“You Shall Make A Parapet”: Facing our Fears
By: Rabbi Sara Mason-Barkin
Tags: Fear, Teshuvah, High Holidays, Prayer, Unetaneh Tokef

Rabbi Sara Mason-Barkin, 9.13.19

Parashat Ki Teitzei

Congregation Beth Israel, Scottsdale, Arizona

Shortly after our family moved to Arizona, I posted a picture on facebook of our kids eating lunch in the backyard after a Sunday morning swim. They were, of course, adorable, holding up their sandwiches, still dripping from the pool while sitting at their little kid sized table. I added caption that said something like ‘loving our new AZ life!’ I received two distinct kinds of comments. Category A, mostly smile emojis and phrases like ‘cute kids!’ Category B came from their grandparents and my friend who is a pediatrician: ‘where is the pool fence!? Please install ASAP!!’

Of course, they were right — and while we already had an appointment scheduled with the pool fence guy for the following week, the future appointment would not prevent an incident in the present. And, now, a year later, everyone can relax as the pool has been well fenced since last July, about 5 days after the picture was taken, and the kids have been in weekly swim lessons since our arrival. We also have a special out-of-reach doorknob to get out to the backyard, and clear rules that the kids know to respect. You can all exhale, everyone is doing just fine.

However, it’s in our nature to worry. I always tell my kids that my number one job is to keep them healthy and safe — even when they aren’t happy about it. And the same goes for every job that I’ve ever had working with children, and adults for that matter: health and safety — the Jewish value of briut — is always the first priority.

And this isn’t even modern coddling or helicopter mom-ing — it’s right there in the Torah, found in this week’s parasha. Ki Teitzei includes a long list of rules describing family dynamics, daily living, and intimate relationships also includes this first mention of building codes:

Ki tivneh bayit chadash v’asita m’a’keh l’ganecha,

v’lo-tasim lamim b’veitecha ki-yipol hanofeil mimenu.

When you build a new house, you shall make a parapet for your roof,

so that you do not bring bloodguilt on your house if anyone should fall from it.[1]

The crenellated parapet on a bastion of Kyrenia Castle, Cyprus

In other words, when building a home, especially one with an attractive flat roof or a balcony perfect for picnics or sunbathing — make sure you install a parapet –a protective wall, or perhaps a fence, or at the very least a railing. Because if someone falls off that roof, the guilt — and the blame — will lie with you.

This is a biblical example of our instinct to stay safe. We don’t need to be taught to protect ourselves and our loved ones from danger, and we don’t seek to put others in harm’s way. We all remember that the Torah also teaches us not to ‘place a stumbling block before the blind.’[2] It is in our nature when danger is imminent — and even when it isn’t — to protect the value of health and safety, of briut.

At the end of August, in the days leading up to Hurricane Dorian, Florida declared a state of emergency. First responders delivered sandbags in several counties. Residents prepared their own evacuation routes, or made arrangements to shelter-in-place with stocked cabinets of bottled water, batteries, and non-perishable food. In Jacksonville, bridges closed. Emergency shelters opened.[3] In the end, the impact of Hurricane Dorian in the continental United States was limited. In some ways, the ‘parapet’ that was built, or the protection measures that were put in place worked: for the most part, people were able to find their way to safety. They were also lucky.

When the hurricane touched down, the greatest impact was not in the US, but in the Bahamas where the storm was destructive — including catastrophic damage to homes, a flooded airport, buildings swept away and a death toll that is still on the rise. No matter how many sandbags were provided, or how many shelters were open, it was not possible to implement adequate protection from the storm. It is not always possible to build the wall high enough or make the fence strong enough to prevent every danger.

Some dangers catch us off guard. Taking our breath away, changing our lives.This week we remembered September 11th, 2001. It’s hard to believe that it was 18 years ago when we felt this tangible shift in our sense of safety. The day before the attacks, on September 10th we were comfortable in public spaces. By September 12th, once we had seen the news and understood what had happened, we learned just how vulnerable we are to the unknown and unanticipated. When there are those who seek destruction, there is always a way around, over, or through even the most sturdy parapets.

Everyone who remembers 9/11 remembers where they were when the towers fell. We remember the first images that we saw, the moment we understood this new reality. And we also have the story of the days that followed, and how we coped with our fear.

I was living in Boston at the time, a student at Brandeis University. I was scheduled to fly out of Logan airport just a few days later to be home in Chicago for Rosh Hashanah. The planes had departed from Logan airport. In my youth and in my grief and in my fear, I cancelled my trip. This was how I installed my first parapet: Rational or not, a part of me believed that if I didn’t fly, I would be safe. But eventually that became impractical, I had to go back to Chicago sometime. So I installed my second parapet: I refused to fly out of Logan, choosing instead to drive an extra hour in order to fly out of Providence, Rhode Island. I wasn’t the only one who developed a new flying routine: TSA protocols changed. No more meeting people at the gate. Stricter rules regarding carry-on luggage. After another incident we all were instructed to remove our shoes at security. More fences. More rules. More parapets. More structures in place to keep us safe all the while acknowledging: we are vulnerable.

At the core of our very humanity is the recognition that we can’t protect ourselves from every unseen danger. We can eat healthfully and still get sick. We can look both ways before crossing the street and still get hit. We can prepare for the storm and still be in the path of the hurricane. We can take every precaution, uphold our commitment to briut, build every parapet and follow every rule: but no fence can make us immortal. Life is still uncertain.

This is the essence of the prayer that we say on the High Holy Days — Unetaneh Tokef — when we wonder out loud ‘who shall live and who shall die, who shall reach the ripeness of old age and who shall not.’ The prayer acknowledges plainly and clearly — that we are vulnerable. That we are human. That we are mortal.

And it also seeks to offer us a nechemta, a comforting thought: that return to the right path, prayer and righteous giving — u’teshuvah, u’tfillah, u’tzedakah, ma’avirin et roah ha’gzeirah. We can soften the severity of this inevitable ending.’

When we think back to the most difficult moments we have encountered as a community, these words ring true. After the devastating floods in Houston and damaging fires in California, this community brought in tremendous tzedakah to help those in need. After the horrific tragedy at the Tree of Life congregation in Squirrel Hill last October, we gathered in prayer, for t’fillah, with words of comfort and the embrace of one another. And in just a few very short weeks we will come together for the Days of Awe, for the purpose of t’shuvah, reflecting on the ways our commitment to a good and holy path will help us to endure what comes in the year ahead.

The month of Elul ticks forward towards the month of Tishrei. And every year now, for the last 18 years, this passage and coincidence of time encompasses the message of 9/11. The words ‘never forget’ ring in our ears this time of year.

I noticed this week that the stories that we tell from 9/11, and the stories that we tell from the floods or fires or any of our own countless personal tragedies -are most often not the stories of the tragedies themselves — but the hopeful stories of people being their best selves on our darkest, most vulnerable days.

When we say ‘never forget,’ what we mean is never to forget the stories of t’shuvah — the ways people changed for the better. We mean to ‘never forget’ the stories of t’fillah, the way communities came together. And we mean the stories of tzedakah, the ways that people gave what they had emotionally, financially, and spiritually to help those in need.

Each of these: t’fillah, t’shuvah, tzedakah — these are our parapets. These three things are the raw materials we need to build structures and systems for protection. This is how we cope with the severity of the inevitable. This is how we keep ourselves from being paralyzed by our very real, very human, very beautiful vulnerability.

We build this parapet — not for protection, but for connection. Return to the right path, prayer, and righteous giving won’t keep us from an unexpected slip off an unprotected roof, but they can help us grasp hands, and move together away from edge of our fear.