear war. 

“Love is at the root of everything,” 

Rogers says at one point in the documentary.

He believed that: 

“All learning, all parenting, all relationships. 

Love or the lack of it. 

And what we see and hear on the screen 

is part of who we become.”

Remarkably, 

what Fred Rogers did 

was to quietly translate 

a deeply religious message

 into a language the secular world 

could understand. 

He taught us the difference 

between saying “Love your neighbor as yourself” 

and actually modeling 

what it means to be a good neighbor. 

Lest we dismiss the lessons of Mr. Rogers 

as pediatric,  or a throwback to simpler times,  

I want to suggest that radical neighborliness 

is actually  a deep and meaningful theology of love. 

Love is a powerful antidote to hate. 

It’s powerful fuel for journeys 

like the one we will soon embark on 

together as a nation. 

Love is also an aspect of caretaking— 

When we see the ways 

in which love still illuminates our world, 

it reminds us of what is at stake 

when we realize that we are also called 

to care for the world on fire. 

Avram becomes 

Abraham only after he sets forth on his journey. 

As readers of the text, 

we know that Lech l’cha 

is only the beginning of a story 

that will set into motion 

the making of a people— 

a nation, who live in covenant with God. 

We too will be changed by the journey ahead. 

What will be asked of us 

in the months and years ahead 

will require reserves of strength 

and commitment 

that may already feel depleted 

by years of living 

from one major world crisis to another— 

but, 

perhaps the blessing 

we can wrestle out of this moment 

is knowing 

that we do not have to do it alone.  

We’re all going to need to do something, 

and remember 

that no single one of us— 

not me, and not you, 

can do everything.  

As Rebecca Solnit wrote earlier this week, 

we can’t save everything 

but anything we can save is worth saving. 

And so each of us 

will have to choose the thing (or things) 

that we can do something to save- 

whether it’s reproductive rights, 

the environment, 

trans rights, 

or caring for the stranger, 

the hungry, the unhoused among us. 

We’re going to need purpose, 

because we know 

that tyranny banks on our apathy.

We’re going to need good traveling companions, 

because we know that solidarity 

and relationships and community 

help to illuminate the world. 

We’re going to need Shabbat, 

because we know that rest 

and sweetness are crucial to the work of repair. 

We’re going to need each other, more than ever. 

Our world is both illuminated and on fire. 

There are so many people 

whose work and commitment to justice, 

democracy, and love 

light up the world. 

People, many of you who sit here tonight, 

who commit your time, your talent, 

and your resources 

to ensuring that others have what they need. 

And the world is on fire. 

And we will be the ones to save it and ourselves— extinguishing hatred 

with the calming waters 

of love, justice, and neighborliness. 

We can feel ready to be like Avram, 

Or not. 

We can be ready to say hineni— “here I am”

Or not yet. 

But either way— 

God, 

that Divine Caretaker 

calls out to us– 

telling us that it’s time to go forth— 

to journey in to this new land; 

this new time and space, and to find ways to be a blessing.