Religion in America is the history of two competitive camps, the "Feel Goods," and the "Feel Bads." The first to arrive were the Feel Bads, those early Protestant preachers who believed in original sin. The only hope for salvation was to be reminded every Sunday of human depravity. It was good to feel bad.

By the second half of the twentieth century, the Feel Bads had had their day. People looked back in horror at the impact of Feel Bad theology, which had convinced parents (in the words of educator John B. Watson), "Never hug or kiss [your children], never let them sit in your lap.... If you must, kiss them once on the forehead when they say good night. Shake hands with them in the morning."

So Feel Goods took over, and religion turned therapeutic. American Protestants (we are not yet at the Jewish part of our story) had once gone to religious services as a matter of duty, and listened to whatever the pastor preached (which made them feel bad). After World War II, they treated church like the movies. Sermon topics were announced in newspapers and bulletin boards, to convince people to come because their message would make them feel good.

Eventually, the old-time Feel Bads too cashed in their fire and brimstone for messages of love and comfort. The Feel Goods have won the war. They, no doubt, feel good about it.

The Jewish version of the tale is somewhat muted, since we never preached original sin. We too, however, have capitulated to the Feel Goods. Most Jews (who treat synagogue attendance as an option) are not likely to attend a half-hour sermon that makes them feel bad. Most rabbis therefore advocate Torah study, which is neutral; they limit Feel Bad sermons to the High Holy Days when people are more likely to abide them.

I admit it: I too have been taken in by Feel Good religion — prayers for healing, celebratory mazal tovs at the Kiddush, happy-clappy services unmarred by reminders of people dying far away in war and nearby in city streets.

That is why I shudder at this week's Torah portion, parshat Devarim, which proclaims, "These are the words that Moses spoke to all of Israel." It sounds innocuous enough, but commentators are pretty much unanimous in identifying "the words" in question as reproaches, a litany of Israel's sins.

Indeed, much of this final book of Torah altogether is reproach — and worse: actual curses leveled against Israel should they turn aside in even the slightest degree from God.

The final nail in the coffin, as it were, is the calendrical fact that this week's portion falls on Shabbat Chazon (Sabbath of "vision"), easily one of the most frightening Shabbatot in the year. The haftara reading from Isaiah, which calls us a "sinful nation weighed down by iniquity," is regarded by tradition as the vision of the Temple's destruction, an event we recall on Tisha B'av, which falls this week.

It turns out religion should sometimes make us feel bad, and for Jews, that time is now. It will be hard to do, if you are reading this while vacationing in the mountains or on a beach. But try looking around you at the 99 percent of the world for whom the word "vacation" is about as relevant as "fairy godmother." Or make an elementary list of the national and world problems that made you want to go on vacation to start with. Talk about a frightening "vision"!

What if, God forbid, Isaiah is charging us with being "a nation weighed down by iniquity"? What dire consequences should we anticipate — unless, of course, we recognize that it is time to feel bad?

This is not to say that feeling bad alone will solve the problems in question. I admit their complexity. I know also that too much guilt might be too much to bear. What if we strive for solutions, and in their absence, we just feel worse?

Well, if so — so be it. But think of the alternative. "If all of Israel were to distance itself from holiness, even for a single second, the world would return to chaos," says Itturei Torah, commenting on the consequences of ignoring this week's reproaches. In our own little way, we can at least strive for holiness, to do the right thing personally. And we can feel bad enough to object to all those smiley-faced government representatives who just want us to feel good.

"What is the American equivalent of a Temple?" we should ask them — the one that fell because no one listened to Isaiah? The governmental infrastructure? The rule of law? Democracy itself? All of these stand in the balance. This Shabbat we reread Isaiah, and have another chance to listen.