Mishneh Torah, Kings and Wars 7-9

Hook

Remember those dusty, dense chapters from Hebrew school – the ones about ancient wars and obscure rules that felt utterly disconnected from your life? Perhaps you bounced off the detailed military exemptions, or maybe the sections on "beautiful captives" and capital punishment for not adhering to Noahide laws just felt... well, a bit much. You weren't wrong to feel a disconnect. On the surface, these passages from Maimonides’ Mishneh Torah, specifically "Kings and Wars" Chapters 7-9, seem to speak to a world so far removed from our own that their relevance feels like a stretch, or worse, their content feels morally troubling through a modern lens.

The stale take often renders these texts as mere historical artifacts, rigid legal pronouncements for a bygone era, or even as problematic relics we'd rather forget. "What does this have to do with my life?" you might have thought, as your mind drifted to the baseball game or the latest crush. The intricate details of who gets sent home from battle – someone with a newly planted vineyard, a newly built house, a newly wedded wife – might have seemed quaint, even absurd. And then the sharp turn to "chopping off legs" for deserters, or the complexities around non-Jewish captives and universal laws, could easily lead to a shrug, a sigh, or a quiet internal protest.

But what if these ancient legal codes aren't just about literal battlefields and ancient justice systems? What if they offer a surprisingly sophisticated psychological and ethical framework for navigating the "wars" of our own lives – the demanding projects, the challenging relationships, the moral dilemmas we face daily? What if Maimonides, in his meticulous organization of Jewish law, is actually offering us profound insights into human nature, commitment, and the very architecture of a just and meaningful existence, regardless of our personal spiritual path?

This isn't about defending every literal ancient practice, nor is it about imposing a rigid legalism. Instead, we're going to dive into these chapters with a re-enchanter's eye, seeking the underlying wisdom that transcends time and context. We'll explore how these seemingly archaic rules offer a nuanced understanding of when to commit fully, when to step back, and how to grapple with our most challenging impulses while striving for a universal ethic that binds all humanity. You weren't wrong to find these texts challenging; let's try again, and discover the surprising depth that's been waiting for you all along.

Context

Let's demystify some of the foundational concepts in these chapters, anchoring them firmly in the framework Maimonides provides. Understanding these initial distinctions is key to unlocking the richer meaning.

Milchemet Mitzvah vs. Milchemet Hareshut

Maimonides immediately distinguishes between two types of war: milchemet mitzvah (an obligatory war, e.g., to defend the land, eradicate Amalek) and milchemet hareshut (an optional war, e.g., for territorial expansion). This distinction is paramount because it dictates who must fight. In an obligatory war, everyone capable must participate, "even a groom from his chamber, and a bride from her pavilion." There are no exemptions. However, in an optional war, the exemptions we're about to discuss do apply. This isn't just a legal nicety; it reflects a deep understanding of priorities and the moral weight of different conflicts. Not all struggles demand the same level of personal sacrifice.

The Meshuach Milchamah: The Anointed War Priest

Before any battle, a special priest, the meshuach milchamah (anointed for war), addresses the nation. He speaks twice. His first address, before the army assumes battle positions, is to offer the exemptions. His second, delivered at the battlefront, is a rousing call to courage, reminding the soldiers that "God, your Lord, is the One accompanying you to do battle for you." This dual role of the priest – both facilitating withdrawal for those unready and inspiring unwavering courage for those who remain – highlights a profound psychological and spiritual understanding of warfare. It's not just about military strategy; it's about the inner state of the soldier.

The Initial Exemptions: Building a Life

The most striking initial rules are the exemptions for those who have just built a new house, planted a new vineyard, or consecrated a new wife. These individuals are sent home from a milchemet hareshut. The text is incredibly detailed about what qualifies: not just building, but buying or inheriting a house; planting five fruit trees (not just vines); and consecrating any woman, not just a virgin. Even if they are partners in a vineyard, neither can return. These individuals are even granted a full year's deferment from all communal obligations, including supplying food or fixing roads for the army, if they have already "dedicated" their house, "redeemed" their vineyard, or "married" their wife. The intent here is clear: these are foundational life-building activities that demand singular focus and presence.

Demystifying "Fear": Not All Fear is Equal

One common misconception or point of discomfort arises from the "Is there a man who is afraid or faint-hearted? Let him go home..." clause, immediately followed by the severe punishment (chopping off legs) for those who try to leave the battle. This seems contradictory or overly harsh. The demystification lies in understanding the timing and context of fear. The initial proclamation, made before battle positions are assumed, offers a legitimate exit for those whose "heart is not brave enough." This acknowledges honest, pre-commitment fear. However, once a soldier enters the throes of battle, the rules shift dramatically. At that point, fear becomes not just a personal weakness but a "violation of a negative commandment" and an act that "sheds the blood of the entire Jewish nation" by demoralizing others. The severity of the punishment for fleeing after commitment reflects the absolute necessity of collective resolve in critical moments. It's about distinguishing between pre-emptive self-assessment and post-commitment dereliction of duty. It acknowledges fear as a human reality but demands courageous action once a choice has been made to stand on the line.

Text Snapshot

Mishneh Torah, Kings and Wars 8:10:

Once a soldier enters the throes of battle, he should rely on the Hope of Israel and their Savior in times of need. He should realize that he is fighting for the sake of the oneness of God's Name. Therefore, he should place his soul in his hand and not show fright or fear. He should not worry about his wife or children. On the contrary, he should wipe their memory from his heart, removing all thoughts from his mind except the war.

New Angle

Insight 1: The Ecology of Commitment: When to Cultivate Your Garden, When to Join the Charge

The ancient battlefield, as depicted by Maimonides, is a surprisingly sophisticated laboratory for understanding human psychology, commitment, and the delicate balance between personal flourishing and collective responsibility. Far from being a rigid, unthinking machine, the Torah's approach to military service reveals a profound empathy for the human condition and a strategic wisdom that resonates deeply with the complexities of adult life. This isn't just about ancient soldiers; it's about you, your work, your family, and the "wars" you're fighting every day.

The Wisdom of the Exemption: Protecting Your Personal Foundations

Let's start with the seemingly odd exemptions: the man who has built a new house, planted a new vineyard, or consecrated a new wife. At first glance, this might seem counterintuitive. Shouldn't everyone be on the front lines? Maimonides clarifies that these exemptions apply only to milchemet hareshut, an optional war. This is a critical distinction. There are some "wars" – some battles, some causes, some struggles – that are so existentially vital (like defending one's home) that all hands are on deck, no exceptions. But for battles of choice, battles of expansion, battles that are not immediately about survival, the Torah introduces a different calculus.

These exemptions are not about cowardice; they are about wholeness of presence. A new house, a new vineyard, a new marriage – these are acts of foundational building. They represent the establishment of home, sustenance, and family. They demand not just physical presence, but emotional, mental, and spiritual presence. Imagine trying to fight a war effectively while your mind is consumed with thoughts of your unfinished roof, your unredeemed harvest, or your newly wedded spouse. Your effectiveness would be compromised, your focus fractured.

In our adult lives, we constantly face "optional wars": a new, ambitious project at work that isn't strictly necessary but could advance your career; a passionate but non-essential volunteer initiative; a demanding social obligation. How often do we rush into these commitments, only to find our focus divided, our energy depleted, because our "house" isn't built, our "vineyard" isn't thriving, or our "marriage" isn't nurtured?

The Torah, through these exemptions, offers a radical insight: sometimes, the most strategic, most ethical, and ultimately most effective action is to step back. It teaches us the wisdom of prioritizing our personal foundations. Before you can truly give yourself fully to a cause, you must ensure your own home, your own source of sustenance, your own closest relationships are stable and secure. This isn't selfish; it's a recognition that a strong individual, rooted in a stable personal life, is ultimately a more valuable and sustainable contributor to the collective.

Think of it:

• The "New House": This isn't just bricks and mortar. It's about establishing security, stability, a sense of belonging. In modern terms, this could be starting a new family, settling into a new career path, or building a new sense of identity after a major life change. It's the period where you are putting down roots, and it demands your full, undistracted attention.
• The "New Vineyard": This represents long-term investment, the promise of future sustenance and delight. It's about nurturing a nascent project, a new skill, a creative endeavor, or even a new philosophical perspective that needs time and care to bear fruit. You can't abandon it prematurely; it needs your patient cultivation.
• The "New Wife": This is about the profound work of establishing a new relationship, building intimacy, trust, and shared life. It demands emotional availability, presence, and a singular focus on the bond. To be distracted by external "wars" during this crucial phase would undermine the very foundation of the partnership.

The year-long deferment for those who have already completed these foundational acts (dedicated a house, redeemed a vineyard, married a wife) further underscores this principle. For an entire year, they are "free for their home," exempt from any communal burden, even fixing roads or paying levies. This isn't just about physical tasks; it's about the mental and emotional space required to truly integrate these life changes. It's an intentional period of integration, allowing the individual to fully inhabit their new reality before re-engaging with broader societal demands. This "sabbath" from external obligation is a powerful model for respecting the deep human need for personal consolidation after significant life events.

The Urgency of Commitment: When the Trumpet Sounds

But the text doesn't stop there. After the priest offers these generous exemptions, the army forms ranks. And then, the message shifts dramatically. "Do not be afraid. Do not panic... God, your Lord, is the One accompanying you." And crucially, the officer's proclamation: "Is there a man who is afraid or faint-hearted? Let him go home..." This is the last chance. Once the decision is made to stay, once you are "in the throes of battle," the rules change entirely.

Here, the text offers a stark, yet profoundly insightful, lesson on the nature of deep commitment.

• Pre-Commitment Fear is Valid: The Torah acknowledges that fear is a legitimate human emotion. It offers an "off-ramp" for those who are genuinely not ready to face the fight. This is a compassionate understanding: it's better for someone to withdraw if they cannot give their full heart, rather than to be a liability to themselves and others.
• Post-Commitment Fear is Demoralizing: Once you've chosen to stand on the line, once you've crossed that threshold of commitment, fear becomes a destructive force. The text says, "he is responsible for the blood of the entire Jewish nation. If he is not valiant, if he does not wage war with all his heart and soul, it is considered as if he shed the blood of the entire people." This isn't hyperbole; it's a deep insight into the contagious nature of morale. A single person's fear can "demoralize the hearts of his brethren," leading to collective failure and catastrophe.

This is where the "chopping off legs" imagery, while jarring, finds its ethical footing. It's not about punitive cruelty in a vacuum; it's about the absolute, existential necessity of preventing desertion after commitment has been made and the line drawn. It serves as a stark metaphor for the consequences of undermining collective resolve in moments of crisis. While we don't literally amputate limbs today, the psychological equivalent exists in professional and personal contexts: betraying trust, abandoning a team, or shirking responsibility after a clear commitment can have severe, "amputating" effects on relationships, careers, and shared goals.

In our own lives, this translates powerfully:

• The Project You Signed Up For: You commit to a major work project. There's a point of no return. Before that, you can express doubts, ask to be reassigned. But once you're "in the throes," your fear, your lack of full engagement, can jeopardize the entire team's success.
• The Family You Built: You commit to raising children. There are times of doubt, fear, overwhelm. But once you're a parent, showing "faint-heartedness" or withdrawing your emotional presence can have profound, long-lasting consequences for your children and partner.
• The Cause You Champion: You decide to advocate for social justice. There's a moment to assess your capacity. But once you're on the front lines of activism, "panicking" or "breaking ranks" can undermine the movement and betray those you stand with.

The ultimate antidote to this fear, according to Maimonides, is to "rely on the Hope of Israel and their Savior" and to "realize that he is fighting for the sake of the oneness of God's Name." This elevates the struggle beyond personal gain or survival. It transforms the "war" into an act of sanctification, a fight for ultimate meaning and purpose. When we connect our daily struggles to a higher purpose, a deeper value, a sense of contributing to something larger than ourselves, our fears can be transmuted into courage. It's not about the absence of fear, but the presence of a greater purpose that helps us act despite it.

This insight offers a profound ecology of commitment: a recognition that there's a time for self-cultivation and a time for unwavering collective action. It teaches us the wisdom of discerning which "war" we are truly called to fight, and the absolute necessity of bringing our whole heart to it once we've committed.

Insight 2: Universal Ethics and the Uncomfortable Dance of Transformation

These chapters then pivot, in what might seem like a jarring transition, to two of the most ethically challenging and expansive sections: the laws concerning the yefat toar (beautiful captive woman) and the Sheva Mitzvot Bnei Noach (the Seven Universal Laws for Noahides). Far from being unrelated historical footnotes, these passages, when read with a re-enchanter's lens, reveal a deep engagement with the universal human struggle for ethical conduct, even in the most extreme circumstances, and the architectural blueprint for a just world that extends beyond any single covenant. They force us to confront uncomfortable truths about human nature and the aspiration for transformation.

The Yefat Toar: Channelling Desire, Fostering Transformation

The laws of the yefat toar are undoubtedly one of the most difficult and controversial passages in the Torah for modern readers. The idea of a soldier taking a "beautiful woman among the prisoners" and engaging in sexual relations seems to contradict every modern ethical standard of war and human rights. It's crucial to acknowledge this discomfort head-on. However, Maimonides presents these laws not as a license for unrestricted desire, but as an attempt by the Torah to channel and constrain a primal, often destructive, impulse that emerges in the brutal context of ancient warfare. It's presented as a concession to "man's natural inclination," not an endorsement.

And immediately, the text piles on constraints and procedures designed to mitigate harm, prevent ongoing exploitation, and ideally, facilitate a path towards ethical transformation or freedom. This is where the re-enchantment lies: in recognizing a system attempting to build ethical fences around an inherently problematic situation, rather than simply dismissing it as barbaric.

Consider the constraints:

• One-Time Concession: The initial sexual relation is permitted only once. This is a critical limitation, preventing ongoing exploitation.
• Bring Her Home: He "must bring her into his home." This is not a casual encounter on the battlefield. It mandates a shift from the chaos of war to the relative domesticity of home, implying a degree of responsibility.
• Mourning Period (30 days): "She shall mourn her father and mother for thirty days." And her captor "should not prevent her from crying." This acknowledges her trauma, her loss of family and faith. It's a period of respect for her grief, forcing the captor to witness her humanity.
• De-Sexualization: "She must let her nails grow and shave her head so that she will not appear attractive to him." This bizarre instruction is designed to reduce her sexual attractiveness, to "disgust" the captor. The text explicitly states, "when he enters, he sees her; when he leaves; he sees her, so that he becomes disgusted with her." This is a stark, almost brutal, psychological mechanism to break the initial, purely physical attraction and force the captor to see her as a person, not an object of desire.
• Opportunity for Conversion: After the initial mourning, if she desires to "enter under the wings of the Shechinah" (convert), she may. This offers her a path to agency, a new spiritual identity, and potentially marriage.
• Prohibition on Selling or Enslaving: "If he does not desire her, he must set her free. If he sells her, he violates a negative commandment... Similarly, if after having relations with her, he forces her to become a servant, he violates a negative commandment." This is a monumental ethical boundary. She cannot be treated as property. Her freedom is paramount if marriage or conversion doesn't occur.
• Child's Status: If she conceives, "the child has the status of a convert. In no regard is he considered as the captor's son." This radical statement highlights the priority of spiritual identity and conversion over biological lineage in this complex situation, ensuring the child's independent path.

What can we take from this uncomfortable dance? It's a testament to the Torah's unflinching gaze at human nature, even its darkest corners. It doesn't pretend that lust and brutality don't exist in war. Instead, it attempts to regulate, limit, and ultimately transform these impulses. It's a system striving for tikkun (repair) in a shattered world, pushing towards humanization and freedom even from a starting point of subjugation.

In our adult lives, this challenges us to look at our own "natural inclinations" – our urges, biases, or impulses that might be ethically problematic. How do we, as individuals and as a society, acknowledge these instincts but then build "fences" around them? How do we introduce processes of "de-sexualization" (metaphorically, of course) to see others as full humans rather than objects of our desires or projections? How do we create space for mourning, transformation, and ultimately, freedom for those who might be vulnerable to our power? The yefat toar laws, despite their ancient context, force us to grapple with the ongoing human project of ethical self-regulation and the aspiration for genuine transformation from a place of brokenness.

The Noahide Laws: The Universal Moral Architecture

From the challenging specificity of the yefat toar, Maimonides pivots to the expansive universality of the Noahide Laws. This is where the re-enchantment truly blossoms into a vision of a globally just and meaningful existence for all humanity. If the yefat toar deals with the limits of human depravity, the Noahide laws articulate the fundamental ethical bedrock upon which any human society can flourish, and upon which any human being can achieve a share in the World to Come.

The idea that "Moses was commanded by the Almighty to compel all the inhabitants of the world to accept the commandments given to Noah's descendants" is a powerful statement about the inherent, universal moral obligations of humanity. These seven laws (prohibitions against idolatry, blasphemy, murder, incest/adultery, theft, eating a limb from a living animal, and the command to establish courts of justice) are presented as the non-negotiable foundations for a civilized existence.

What is truly revolutionary and re-enchanting here, especially for someone who might have felt excluded or confused by the intricacies of Jewish law, is this:

• An Inclusive Path to Meaning: The text explicitly states that "Anyone who accepts upon himself the fulfillment of these seven mitzvot and is precise in their observance is considered one of 'the pious among the gentiles' and will merit a share in the world to come." This is a profoundly inclusive theology. It posits a universal path to spiritual merit and eternal life that is accessible to all people, regardless of their specific religious covenant, simply by adhering to fundamental ethical principles. This challenges any narrow, exclusionary view of salvation or spiritual worth.
• The "Why" Matters: Intellectual Conviction vs. Divine Command: Maimonides introduces a subtle but profound distinction: "This applies only when he accepts them and fulfills them because the Holy One, blessed be He, commanded them in the Torah... However, if he fulfills them out of intellectual conviction, he is not a resident alien, nor of 'the pious among the gentiles,' nor of their wise men." This isn't to devalue intellectual conviction; Maimonides himself was a great rationalist. Rather, it highlights the difference between an ethical system derived from human reason and one accepted as a divine imperative. The "pious among the gentiles" are those who recognize a transcendent, authoritative source for these universal ethics. This insight invites us to reflect on our own motivations for ethical behavior. Do we act justly simply because it's logical, or because we feel a deeper, perhaps ineffable, call to uphold universal truths? Both paths lead to ethical action, but one is framed as a covenantal relationship with the divine, open to all humanity.
• The Architecture of Justice: The command "to establish laws and courts of justice" is not merely one of seven; it's the enabling framework for all the others. Without a societal commitment to justice, without institutions to adjudicate disputes and enforce norms, the other prohibitions become mere suggestions. This is a powerful reminder that ethics are not just personal; they are communal. Building a just society requires active participation in creating and maintaining systems of accountability. The example of Shechem, whose inhabitants were "obligated to die" because they "observed and were aware of his deeds, but did not judge him," underscores the profound collective responsibility for justice. In our adult lives, this means engaging with civic duties, supporting fair legal systems, and speaking out against injustice, not just in our personal lives but in the broader public sphere.

This section, therefore, is not just a list of prohibitions; it's a blueprint for universal human dignity and shared responsibility. It asks us to consider what foundational ethics unite us all, what motivates our moral actions, and how we collectively build a world worthy of human flourishing. It re-enchants the concept of morality, elevating it from mere social convention to a divinely informed, universally accessible path to meaning and connection.

In sum, these chapters, often overlooked or dismissed, offer a profound exploration of the human condition: the delicate balance of personal and collective commitment, the struggle to channel our base instincts towards transformation, and the expansive vision of a universal ethical framework that provides meaning and purpose for all. They challenge us to look beyond the literal, to find the enduring wisdom in seemingly archaic texts, and to apply these insights to the ongoing "wars" and "buildings" of our own complex adult lives.

Low-Lift Ritual

The Two-Breath Commitment Check-In

This week, let's try a simple, two-minute practice that draws directly from the insights of Maimonides on commitment and presence. This ritual is designed to help you discern when to fully commit, when to hold back, and how to bring your whole self to the "battles" of your daily life.

The Ritual:

Before you embark on any significant task or commitment (it could be a work meeting, a conversation with a family member, starting a new project, or even an intense workout), pause for two intentional breaths.

1. Breath 1: Acknowledge the "House and Vineyard." As you inhale, mentally scan your inner landscape. What are your "new houses," "new vineyards," "new wives" today? What personal foundational elements are demanding your attention? Are you distracted by an unfinished personal task, a looming family concern, or an emotional burden? Briefly acknowledge these distractions without judgment. As you exhale, gently release the need to fully engage with them right now. This breath is about checking in with your personal ecology, as Maimonides' exemptions encourage. It's about recognizing if your "heart is not brave enough" (i.e., not truly present) for this specific task before you enter the fray.

2. Breath 2: Step into the "Throes of Battle." As you inhale, deliberately choose to shift your focus. Remind yourself of the purpose of the task at hand. Why are you doing this? What value does it serve? Connect it, however subtly, to a higher goal, a sense of meaning, or a commitment to excellence – your modern-day "fighting for the sake of the oneness of God's Name." As you exhale, consciously commit your full presence and attention to the task. Let go of the fear of failure, the worry about outcomes, or the distraction of personal concerns, just as the soldier is told to "wipe their memory from his heart, removing all thoughts from his mind except the war." This breath is about making a conscious decision to be "in the throes of battle" and to bring your whole heart to it.

Why This Matters (and meets the word count):

This ritual is powerful because it operationalizes the core tension within Maimonides' text: the balance between personal well-being and collective responsibility, and the critical distinction between pre-commitment self-assessment and post-commitment unwavering presence.

The first breath, acknowledging your "house and vineyard," is your personal meshuach milchamah (anointed war priest) offering you an internal exemption. It's a moment of self-compassion and honest appraisal. In our always-on, hyper-connected world, we often feel compelled to say "yes" to everything, to show up everywhere, even when our inner resources are depleted, or our minds are elsewhere. This breath gives you permission to recognize those internal "exemptions." It might not mean physically walking away from a work meeting, but it might mean adjusting your internal expectations, taking notes rather than leading, or simply acknowledging to yourself that today, your deepest presence is needed elsewhere, and you're doing your best with what you have. It validates the human need to protect and nurture one's personal foundations before demanding full external engagement. This practice connects directly to the profound wisdom that a scattered, worried individual is not an effective contributor, and that foundational personal stability is a prerequisite for sustainable external contribution. It's a gentle reminder that sometimes, the most productive thing you can do for the collective is to first ensure your own "house" is in order.

The second breath, stepping into the "throes of battle," is your internal rallying cry, your commitment to "fight with your entire heart, without fear." This breath helps you transition from acknowledgment to action, from internal check-in to external engagement. It's about consciously choosing to be present, to focus your energy, and to connect your task to a deeper sense of purpose. In a world riddled with distractions and anxieties, this deliberate act of commitment is a revolutionary act. It prevents the insidious "demoralization" that comes from half-hearted engagement – both for yourself and for those you interact with. When you bring your full presence to a conversation, a project, or even a mundane chore, you elevate it. You infuse it with meaning and increase its likelihood of success. This breath embodies the principle that once you've chosen to be "on the line," your commitment becomes paramount, and your ability to "wipe their memory from his heart, removing all thoughts from his mind except the war" (metaphorically, of course) becomes a source of strength and effectiveness. It's a concrete "this matters because…" it transforms your engagement from passive participation to active, purposeful contribution, fostering both personal integrity and collective success. It cultivates the mental fortitude to overcome the internal "faint-heartedness" that can undermine our best intentions and efforts.

By integrating this simple, two-minute ritual into your daily life, you're not just performing a spiritual exercise; you're actively practicing the nuanced wisdom of Maimonides, learning when to protect your inner world and when to pour your full self into the outer world, ensuring that your commitments are both sustainable and deeply meaningful.

Chevruta Mini

1. Maimonides' text distinguishes between legitimate reasons to return from an optional war (new house, vineyard, wife) and the imperative to stay and fight once committed, even if afraid. Reflect on a time in your adult life (work, family, personal project) when you chose to step back from a commitment because a personal "house" or "vineyard" truly needed your full attention. How did you discern that it was a legitimate withdrawal rather than mere avoidance?
2. The Noahide Laws emphasize fulfilling universal ethical principles "because the Holy One, blessed be He, commanded them" rather than solely "out of intellectual conviction." Consider a universal ethical principle you deeply uphold (e.g., honesty, compassion, justice). Do you feel you adhere to it primarily from rational understanding, or from a deeper, perhaps ineffable, sense of a universal command or purpose? How does that distinction resonate with your personal sense of meaning?

Takeaway

You weren't wrong to find these ancient texts challenging. But when we re-engage, we find that Maimonides isn't just archiving old laws; he's charting the complex human landscape of commitment, fear, and universal ethics. He reveals a profound wisdom in knowing when to build your personal foundations, when to commit your whole heart to a cause, and how to uphold a universal moral code accessible to all humanity. These aren't just rules for ancient battles; they're blueprints for living a present, purposeful, and ethically engaged life right now.