Elijah the prophet is one of the most frequent visitors in Jewish folk tales. The Bible describes him being taken up in a fiery chariot, which has led generations of Jews to believe that he never died, but comes to visit us at holy moments. At Pesach we welcome Eliyahu hanavi, Elijah the prophet, to the seder in hopes that he will announce the redemption for all humanity is near, mashiah-zeiten, the Messianic time. At the end of Shabbat, we invoke Elijah in hopes that our Shabbat will turn into an eternal Sabbath of peace. And when a baby is welcomed into the Jewish community, a chair is set aside for Elijah.

We also tell many stories of Elijah rewarding humble and pious Jews for their selflessness and hospitality to strangers. And so I recently learned an interesting tale of Elijah from the Talmud. It’s very short, so listen carefully.

The Talmud tells of a certain pious man whom Elijah would come to visit regularly. One day the man put a gatehouse at the entry to his courtyard, and then Elijah stopped speaking to him.

Why did Elijah stop talking to him? What had he done? By putting a gatehouse at the entrance, he signaled to the poor that they were not welcome. Elijah is a friend of the poor, and saw this as an act of selfishness and exclusion. But wait! The mishna teaches that someone who lived in a courtyard, which normally contained several households in different dwellings, must contribute to building a gatehouse. So the Rabbis teach that the owners of the courtyard have a right to their gate, and that the condo association can insist that everyone contribute to it. Perhaps they want privacy, or security. So what if Elijah’s friend was just contributing to the neighborhood association. What’s wrong with that? In other words, the law permits us to protect ourselves from people outside our dwellings. But would Elijah want to visit such a place?

The Talmud devotes an entire tractate, Baba Batra, to property rights. We are entitled to have doors, locks and gates. One may limit access to one’s property. The question is—is this the best way to live? Can we overcome this desire and live in a truly generous way? The man in the story was simply following the law, but Elijah had higher expectations. How can we protect ourselves, and still create the kind of home that Elijah would want to visit?

Rashi says that not only does the gate prevent the poor from entering, but those inside do not hear their cries. The story of Elijah teaches us that there is more to a meaningful life than demanding our rights.

This tension can be found in today’s haftarah, when the prophet Isaiah chastises the people for following the letter of the law and forgetting its spirit. When he cries, “Is this the fast that I have chosen,” he reminds the people that God expects more of us than what the law requires.

I am reminded of the fellow I knew in college who had figured out how to work just hard enough to get a 90%, the minimum for an A. He got the A, but what had he learned in the process besides how to get an A?

Rabbi Donniel Hartman, one of my teachers this past summer in Jerusalem, impressed this lesson on us: Our job as Jews is not to teach moral responsibility. Moral responsibility does not belong only to Jews. What we as a people have to teach is how to overcome our natural desire to insulate ourselves when we are called to serve a higher purpose.

The story of Esther that we read on Purim provides us with an apt example. When Mordechai learns of Haman’s plot to annihilate the Jews, Mordechai puts on the signs of mourning: he dresses in sackcloth and covers himself with ashes, and arrives at the palace to speak to Esther. Esther, who is now queen and accustomed to court life, does not know about this sinister plot. How does she respond to Mordechai’s arrival? She sends him clothes to wear! How dare he bring sadness into the palace!

How often do we act like Esther—concerned for our own skin, we ignore the what others are trying to tell us? Esther is ashamed to see her uncle at the palace in rags. Living in the palace, Esther has walled herself in so that she is not aware of the world outside and not concerned about what happens there. In the process of keeping out the world she has been corrupted by the environment within.

It is then that Mordechai says to her “Do not imagine that you, of all the Jews, will escape with your life by being in the king’s palace. On the contrary, if you keep silent in this crisis, relief and deliverance will come to the Jews from another place, while you and your father’s house will perish. And who knows, perhaps you have attained to royal position for just such a crisis.”

It is up to us to hear the call to a higher purpose. It is up to us to fight the impulse to remain isolated within the comfortable palace walls and ignore the suffering outside.

The immigration debate is a perfect example of this tension. Some people claim that immigrants who are here illegally have no rights because they have broken the law. They use the law as the only standard for judging human behavior and human need. But the prophet Isaiah would urge us to see the plight of immigrants with more compassion, to open our doors, to feed the hungry, to heal the sick, and to provide for their children. That is, to go beyond the letter of the law.

In rabbinic thought, this is known as lifnim meshurat hadin. They taught that there are many instances in the Torah where the law itself is not sufficient. There is a morality that is beyond law, even beyond Torah. Indeed, the sage Rabbi Yochanan ben Zakkai, who experienced the destruction of the temple, taught that Jerusalem was destroyed because people only lived up to the letter of the law, and did not go lifnim meshurat hadin. (Baba Metzia 30b) It is not enough to protect ourselves as the law provides; it is up to us to create a home that Elijah would want to visit.

Most of us know how to open our doors. We often go beyond what is expected—especially when it comes to helping our friends. Face it—we are more hospitable to friends than to strangers. We are more likely to bring a meal to a friend than to a stranger. We are more likely to go to the shiva for a friend than for a stranger. These are all admirable deeds. We should not stop helping our friends.

In Deuteronomy we are taught, “If you see your fellow’s ox or sheep gone astray, do not ignore it; you must take it back to him. If he does not live near you or you do not know who he is, you shall bring it home and it shall remain with you until he comes to claim it; then you shall give it back. You shall do the same with his donkey; you shall do the same with his garment; and so too shall you do with anything that another person loses and you find; you must not remain indifferent.” (Deut.22:1-3)

“Fellow” here, achicha, literally means “your brother.” This law refers to people we know, people who are close to us. Just as we are permitted to live in security, we should extend help to our friends. However, we are also called to go beyond what is natural. In Exodus, we are urged to help even our enemies, “When you encounter your enemy’s ox or donkey wandering, you must take it back to him.”

We don’t need a moral system to help our friends. We need a moral system to compel us to do what is difficult. The bottom line is: Morality is not subject to the distinction between friends and strangers.

But what if the outsiders threaten us? What if the world surrounding us is corrupt? How do we remain open and still maintain our integrity? Is there a limit to moral behavior in an immoral world?

As a Jewish community, we face this dichotomy all the time. How do we protect ourselves and our people without losing our moral foundation? When we are threatened with annihilation, it is incumbent on us to save ourselves. Self-interest is a legitimate moral imperative. In the Talmud we read of two people traveling on a long journey, far from civilization. The water is running out. One has enough water to save himself. If he shares his water, they will both die. What should they do? One rabbi argues that both should drink, even if it means neither one will survive. But Rabbi Akiba argues that your life takes precedence. Only then can you do whatever you can to save your companion. It’s like the flight attendant who warns us, “When the oxygen masks drop down, be sure to put your own mask on before attempting to help those around you."

But these are extreme cases, life-and-death decisions—the kind of decision that most of us, we pray, will never need to make in our lifetime. In our daily lives, and the life of the Jewish people, we have many fears, but few genuine mortal threats. And in that case, we must learn to overcome our fears, unlock the gates, and live up to our own religious ideals.

I do not pretend that this is easy. In fact, the state of Israel faced such a dilemma this past summer, as refugees from Darfur poured into the country over the Egyptian border, seeking the same asylum that Israel is renowned for offering Jews who have fled from oppression. At first, several hundred refugees were sent to prison because they came from a country that is a declared enemy of Israel. But activists and members of the Knesset compelled the government to rethink its policy. Hundreds were relocated temporarily to kibbutzim and private homes. But as more African refugees poured in from outside of Darfur, the government threatened to begin sending people back to Egypt, because they simply could not provide for so many homeless people. Fortunately, this past month the government again changed its position, and offered citizenship to several hundred refugees from Darfur. Although the government has not found a solution for all of the other refugees, pressure from Israelis has resulted in a more welcoming attitude. While Israel is clearly a place that African refugees want to live, it is not always so easy to create a place that Elijah would want to visit.

For too long, Jewish identity has been synonymous with victimhood. One of the greatest obstacles to embracing the Other is entrenched in the Pesach haggadah, “In every generation they have risen to destroy us.” It is that kind of thinking that robs us of our ability to distinguish between enemies and friends. The passage continues, “but the Holy One, blessed be God, saved us from their clutches.” Without thinking, we dumbly repeat the notion that God’s job is to save us from our enemies.

But this in itself is a kind of idolatry. By claiming that God defends the Jewish people against our enemies, we lock God inside our palace. Abraham claimed that God is hashofet kol ha’aretz—the judge of the entire world. Abraham’s genius was in understanding that God transcends borders. In the ancient near East, people believed that their gods were confined to their territory. When they traveled to a new place, they needed to appease the local god. But Abraham’s innovation was in believing that the whole world is God’s world. Anyone today who claims that God is on their side has created a false conflict that pits religion against God. God doesn’t want to be confined!

God’s world is, by definition, a moral world, a world of tzedek umishpat, a world that Elijah wants to live in. It is a world that believes in law as a jumping off point, not an end point. To be a Jew is to strive for morality in an immoral world. We Jews are responsible for other Jews in the same way we are responsible for our own family. But we cannot ignore the world around us. In an open society, we dare not lock all the gates.

This is how we must learn to live in an unredeemed world. Each of us in our own way creates a place where Elijah wants to come and visit. We take each opportunity for tikkun, repair, for tzedek and mishpat, justice and fairness, even as we keep a watchful eye to protect the ones we love. We are called to find a way to go beyond what is required in order to do what is right. We are not always equipped to answer that call, but that does not absolve us from trying, every single day.

Opening our gates, crossing bridges, meeting the Other. Facing one another in loving relationship provides the strongest and most blessed foundation for living good and meaningful lives in an unredeemed world. May Elijah be a frequent visitor in this house, and in yours.

Rabbi Barbara Penzner
Yom Kippur 5768