Parashat Terumah--If you build it...

“If you build it, he will come.” Not words of Torah, of course, but an unforgettable quote nonetheless, from the 1989 movie “Field of Dreams.” Yes, this was about a baseball diamond in a corn field. But, couldn’t it be midrash, as well?

In this week’s Torah portion, Parashat Terumah, “Adonai spoke to Moses, saying: ‘Tell the Israelite people to bring Me gifts; you shall accept gifts for Me from every person whose heart so moves him. ...And let them make Me a mishkan, a sanctuary, that I may dwell amongst them. ...And deposit in the Ark the tablets of the Pact which I will give you’” (Ex 25:1-2, 8, 16).

Commentators note: The text does not say “let them make me a sanctuary that I may dwell in it.” Rather the text reads, “that I may dwell amongst them.” Why is it that when the Israelites build a sanctuary of their own free will, they are told that God dwells amongst them? (and not in it)

In “Field of Dreams,” Chicago White Sox players from the early twentieth century show up to play baseball when an Iowa farmer builds them a baseball diamond. “If you build it, he will come.”

In Torah, God shows up amongst the people when they build God a sanctuary. (A loose connection here, I know, but indulge me!)

Here in the TIOH Religious School, we have been building a sanctuary of sorts, as well. Together (parents, students, teachers, clergy, and staff) have been dreaming about what our community can be and making our dreams into reality.

Our Sunday morning flagpole is filled with prayer, songs, blessings, and joy. Families join together weekly for this ritual.

Our Sunday morning t’fillah (services) are meaningful and aim to connect our students with the sacred in their lives.

Our classrooms are electric. Students are engaged and active learners.

On Sunday afternoons, our Teen Program is the place to be. With a “Jew-per Bowl Halftime” party, school-wide celebrations and trips, and thought-provoking class discussions, our junior high and high school students are coming together.

We have new chuggim (elective activities) on Wednesday afternoons. From Jewish Yoga to Social Action, our students are experiencing Jewish together.

Yes, we are building. Brick by brick, our sanctuary is coming together. And, we are promised, with this construction, God will dwell amongst us.

We are all searching for meaning. Looking for ways to connect. Seeking out the holy. We need no longer search. We are building it. They too will come.

Parashat Mishpatim--Step Up/ Step Back

At the Sela Leadership Training I attended last year, we were instructed to use the “Step up/ Step back technique” in our inter-group relations.  This was one of our ground rules.  We were told explicitly: for those of you prone to listening rather than speaking, step up and consider talking more.  We were told, for those of you who usually speak first or often, step back and consider listening more.  Step up or Step back, we were reminded.

The reason why this ground rule was useful is because it called upon each of us to have a level of self-awareness.  Do I talk frequently and need to step back or am I often reticent and need to step up?  In each situation, should I step back or up?  Where to stand?

I am someone who usually listens and thinks before speaking.  I have a terrible habit of turning conversations backwards once I finally catch up enough to offer my comment.  Step up, I hear my inner voice saying often during conversations.  And on the flip side, I have strong and definitive opinions.  Step back, I have come to hear my inner voice say often during conversations.  In one individual, who knew, there could be such complexity. 

Such consideration of where and how to walk in conversations is not only a useful tool for self-development, it is also at the crux of this week’s Torah portion, Parashat Mishpatim. 

Last week, our ancestors stood at the foot of Mount Sinai, as Moses ascended the mountain.  All the people engaged in a moment of profound revelation.  This is why our people left Egypt, to enter into a new and just covenant, to encounter the sacred.  And so amidst thunder and lightning, Moses descended the mountain and recited the Ten Utterances or Commandments. 

And in this week’s parashah, the recitation continues.  Mishpatim.  “These are the rules of conduct” by which you will live your lives. 

Moses finishes reciting.  And the people proclaim, “Kol ha’d’varim asher dibeir Adonai na’aseh” “all the things that Adonai has spoken, we will do” (Exodus 24:3).  Moses then offers a sacrifice of well-being, and the people repeat themselves “Kol asher dibeir Adonai na’aseh v’nishmah,” “all that Adonai has spoken we will do and we will hear” (Exodus 24:7).  At the moment of Revelation the People choose.  Step up.  We. Will.  Do. 

At the moment of Revelation, we see our stiff-necked ancestors at their finest.  Not passive, like in the moments following the recitation of the Ten Utterances when Torah tells us the people “fell back and stood at a distance” (Exodus 20:15).  Not passive aggressive, like when the people call out, “If only we had meat to eat, we remember that fish we used to eat free in Egypt” (Numbers 11:4-5).  No this is the people at their best.  We. Will. Do.  We. Will. Step. Up.  We are active partners in this relationship. 

And, Moses?  Where is Moses in this narrative?  Moses, who has been running up and down the mountain like a spiritual ski gondola since last week.  Moses, who has spent the moments of revelation praising and pacifying, listening and repeating, doing and commanding, leading and leveraging: Where is Moses in this conversation?

This week Torah tells us: God says to Moses, “Aleih eilai ha-harah veh’h’yeh sham,” “Come up to Me on the mountain and be there” (Exodus 24:12).  Be there.  Just be.  Stop moving.  Stop doing.  Don’t ascend, don’t descend, don’t act.  Step back. 

Moses and the Israelites ultimately came into covenant, entered into the deepest of sacred relationships, in ways that were opposite to their nature.  The notoriously passive people responded to covenant by doing.  The woefully impulsive Moses responded by being.

They stepped up.  He stepped back.  And that was Revelation.

We today are wise to hear this story of covenant anew.  Experiencing God and the sacred, not to mention the rest of humanity, requires a presence of mind.  A spiritual centering.  An active choice, different for each of us, different in each moment:  Step up or Step back.

We are taught that the true moment of our people’s freedom came not at the instant they fled Egypt.  It came only at this moment, at Sinai, when they entered into covenant.  The absence of law, we are taught, is not freedom, but chaos.

“We will do and we will hear,” said the people.

“[Moses,] Come up to Me on the mountain and be.”

This is the voice of Torah in our lives.  Gently pushing us this week...to rise above our basest instincts.  We are more than chaos.  In our encounters with Torah, with the holy and with God...and most importantly, in our interactions with each other (each of us who is surely created in God’s image), we are reminded: Step up or Step back.  We live our lives in the realm of the sacred when we are self-aware enough to know how to reach out and encounter the other. 

We will do.  We will be.

Easier said than done.  The people’s misguided actions will lead them to build a golden calf.  Moses’ over-zealousness in pulling back keeps him covered in cloud and alone, oblivious to the people’s infraction.  Torah never calls on us to be perfect.  Just a little better than our instincts might tell us to be.

In that one moment, which is every moment, when an encounter of the truest nature is possible, we can do our part to make revelation possible. Step up or Step back.  And who knows what blessings we might receive.

Parashat Yitro--Back and Forthing

There are some days in which I take three trips from my home to my car before I remember everything I need.  No sooner do I have the key in the ignition then I remember my forgotten cell phone, iPod, lunch, office key, jacket.  This is the way I am in the world.  My mind is so often filled with plans and ideas three steps ahead that I have a hard time remembering what’s supposed to be in my hands at the moment.  I take comfort in the fact that there is holiness in the back-and-forthing of life.

In Genesis, Jacob falls asleep on a rock.  In the middle of the night, he awakes to find angels climbing up and down a ladder.  Commentators ask: Why up and then down?  Why moving at all?  Good questions!

In this week’s Torah portion, Parashat Yitro, in which our people receive the Ten Commandments (aka Decalogue, Ten Utterances, etc.) at Mount Sinai, we once again are treated to Torah’s love of back-and-forthing.  I invite you, before you read my count, to click here http://www.jtsa.edu/Conservative_Judaism/JTS_Torah_Commentary/Yitro.xml, re-read Exodus 19 from the Torah portion, and count how many times Moses goes up and down the mountain.  My tally is below:

19:3--Moses goes up the mountain
19:7--Moses goes down to mountain
19:9--Moses goes up the mountain
19:14--Moses goes down the mountain
19:16--Moses leads the people out of the camp and toward God.  They take their place at the foot of the mountain.
19:20--God comes down onto Mt Sinai and Moses goes up the mountain
19:25--Moses goes down the mountain
20:1-14--God delivers the 10 Commandments

First of all, I think it is important to say that this is not the image I have of our encounter on Mount Sinai.  My view is much more majestic.  The stuff of real myth.  With Moses on top of the mountain, with thunder and lightning, and great drama.  And, yes, in the real narrative, the fireworks and dramatics still exist, but with this odd subtext: This running back and forth from car to door before the day can start.  What’s with God and Moses?  Why not just stay still?

A few thoughts:

1. Moses in his back-and-forthing is modeling important leadership skills for us.  It is only a few parashot later that Moses ascends the mountain and stays up there again for forty days, enveloped in a cloud with God, while the people lose faith, hope, and any sense of guidance.  They break into open revolt and buil a golden calf to worship.  We often cite that part of the story in our Torah study, but how often do we check back here to Exodus 19, when Moses gets it right?  Sometimes the work of process and consensus building feels exactly like this:  Running up and down a mountain, again and again, talking, securing, easing, and explaining.  Yet, we see here, this work is sacred.  And critical.  When Moses and God skip it later on, secure in their own roles and status as leaders, they lose their people.
2. I see in this a spiritual message.  There are moments to stay up on the mountain and there are moments to come back down to our people on solid ground.  This parasha reminds us that it is in the balance between the two that we encounter the divine. 
3. There was a time in American political debate in which being “wishy washy” was viewed as a negative characteristic.  Let us remember, though, that we are a people who have never been satisfied with first impressions, initial conversations, or singular encounters.  We are a people who go back and forth, who wander, who question God, and who challenge authority.  We may be a stiff-necked people, but we have no problem with ascending and descending ladders, mountains, and deserts.  Let us take comfort in this legacy and know that the possibility to choose and choose again, to learn and learn again, to grow and grow again is always before us.

Shabbat Shalom!

Parashat Beshalah--The Long Way Around

The Talmud teaches, “There is a long way which is short and a short way which is long” (Babylonian Talmud, Eruvin 53b).  Yes, I think, it’s true; although, when setting off on one’s journey it’s often hard to know the difference.  I can think of times when I’ve set off on a course of action, confident that I am traveling down a short road of slim resistance, only to find myself mired in the thick of things and wondering how I got myself there in the first place.  And then there are those times, when a long view and careful planning, a tough trek anticipated ahead, is filled with sweetness and ease.  Knowing which roads we’re embarking upon, it seems to me, is the stuff of life and measurements of growth.

This week’s Torah Portion, Parashat Beshalah, begins, “Now when Pharaoh let the people go, God did not lead them by way of the land of the Philistines, although it was nearer; for God said, ‘The people may have a change of heart when they see war, and return to Egypt.  So, God led the people roundabout, by way of the wilderness at the Sea of Reeds” (Exodus 13:17-18).

The Israelites had one short road ahead, which God feared would be too difficult and would cause the Israelites to complain and beg to return to Egypt.  So, God sent them the long way.  The irony of our people’s journey is that the long way was not actually any easier.  While traveling the long way, they spent years crying out to God and begging to be returned Egypt with just as much force as they did to be freed from it in the first place (Numbers 14:1-5, for example). 

So, I will be a little chutzpadik and suggest an addendum to the Talmud’s wisdom: There is a long way which is long and there is a short way which is long.  Sometimes, we’re blessed to find a long way which is short and, every once in a great blessed while, a short way which is actually short

What might we learn from this week’s Torah Portion?  A few thoughts:

1. Rachel Lewin, Head of School of the TIOH Day School, wrote a few months back about the importance of parents letting children experience the very natural process of learning something new, which can include feelings of frustration and challenge.  Rachel explained that learning how to cope with these feelings and moving through them are important life lessons.  For parents, it can seem easy enough to make a child’s long road shorter, but sometimes we find on the other end, that the short road missed the journey all together.
2. Sometimes, it is not until we have reached the end of a journey that we realize we have traveled the long way around.  It is often this realization and the lessons we have learned along the way that help us to take the shorter roads ahead.  
3. Most of all, this week’s Torah portion reminds us that our life’s pursuit should not be a search for short roads.  Long roads and 40 year journeys are a part of our historical memory.  Even the long roads that are long hold blessings and lessons along the way.  Torah’s promise to us is that God travels with us no matter which road we take or that the sacred is within us no matter how long the journey.

This is a Shabbat for choosing new journeys and reflecting on the ones we have chosen.  This is a time for reorientation.  What journeys are you on?  Were they expected or no?  Have they proven long or short?  What are the blessings to be gleaned from them?

*A huge thank you to Darcy Veber for pointing out this gem of a Talmud verse to me.

Parashat Bo--Myers-Briggs

In the opening verse of this week’s Torah Portion, Parashat Bo, we learn again of the phenomenon of Pharaoh’s “hardened heart” when it comes to the Israelites and their situation (Exodus 10:1). This idea of a “hardened heart” is repeated no less than 20 times in Exodus: half of the references referring to Pharaoh having a hardened heart and half of the references referring to God hardening Pharaoh’s heart (Etz Hayim 335). This repeated phrase begs a couple questions:

• In the context of Torah, what is the role of the heart and what does it mean for a heart to be hardened?
• How can we learn from this lesson of a hardened heart today?

The role of the heart
As far as the Torah is concerned, the heart functions “as the seat of the intellectual, moral, and spiritual life of the individual” (Etz Hayim 335). Said differently, the biblical heart is understood in much the same way as our mind functions today (the role of today’s heart, the emotional center, is found in the biblical kishkes or gut).

Hardening of the heart
We come to see then that what happens to Pharaoh is not an emotional hardening, but rather an intellectual and spiritual hardening. When the Torah says that Pharaoh’s heart is hardened, it signals to us that Pharaoh has become increasingly entrenched in his own thoughts, beliefs, and assumptions. Pharaoh becomes so convinced he is right, so convinced in the unjust social order of his day, and so sure in his own reasoned justifications that he becomes unable to hear the voices of others, to see their suffering, or recognize injustice.

Lessons of today 
In studying these verses this past week, I was reminded of the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator (or personality test), which I first completed as a professional development tool while studying at the Hebrew Union College. One of the preference pairs on the test helps the test-taker to understand how s/he likes to make decisions: by Feeling or by Thinking. People who make decisions by Feeling “believe [they] can make the best decisions by weighing what people care about and the points-of-view of persons involved in a situation.” People who make decisions by Thinking “like to find the basic truth or principle to be applied, regardless of the specific situation involved.” As my professor explained it to me, for a Feeling decision-maker the feelings of the other person are more important than being rational and right, and for a Thinking decision-maker being right and rational is more important than sparing the feelings of others or his/her own self.

This Test comes to mind today because I see in its carefully laid-out boundaries the lessons of Pharaoh’s heart. When we harden our hearts, we allow ourselves to exist in the extremes of decision making. For the Feelers amongst us, we allow ourselves to ignore the moral universe in service to the individual in front of us. For the Thinkers amongst us, we allow ourselves to ignore the realities of the individual in service to what we have labeled as moral certitude.

The lesson of Pharaoh is this: We are responsible, always, for justice and compassion; for morality and empathy; for being right and for being kind. This dual-responsibility is what Torah, mitzvot, and Jewish ethical living are all about.  Our tradition asks us to rise above are most basic instincts.

Tests like Myers Briggs are helpful for understanding ourselves, the ways in which we make decisions, and our own tendencies toward action and reaction in this world. They are not, however, excuses to live in extremes and harden our hearts. We are reminded this week not to decide in the image of Pharaoh (who sees neither justice nor compassion), but in the image of God (who seeks always to embody both).

Parashat Sh'mot--Spiritual Exile

This week, we begin a new book of Torah.  Exodus.  Sh’mot in Hebrew.  We often speak of the famous exodus memorialized in this book.  The Exodus from Egypt, in which Moses leads the Israelites out of bondage, out of slavery, out of the Narrow Place.

But, as this book of Torah opens, there is no hint of bondage, no hint of slavery, no fear of the Narrow Land.  Rather, this week’s Torah portion begins with an exodus into Egypt, as Joseph’s brothers and their families follow his footsteps southward from Canaan.

They had no idea what they were walking into. 

And, doesn’t this story of our ancestors ring true?  That which enslaves us often creeps up unannounced…out of places of plenty, experiences of goodness, lives of fullness.  And then slowly, and without warning, we find ourselves not on some exotic adventure or frivolous vacation, but in exile.  Distanced from freedom, separated from wholeness.

To be in exile is a spiritual condition.  We are in exile when we find ourselves somehow separated from God, separated from the sacred.  We are in exile when we feel an absence of the divine in our lives. 


When we are in exile, we are spiritually marooned.  Spiritually lost.  Disconnected.

This week’s Torah portion is about experiencing exile and longing for redemption.

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The Torah tells us how the Israelites went from freedom to slavery.  It reads: “A new king arose over Egypt who did not know Joseph. And he said to his people, "Look, the Israelite people are much too numerous for us. Let us deal shrewdly with them, so that they may not increase” (Exodus 1:8-10).

Exile happens to us.  Without our intending it.  Without our wishing it.  Suddenly, something around us changes.  And what started as a journey to a land of plenty (good living), becomes enslavement.  A simple story.

But, Torah teaches us that exile is not a permanent condition.  Every exile holds the promise of redemption.

The Sefat Emet teaches us that Torah speaks of three different types of exile. 
1.    Imprisonment
2.    Humility
3.    Poverty

And with each of these types of exile, we are promised three different acts of redemption, for Torah teaches us that God:
1.    Brings forth the prisoners
2.    Delivers the humble
3.    Helps the needy

And we ask:  What is the meaning behind each of these types of exile?  What does it mean to be a prisoner?  What does it mean to be humbled?  What does it mean to be needy?

First—The prisoner.

The Sefat Emet teaches us that we are prisoners when we are “unable to broaden out that point of divine life that is within [us].”  We are imprisoned when we fail to recognize that there is an essential spark inside each of us.  We are imprisoned when we are unable to tap into that source of life and goodness.  We are imprisoned when we are unable to tap into its strength.

But, God brings us prisoners forth.

Second—The humble.

The humble person is a righteous person, one who need not be in exile, but who remains there selflessly.  Working to redeem others.  Moses, the Sefat Emet teaches, was one of the humble.  He himself could have been redeemed, but remained in Egypt in order to lead his people out.  And there are those of us who spend our days redeeming others.  We work tirelessly to rescue those amongst us who are lost or fallen or faltering.  We are reminded this week that this work comes at a toll.  We who exile ourselves by choice need special care.  We too must claim moments of rest, moments of freedom, moments of peace.

And, God, we are taught, delivers the humble.

And finally, the third type of exile—The needy.

“The needy,” we are taught, refers to “those lowly ones who do not yet even feel their exile.”  Yes, says the Sefat Emet, “they are in need of the greatest salvation.”  Our ancestors suffered under the cruel king’s tyranny for years without realizing they were enslaved.  It was not until that king died that the Israelites first cried out.  They moaned and called out for help.  And God heard them.  And remembered.  And saw them.

God, we are taught, helps the needy

Redemption is impossible until we recognize that we are in exile.  Until we cry out.  Until we sigh under the burden.  This is the great act of strength.  Falling into exile is passive.  Readying for redemption is active.

We are taught there is a final act of redemption, one that is due to us all.  God tells us:  “I will take you as My people” (Exodus 6:7).  No longer lost.  No longer separated.  Claimed.  Whole.  Connected.

The Sefat Emet finishes, “Something like this is true of every exile.  But more than that, all these rungs seem to exist in every person as well.  Every [person] has some inner place in which he is a free person.”

--

And now I invite you look inward.  Imagine that first cry our ancestors made.  The original sigh, which grew to a moan, and cascaded into a call, one heard by God.  Imagine the relief they felt, finally naming that which oppressed them.

And now I invite you to consider your own life.  Imagine the divine spark deep within you, your source of freedom.  Breathe into it.  Breathe out of it.

This is the first act of redemption.  This a Shabbat for claiming freedom.  All the rest is still yet to follow.  Only potentials.  Only possibilities.

Parashat Vayehi--Making Sprials

There are many elements converging together this Shabbat.  I believe these elements, which are seemingly disconnected, might actually suggest to us something new (or at least something to reflect upon) during the day of rest ahead.

A few elements worth noting:

We are coming to the end of the first day of a new calendar year.

We are one night past a fairly rare blue moon on a New Year’s Eve.

We are reading the last Torah portion in the book of Genesis.

And, with Joseph’s death at the end of the parashah, we are standing on the border between freedom and slavery in Egypt.

Remember these disconnected elements as we dive for a moment into the particulars of the Torah portion itself.

This week’s parashah begins with Jacob on his deathbed.  Jacob’s son Joseph brings his two sons Manasheh and Ephraim to their grandfather’s bedside, asking Jacob to offer a blessing over them.

As is the custom, Joseph leads the older son Manasheh to Jacob’s his right side and the younger son Ephraim to his left.  Jacob is blind by this time and Joseph helpfully arranges the boys perfectly so that Jacob would be able to easily use his right hand to bestow due honor on Manasheh, Joseph’s firstborn son.

A word about firstborn sons...

In the Tanakah, the Hebrew Bible, we are taught that the firstborn son is due quite a lot in life—his father’s blessing, a double portion of his family’s inheritance (Deut. 21:15-17), and the authority to rule over the rest of his family after his father’s death.

What a privilege...

And yet, in this week’s Torah portion, we are reminded that so-called divinely ordained privileges are often not all that they seem to be.

In this week’s parashah, Jacob intentionally crosses over his arms, laying his right hand on the younger Ephraim’s head and his left hand on the older Manasheh’s.  When Joseph seeks to correct the mistake, Jacob says, “I know, my son, I know. He too shall become a people, and he too shall be great. Yet his younger brother shall be greater than he” (Genesis 48:19).  And Jacob blesses the younger Ephraim.


Jacob is clearly sensitive to birth order, having tricked his older brother Esau out of birthright and blessing.

And at that, Jacob’s father Isaac knew a bit about superseding the so-called “natural order of things,” as he, the younger son, was granted his father’s birthright and blessing in place of his older brother Ishmael.

And why is it that Jacob is blessing the sons of Joseph at all?  Let us remember that Joseph is the eleventh of Jacob’s twelve sons.  Why is not the oldest son, Reuben, at his father’s bedside?  Jacob himself explains that it is because of Reuben’s immorality that the sons of Joseph receive Jacob’s birthright (1 Chr. 5:1).

The list continues.  King David passes over his firstborn son Adonijah in favor of  the younger Solomon. (2 Chr. 21:3).  Chosah chooses Shimri.

In the end, even God chooses to turn aside custom, claiming the Levites as priests, in place of the Israelites’ firstborn sons (Number 8:6-18).

And so, we are left with a dilemma.  What sort of a lesson are we meant to take away from this systemic undoing of what is presented as a preordained “donesss”?  That is to say, why does the Torah teach of a firstborn’s birthright, if, more times than not, this birthright is given not to the privileged older son, but to the younger son?

We are reminded of this intentional rebalancing on a weekly basis.  In the Shabbat blessing of the children, parents are called upon to say, “May you be like Ephraim and Manasheh.”  Our words flip the natural birth order, Manasheh and Ephraim, and we continually reinforce the reconstituted hierarchy of life.

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I mentioned earlier that there are a series of elements converging upon us tonight.  We are moving beyond beginnings (full moons and new years) and into the possibilities that lie ahead, at the same time we come to the end of a book of Torah.  This Shabbat is one of endings and beginnings.

Our patriarchs begin and end as well.  Ephraim begins his new life as favored son.  Manasheh ends his.  Jacob dies.  Joseph dies.  And the Israelites are poised to begin a new, not necessarily better, tenure in Egypt.

Beginnings and Endings.  Torah tells us:  At these moments, things are ever hardly what we expect them to be.  What we are told they should be.  What we want to order them to be.

Margaret Atwood writes, “Beginnings are sudden, but also insidious.  They creep up on you sideways, they keep to the shadows, they lurk unrecognized.  Then, later, they spring (The Blind Assassin 232). 

Rabbi Zoë Klein told me once that a circle is a dangerous shape.  Circles continue revolving on and on, without stopping and without ever advancing.  A spiral is much healthier.  Spirals have the roundness of circles, but are ever pushing forward, ever advancing.

Maybe this is the lesson we are to learn this week.  Not just that Torah favors younger sons or that hierarchical establishments are made to be broken...but, that we have the power to change the seemingly preordained and inevitable circles of our lives.  Endings and beginnings are perfect times for making spirals.

Joseph set two sons before Jacob.  The future all lined up.  Neat and ordered.  All Jacob did was flip his hands.  Circle made spiral. 

And here we are, the moon pregnant with possibility, waxing yet again.  The 0s and 1s of 01-01-10 lined up neatly on our calendars.  All we have to do is flip our hands.  Set the spiral in motion.  Start a new book of Torah once again.

Chazak, chazak, v’nitchazek.  Be strong, be strong, and may you be strengthened.