As a rabbi, I strive to embrace diversity, and religious diversity in particular. Such a commitment to inclusiveness should be at the core of our country. But is it?

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There is a difference between tolerating someone who is different from you and seeing them as indispensable. The latter means believing that we need each other. I cannot become who God needs me to be without you. However, loving the other can also pose real challenges for Americans. How can we love our neighbor when we are not sure our neighbor loves us back? We might say that it is natural to sometimes fear our neighbor. Such an appreciation of the other takes tremendous courage.

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My pastoral experiences over the last year have left an indelible mark on me. As a rabbi, perhaps my most significant and honored role is when I am invited to be touched by people’s lives in times of pain. In 2016, my congregants and others in my community called upon me overwhelmed and in tears from the constant rhetoric of antagonism and derision.

So I turned down the invitation for Saturday’s service because I could not still serve as an authentic pastoral presence if I were to participate in a ceremony where my presence could appear callous to the many fears in my community.

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This is all the more true because I serve in an area with a deep history of religious pluralism. Thomas Kennedy, a devout Presbyterian, lived in the first quarter of the nineteenth century and served in the Maryland state legislature, representing Washington County. He was willing to risk life and limb to improve our country’s religious tenor. In Maryland, even after the ratification of the Constitution and the Bill of Rights, the state Constitution banned non-Christians from holding public office. This discriminatory practice prevented many Jews from holding government positions. In 1826, Kennedy — at great danger to himself and after six failed attempts in as many years — succeeded in passing a measure known as “the Jew Bill,” which ended that prejudicial treatment and allowed Jews to serve in government.

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Thomas Kennedy undertook such a difficult and controversial endeavor on behalf of a religious group to which he did not belong. He acted far beyond his self-interest.

I serve as a rabbi in an area that Kennedy called home, and he is fondly remembered, even revered, by Jew and Gentile alike in the region. Jews in Washington County are embraced by the much larger non-Jewish community we are part of. In another time, the current national climate might cause some in my Jewish community to feel insecure. Today, while some Jews are concerned, far fewer are very truly afraid. But will we — and other good, decent citizens — consider those who are suffering and afraid? Will we consider those beyond our self-interest?

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How do we take care of our neighbors? We do so by honoring each other’s sacred stories. We do so by listening to the pain that so many in our country are facing. Much of the suffering in our area comes from unemployment, underemployment, poor-quality housing and drugs. Then there are those who are afraid because they call God by a different name, speak a different native tongue or look different from the majority.

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Recently, many of us — well beyond only those in the Jewish community — have been forced to confront privilege through a new pair of eyes. We grow by listening to the sacred stories of individuals and communities other than our own. Our sanctuary doors cannot be shelters that protect us from difference. They must be gateways through which we are inspired to learn how to better love one another.

As I reflected upon the sacred stories of my neighbors, I remembered the struggles Moses faced at the burning bush where he humbly asked, “Who am I?” I am a rabbi who is truly honored that Jews are an integral part of our American traditions. And yet, part of Judaism is supporting those who are vulnerable.

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These two deep values — a celebration of America and the Torah’s teaching to love our neighbors as ourselves — sometimes feel as if they’re in conflict today. But no one should ever have to choose between them.

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So this weekend, I choose to offer my prayer for our country with my own local community, rather than joining the inaugural service. Through a personal lens of humility, I will continue to seek out the wisdom of Torah, and ask myself, as Moses did, “Who am I?”

Every moment is a sacred opportunity to love our neighbors. I doubt very many people get up in the morning thinking to themselves, “How can I be hateful?” We can all do more to face everyday opportunities with greater purpose and love.

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I pray we continue to engage in experiences and conversation, especially with those whom we see as different than ourselves. I pray that my decision not contribute to further divisiveness, but that it helps us all work for greater love for all of God’s children. I pray that we continue to be inspired by the Biblical prophet Micah, who said to us, “What does the Eternal require of thee? Only to do justice and to love goodness and to walk humbly with thy God.”

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