Hagar and her son were dying. Thrown out from their home at Sarah’s bidding, abandoned in the wilderness, and dying of thirst. Unable to watch her child die, Hagar separated herself from him, and wept. And then something changed. Within a few verses our story changes from Ishmael’s seemingly inevitable death to him becoming the ancestor of a great nation. So what happened that enabled such dramatic change?

First, an angel of God tells Hagar אל-תיראי, do not fear. Then, God presents an alternative vision for the future, and Hagar is able to see that vision and take the first step. Then finally, Hagar and Ishmael join hands and survive together.

God says Al Tiri, Have no fear. Hagar certainly has cause to be afraid. She has become one of the most marginal people in the narrative. She was a woman, she was a slave, and our text indicates by her very name that she was Hagar, Ha-Ger, the stranger. And she becomes the victim of the fear and the separation that pervade all of parashat Vayeira. We read not just of the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah, but that Lot’s fear of harm to his guests meant he was willing to offer his daughters to be raped by a mob. Then after the destruction of the cities, Lot’s daughters, now separated from everyone they know except their father, have sex with him out of the fear that he is the only man left on Earth. We read about Abraham pretending Sarah is his sister, and therefore they are separated when she is taken by King Abimelech, simply because Abraham feared he might otherwise be killed. And of course our parasha includes the binding of Isaac, an act that results in Abraham never again speaking to Isaac, to Sarah, or even to God.

Hagar and Ishmael are separated from Sarah’s home because of Sarah’s own fear--the fear that Ishmael might take Isaac’s inheritance. And so Hagar, already marginalized, is cast off into the wilderness with her son, and when they seem to run out of water, she separates herself from the only person she has left, and prepares to die. And then God says Al Tiri, have no fear. God opens her eyes, and she sees a well. She is suddenly able to see hope.

Al Tiri. Perhaps we, like Hagar, need to hear that, too. Many of us are looking at the seemingly inevitable future of the world around us and we are weeping. We feel disconnected from one another, we are fighting over whose children deserve wealth, and whose children are left without water, we are discouraged, and we are afraid.  We are surrounded by a news cycle of “breaking news,” which is true to its name. It is breaking us. Regardless of our political party affiliation, regardless of what newspaper we read, we are being surrounded by messages of division, of scarcity, of fear. And our fight or flight response is not helping us. Some of us are resorting to fear mongering ourselves, or we are giving up, or we are too worn down to talk about it. Fear mongering is not Jewish, giving up is not Jewish, and not talking is definitely not Jewish.

So let’s talk about that sense of impending doom, because everyone else seems to be, and because I believe our texts, written millennia ago, might, just might, still speak to us today.

You see, the secular texts many of us are reading, unfortunately, are telling us that in November, it is going to be the end of the world as we know it. Paul Krugman, the columnist for the NYTimes, warns that America is perilously close to becoming a fascist state. Two weeks ago  he wrote,

“We’re currently sitting on a knife edge. If we fall off it in the wrong direction — specifically, if Republicans retain control of both houses of Congress in November — we will become another Poland or Hungary faster than you can imagine.”

That same day President Trump held a breakfast with evangelical pastors and he warned them that if Republicans lose control of Congress in the midterm elections, Democrats “will overturn everything that we’ve done and they’ll do it quickly and violently.”

Is it possible that our government is slipping toward fascism? Yeah. Is it possible that left-wing extremists may be violent? Yeah. Is it constructive to imagine those scenarios? No.

As Jews, we are a people with a lot to fear—our history has demonstrated the horrors of extremist governments, including those that grew out of a democracy.  And yet Judaism is a religion that is irrationally committed to fighting fear. Our holidays, our morning blessings, our daily liturgy are all consistent reinforcements of hope.  And although worrying seems deeply embedded in our psyche, succumbing to fear is neither Jewish nor productive.

Our holidays repeatedly place us in a narrative that celebrates hope over fear. We celebrate the new year and affirm the basis of tshuvah--that we can change, that  we can turn from the negative to the positive, and so can those around us. We sit in our sukkot and are instructed to treat sitting in a hut in our backyard--or in Capitol Park--as z’man simchateinu, the time of our joy, because we acknowledge our abundant blessings. Simchat Torah asks us to transition from Moses’ death to the creation of life within a moment. Hanukkah asks us to kindle light at the darkest time of year as we remember that a destroyed Temple was rededicated. At Tu b’shevat we recognize that a giant oak can grow from a tiny seed. Then we sit down for our Passover seder and relive the Exodus as our own story. At Shavuot we remember that each of us was present for the revelation at Sinai. And even as we read the book of Lamentations at Tisha b’av, as my colleague Rabbi Erica Asch reminds me, a mere 16 verses after we are pictured as corpses buried in a coffin, the text tells us, “God’s loyal love couldn’t have run out; God’s merciful love couldn’t have dried up (Lamentations 3:22).” And so we hear the call of Nachamu--be comforted--and we prepare for a new year.

As Jews, every morning we are expected to begin the day with words of gratitude and hope. From the moment we open our eyes we are to see things differently.  Rather than pressing the snooze button, we are to say “Modah Ani L’fanecha, Melech Chai v’Kayam, She’he’chezarta bi Nishmati B’Chemlah, Rabbah Emunatecha,” “I offer thanks to You, ever-living Sovereign, that You have restored my soul to me in mercy; How great is your trust.” We awake with gratitude for life, and with the recognition that God has faith in us to make the most of each day.

We also, according to the Talmud, say blessings for each action we perform as we get out of the bed. These blessings, found in Berakhot 60b, are sometimes called Nisim b’chol Yom, everyday miracles, and are now part of the Birchot HaShachar section of our worship service, placed there in case you didn’t say them when you woke up. Many of us recited them together here at 9am this morning, but just in case you weren’t here, I’ll remind you that one of the blessings is Baruch Atah Adonai, Eloheinu Melech HaOlam, Pokeach Ivrim--blessed are you Adonai our God, Sovereign of the Universe, who opens the eyes of the blind.

We speak words that have been spoken for millennia, and we believe, that perhaps, just perhaps they apply to us in this day, in this morning, in this fraction of a second in which we open our eyes and stretch our arms. Each morning we recognize that there are things that perhaps we couldn’t, or didn’t, see.

Hagar was unable to see the well that saved her life until she was encouraged by God to not be afraid. And I believe God is calling to us, too.  I believe we should not be afraid. Let me be clear--we can’t close our eyes and pretend it will go away. But rather, like Hagar, we can learn how to see things differently. Our Torah tells us that God opened Hagar’s eyes, and she saw a well of water. Did God create the well in that moment, or was it there all along and Hagar, blinded by fear, was simply unable to see it?

We, rather than being blinded by fear, must take a moment to imagine what we want the future to be, and take even small steps toward that vision. We must act on that vision every day, from the moment we open our eyes, in the countless choices we make as we move through the world.  

And let’s be honest, we do need to act on it in November, not from a place of fear, but from a place of vision.  Because we all—I hope—are going to vote in November, and although I won’t tell you whom to vote for, I will tell you to vote, and tell you to encourage others to vote, not just because it may make a difference in the election, but because it may make a difference in our sanity and sanctity.

As my colleague Rabbi Joel Mosbacher wrote, “Voting is about optimism and hope, about envisioning a world more whole and committing to enact that vision and about seeing ourselves as partners with God in the ongoing work of creation.”

We need to vote because it is an expression of the vision--of the well. To vote may be statistically a small act toward changing political outcomes, but it can be a big act toward changing us, as we affirm hope. And it is a celebration of not just our future, but of the vision of those who came before us. For centuries, Jews living all over the world could only dream of voting. Today we can, and we will, and when we do, we will hear the echo of our morning blessings...thanking God for vision and thanking God “she’asani bat chorin,” who made me to be free.

I look forward to being a 100% voting congregation, and more importantly, to reaching out to family, friends, and neighbors to empower them to express their vision at the polls. We need to volunteer to knock on doors and help drive people to the polls, because while we are standing in their doorways or they are sitting in our cars, we need to listen--to hear their stories, to acknowledge their fear, to imagine what it might mean to create a vision together.  We need to fight fear, and we need to fight separation.

Because here’s the next piece of Hagar’s story. God did not just help Hagar see the well, God instructed her to “Get up, lift the boy, and hold him with your hand.” They were both crying, but could not hear the cry of the other. Then they come together. We are living in a culture of self-interest. Judaism is a religion of community and interdependence. We need a minyan to say Kaddish, or to read from the Torah, we need witnesses to sign a ketubah, we are commanded to do countless mitzvot that bind us to each other, and next week we will confess our sins in the plural—ashamnu, bagadnu,gazalnu—because we are responsible for one another. It is time to find someone else who is desperately in need of wholeness and take her or him by the hand.

And you never know when you are planting a seemingly small seed for the future.  In my very first election in 1996, when I was 19 years old...ok I know you’re doing the math...I’m 41 years old...I voted for a then unheard of candidate for the Illinois State Senate. His name was Barack Obama.  

Last week, Barack Obama, while giving a eulogy at John McCain’s funeral, quoted John McCain’s favorite author. Ernest Hemingway wrote in For Whom the Bell Tolls, “Today is only one day in all the days that will ever be. But what will happen in all the other days that ever come can depend on what you do today.”

No matter how small they may seem, the acts we do each day, the words we speak, the vote among millions that we cast, the tiny seed we plant, they all matter--in the world, and in ourselves.

Scholar Judith Plaskow identifies in parashat vayeira a cycle of abuse carried out by those who have been abused, and suggests that perhaps it is up to us to hold up a mirror and reflect on the abuse we ourselves may be perpetrating, and break the cycle. To be accountable to our own sense of justice and moral vision.

We could perpetuate the cycle of abuse, of fear, and of separation. Or we could open our eyes to a vision of hope and unity.

My daughter’s favorite lullaby comes from Rebbe Nachman of Bratslav. He wrote Kol haolam Kulo Gesher Tzar Meod V’haikar Lo L’fached Klal, the whole world is a very narrow bridge and the most important thing is to not be afraid.

And every night, my spouse and I sing the Sh’ma to our children before they go to sleep, attesting to the unity of the world in which we live, a world in which seeing our interconnectedness is both theological and practical.

Each morning, my family tries to sing Modeh Ani together. Perhaps off-key, perhaps with a toddler missing a word here or there.  It is a moment amidst the diapers and missing socks in which we pause to sing of gratitude and hope. And as our children get older, as instructed by words codified in the Talmud 1500 years ago, they will add another blessing, and another.

They, and we, will speak of hope and act on it until they, until we, become a great nation.  Baruch Atah Adonai, Eloheinu Melech HaOlam, Pokeach Ivrim. Blessed are you, Eternal One, Sovereign of the Universe, who opens the eyes of the blind.