Navigating this Narrow Bridge
By: Rabbi Sara Mason-Barkin
Tags: Anxiety, Motherhood, Insomnia, Rosh Hashanah, Jewish

How to do hard things, face our fears, and get more sleep in the new year.

Rabbi Sara Mason-Barkin, 9.18.2020

Erev Rosh Hashanah

Congregation Beth Israel, Scottsdale, Arizona

So, most of you know I had a baby this year. Thank you all for kvelling with us over the endless stream of photos, and updates on every tiny milestone. It has, indeed, been a blessing to have this little bundle of joy bringing us smiles during these unusual circumstances.

The most regular question I’m asked as a mom returning to work, is about sleep. ‘Is the baby sleeping through the night, yet?’ Many have been sweetly concerned, probably noticing me stifling a yawn, or perhaps seeing the growing circles under my eyes that are hard to hide under the glaring light of Zoom.

And the answer… is yes. The baby is sleeping through the night. The big kids do too, more or less. You know who isn’t sleeping through the night?

That’s right. Me.

Unsplash, Annie Spratt

As I’ve shared before, I’m a worrier. And boy, 5780 has been great fodder for worrying. Which worry shall we perseverate on tonight??

How about:

The challenges of raising three children in the midst of a global pandemic?

Or, whether or not to send them school in person?

Or, protecting the health of our families and loved ones?

I have tossed and turned thinking about new, creative, accessible ways to be present for my community, while trying not to fixate on fears about assimilation and potential for synagogue longevity.

I worry about the toxic anti-semitism of both the alt-right and far-left.

I worry about the pending fallout of the upcoming election.

I think about what the ‘new normal’ of a post-covid world will be?

And if we will we ever find a new normal.

And if we even remember what normal is?

Take your pick. There is plenty to fear. And I know I’m not alone awake at night, worrying.

Tomorrow morning, we will read about Abraham. We will put ourselves in his shoes, imagining the day that God decides to test him. ‘Take your son,’ God says.

קַח־נָ֠א אֶת־בִּנְךָ֨ אֶת־יְחִֽידְךָ֤ אֲשֶׁר־אָהַ֙בְתָּ֙ אֶת־יִצְחָ֔ק

Kach na et-bincha et-yachidcha asher ahavta, et-yitzchak

Your dear one whom you love, Yitzchak.

וְהַעֲלֵ֤הוּ שָׁם֙ לְעֹלָ֔ה

V’ha’aleihu sham l’olah

And offer him there as a burnt offering (Genesis 22:2).

Abraham rises early that day, rousing his son and his servants to begin the trek up the mountain.

The rabbis wonder: why did Abraham rise so early? According to medieval commentator Rashi, he was eager to fulfill God’s command.[1] The midrashic wisdom of Bereshit Rabbah counters that Abraham rose according to will, rewarded by the Holy One’s Divine powers.[2]

But I wonder… as a parent who holds a world of worries, perhaps Abraham rose early because he, too, hadn’t slept. Perhaps he, too, was restless.

Perhaps he, too, saw the world changing around him.

Perhaps he feared for his child.

Perhaps he couldn’t tame his wild thoughts long enough to sleep.

In high school physics, preparing for an assignment which required us to construct a bridge out of balsa wood and glue, our teacher showed us a video of the original Tacoma Narrows Bridge: otherwise known as ‘Galloping Gertie.’ In the grainy black and white video, taken in 1940, you can see the bridge bending and twisting in the wind. Next, the bridge splinters, cracks, and falls into the water below. Our bridges were supposed to fare better than dear old Gertie when we put them under pressure.

Film Footage of Galloping Gertie: Smithsonian National Air and Space Museum

Going into the assignment I was already hesitant about heights, and the video hadn’t helped matters. While rationally I knew that this was a history lesson and not a current snapshot, I couldn’t forget the image of the horizontal bridge going vertical, then violently breaking apart. Still today I need to take a deep, centering breath before crossing a bridge. I hold the steering wheel tightly with two hands, and focus intently until I am once again over land. Something about the heights, plus the narrow shoulder and the image of Galloping Gertie in my mind, just… freaks me out. My fear of bridges is manageable, (especially since moving from the Bay Area to the desert!) but it’s there.

Rabbi Nachman of Breslov teaches: Kol ha-olam kulo gesher tzar m’od. V’ha-ikar lo l’fached k’lal. The whole world is a very narrow bridge. The most important part is not to be afraid.

We are always on a bridge, of sorts, carefully crossing the challenging threshold of this life. Pressure is regularly placed upon us as we try not to crumble under the weight.

The world is a frightening place. And right now, it feels unprecedentedly unstable. We are dependent on strong wifi, and reliable mail service, and masks worn over the mouth and the nose. We are trusting one another to make smart choices: about social distance, and maintaining synagogue membership, and opening schools.

How many of these weighty fears can the bridge hold?

The churning waters below seem hungry.

As if they are waiting for us to tumble down, drowning in the depth of our fear.

Commentary Likutei Tinyana (48) offers another read of Rabbi Nachman of Breslov’s famous reflection: it does not say lo l’fached k’lal,don’t be afraid at all. Rather, [the original text said] klal yitpached sh’lo, don’t become paralyzed by fear. This is to say:

We will all encounter narrow bridges.

The most important part is not to let fear keep us from reaching the other side.

Jewish tradition teaches us about two distinct kinds of fear. According to Rabbi Alan Lew, my fear of bridges is the first kind: pachad. ‘Pachad [is] projected or imagined fear… It is astounding how often such fears become the organizing principles of our lives and how much they close us off from the world.’[3]

Pachad is paralyzing. Pachad keeps us awake at night.

Pachad makes us find another route, avoiding the narrow bridge altogether.

But there is another kind of fear that dwells within us too. Lew continues, “Norah is a very different kind of fear. It is the fear that overcomes us when we suddenly find ourselves in possession of considerably more energy than we are used to … a mixture of fear and awe… we call this bristling energy … norah…. Norah [tries] to push us open. The fear we experience … is simply our resistance to this opening.”[4]

This norah, this awe, is a surge of adrenaline.

Norah, or awe, forces us to take a risk, to make a change.

Norah makes us brave.

Norah, or awe, is what motivates us when we venture carefully into the world, masks on, hands sanitized, distance between us.

Norah is what allows us to imagine a High Holy Day season that looks different from anything we had ever experienced before.

Norah, or awe, is what allows us to look one another in the eye with kindness, as we talk about how and why we disagree.

Norah, or awe, is what helps us make hard choices, to find solutions.

In spite of our worry, in the face of our fear, Norah, awe, guides us onto that very narrow bridge.

We need to know that we can, and we will, make it to the other side.

And there, we will find:

Constructive antidotes to anti-Semitism.

Vibrant, post-pandemic life.

Relationships still intact after a contentious election.

Resilient kids who are doing ok.

With awe, we put ourselves in Abraham’s shoes. We rise early in the morning.

We are tested, too.

Abraham holds the knife over Isaac, his son, his dear one.

He hears an angel speak.

‘Ki-yirei Elohim,’ ‘You approach God with awe.’ (Gen 22:12)

He lifts his eyes.And there is the ram, waiting to take Isaac’s place upon the altar.

Were Abraham filled with pachad, he would have frozen with fear, kept his eyes turned down, his heart kept closed to God’s message. Instead with awe, he lifts his eyes, opens his heart, and writes a different end to the story.

The rebuilt Tacoma Narrows Bridge opened in 1950. It still stands today, though it is now part of a twin bridge-complex that ushers travelers safely and efficiently between Tacoma and the Kitsap Peninsula.[5] It has been built with wisdom, with understanding, and with a sense of awe — a deep respect for the architecture that keeps the bridge intact as travelers make their way, safely, to the other side.

The rebuilt Tacoma Narrows Bridge, 2009. (Wikipedia)

This New Year, let’s redesign the bridge.Let’s face our fears, and our worries with norah. We can build ourselves a bed that lets us sleep like a baby.

And when we rise, ready to approach 5781,with clear minds and refreshed souls we notice: There are new possibilities waiting for us in the thicket.

The whole world is like a bridge. It is narrow. And it is rickety.

And we aren’t always sure that it can bear the weight of our burdens.

But when we summon the courage to rise above the choppy waters, we remember haikar:

We just took the first step. We just did the most important part.