Two Kinds of Fear
Yom Kippur Morning 5768
Rabbi Joseph R. Black
Congregation Albert -
Albuquerque, NM
My Dear Friends,
This past summer, my daughter, Elana and I spent some time together in New York City. We were on our way to the Union for Reform Judaism Kutz Leadership Institute in Warwick, NY. Elana was going to be a camper and I was on faculty at Kutz camp - much to her chagrin, I might add….but that's another topic for another sermon. We came to New York a couple of days early so we could explore Manhattan before driving upstate to Camp.
While we were in Manhattan, we did many of the things that tourists do. We shopped, we went to museums, we shopped, we ate at restaurants, we shopped - did I mention that I was there with my then 15 year old daughter? At any rate, at one point during the day, we were walking down a street in central Manhattan when, all of a sudden, we heard a loud noise and saw people running as fast as they could - with terrified looks on their faces. We turned around and saw a huge plume of smoke rising into the air - from the direction of Grand Central Station. We started running with the other pedestrians on the street until we felt that we were a safe distance away. The scene on the street was surreal. Aside from the police cars, fire engines and ambulances that were rushing towards the smoke, there was no other motorized traffic - only people spilling onto the streets, facing the chaos, trying to talk on their cell phones which, of course did not work because the system had become overloaded. We didn't know what was happening and, at that moment - thousands of strangers were thrust together - an instant community connected through a common sense of fear and uncertainty - in the midst of what we all thought was surely a terrorist attack.
It wasn't. Eventually, we found out that the "smoke" was actually steam. The cause of the explosion was an aging pipe that had become overloaded and eventually burst - sending showers of steaming debris hundreds of feet into the air.
The sense of relief we felt when we learned what had actually happened was palpable. You can imagine how the visage of a cloud of smoke on a Manhattan street might evoke images of a day in September six years ago.
Similarly, when a bridge collapsed in Minneapolis this past summer, my first thought - and that of many of us here today, I'm sure - was that we were once again witnessing an act of sabotage. It's terribly sad that we live in a world where our first reactions to tragic events are often experienced through the prism of fear and suspicion. Six years ago, following the September 11th attacks, I said the following on Erev Rosh HaShanah:
Our world has been changed forever. We no longer can take our safety and security for granted. Now our nation can understand what our brothers, sisters, friends and colleagues in Israel have known all along: the realities of living life under a constant heightened state of awareness due to the threat of terror.
One of the realities of living in a post 9-11 world is that we deal with fear on a daily basis. We no longer have the luxury of pretending that we are invulnerable or invincible. All it takes is one trip to the airport to confirm that this is true. The past six years have taught us the degree to which fear can control our lives. Fear can paralyze us. Fear can force us to make decisions that are not always based on the most rational grounds. Fear isolates us and causes us to view all strangers with suspicion. We have seen in recent years the damage that a public policy based on fear can do to civil rights and human dignity.
Yom Kippur is a day that is linked with many frightening images. Today, our tradition teaches, we stand closest to death. Traditionally, Jews wear a kittel on Yom Kippur. This is the white garment in which we are also supposed to be buried. We fast, we abstain from physical pleasures. Our hunger and discomfort remind us of our mortality. It is a day when we confront aspects of our selves and our souls that may be quite frightening.
There are two Hebrew words for fear: Pachad and yir'ah. While sometimes they are used interchangeably, linguistically they have distinctly different meanings.
Pachad is the type of fear that is most familiar to us. This is the legitimate fear that funds the Department of Homeland Security. It is the fear that emerges out of experience and consequence. Pachad is linked to danger. When we experience this type of fear we are totally focused and alert. It is pachad we feel when we are alone in a dark alley; when our telephone rings in the middle of the night. When we stand on the edge of a cliff and look down, it is pachad that causes us to step back. Sometimes, pachad can even be a gift. As the writer, Joy Cowley states: "…..fear might be an uncomfortable emotion but it is the gift connected to our survival…As new infants we blink at strong light, flinch at loud noise, cry when we experience hunger and discomfort. In early childhood it is our fear that helps keep us safe." (1)
A healthy dose of fear is a key element of growing up. There are some children who have no fear whatsoever. They're usually the ones who always have a broken arm or sprained ankle ….. I worry about them - a lot. .
Some people are fear junkies. They actively seek out ways to scare themselves. I was at the State Fair last week and I watched as people paid $25 a pop for the privilege of being strapped into a harness attached to two gigantic rubber bands that were connected to an enormous sling shot. The rubber bands were then stretched to their limit and released - propelling the helpless customers high into the air. This 2 minute thrill ride had a very long line that stretched all the way down the street.
To each their own, I guess….
Scaring people - inducing a feeling of pachad- is a huge industry. From horror movies to roller coasters, the rush of adrenaline we feel when we face our fears - even in a controlled setting - forces us to be totally focused. We feel alive because we want to believe that, for a moment at least, we have cheated death.
The word, yir'ah, also can be translated as fear - but in reality, it means much, much more. Another way to translate yir'ah is "awe" or "wonder". To experience a sense of awe is to stand in the presence of something much, much bigger than ourselves. Three summers ago, I experienced a taste of yir'ah when Sue and I spent a week rafting in the majestic beauty of the Grand Canyon with dear friends. On Rosh Hashanah that year I spoke of how the immensity of this natural wonder inspired two completely opposite feelings simultaneously: on the one hand, we felt very small in comparison to the size of the canyon and the millions of years it took to carve it out of the rock of the desert. On the other hand, we felt incredibly fortunate to have been able to experience this onder of nature on such an intimate level.
The conflicting feelings of insignificance and consequence are a key tool for understanding the meaning of yir'ah. When Jacob dreamed that he saw a ladder reaching from the ground to the heavens he awoke and stated:
Mah Norah Hamakom ha-zeh. - How awesome - how fearful - is this place.
When Moses saw the bush that was burning and not consumed, he turned to see Ha-Mar-eh Ha Gadol Hazeh - this awesome/fearful sight.
Both Jacob and Moses understood that they were standing in the presence of God. They were afraid - they were filled with a sense of both smallness and uniqueness.
Rabbi Nachman of Bratslav taught that each person should carry two slips of paper - one in each pocket. In the left pocket should be the words: "For me the world was created." In the right pocket should be the words: "I am nothing but dust and ashes." On those occasions where we are feeling lost - as though we have no place in the Universe - we need to reach into our left pockets and read the words: "For me the world was created." And on those occasions where we are full of ourselves - when we are feeling over-confident and self-absorbed - we need to reach into our right pockets and read the words: "I am nothing but dust and ashes." In this way, we keep ourselves in balance. We gain an understanding of the concurrent feelings of importance and insignificance that are essential ingredients of standing in the presence of God and experiencing Yir'ah - awe and fear.
Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur are called Yamim Noraim - Days of Awe/Days of Fear. What do we fear - we who live in the 21st Century? This morning, we once again prayed the Unetanneh Tokef, that terrifying, awe inspiring prayer. The imagery of this prayer is that we pass before God the judge, as a flock of sheep passing beneath the shepherd's staff, one by one, counted, evaluated, judged:
On Rosh Hashanah it is written, on Yom Kippur it is sealed: How many shall pass away, how many shall be born, who shall live, and who shall die. Who will attain the full measure of their days, and who will not.
On one level, this is a prayer about pachad - we confront our mortality, our actual physical death, and there is some value in that. The truth is, we don't know what will happen in the coming year. We can't know who will live to see another Yom Kippur, and who will not. As I look around this sanctuary, there are empty seats that just last year were occupied by beloved members of our community who are no longer with us.
But, on a deeper level, I believe that the main focus of this prayer is not the issue of physical death; it is not whether or not we were written down in God's book. We don't really believe that God is "….making a list, checking it twice, looking to see who's naughty or nice…."
Ultimately, the language of the prayerbook not withstanding, we confront death on Yom Kippur; we symbolically enact our own deaths by refraining from the comforts of life - not to confront our fear of dying, but to face death so that we can get it out of the way and address the deeper fear: the fear of living. Our task today is not how to avoid death, but to acknowledge our tendency to avoid…… life.
In the Torah portion we read this morning, we find the words:
I call heaven and earth to witness against you this day that I have set before you life and death, blessing and curse; choose life, therefore, that you and your descendants may live….
If you think about it, this is a very strange passage. Why is God telling us to choose life? It's kind of a no-brainer isn't it? If we have to choose between living and dying - who wouldn't choose life?
Maybe the text is trying to teach us something else, something much more important then mortality…maybe our greatest fear - the true Yir'ah that we must confront - is the fear - not that we are all going to die - but that we are going to die without having truly lived.
The root of the word, Yir'ah is lir'ot which means "to see." When we truly understand the meaning of Awe, of fear, of yir'ah, it means that our eyes are open to the world around us. Standing in God's presence puts everything into perspective.
There is a strange story that is told about the Baal Shem Tov - the master of the Good name - the founder of Chasidism. The story teaches that an angel came to the Baal Shem Tov and said to him: "It has been decreed in the highest heaven that, because you are such a pure soul, you will be given the gift of seeing the world as it really is." At that moment, the Baal Shem Tov's eyes were opened and he gasped as he saw a huge pit filled with fire gaping open in front of him. As he gazed out over the fiery abyss he saw a man who was walking over the pit - suspended on a tightrope. The Baal Shem Tov looked closer and he realized that the man could not see that he was on a tightrope at all - and he also could not see that he was walking over a lake of fire. But then, suddenly, something happened. The man on the tightrope's eyes were opened as well. He looked down and he saw his situation - He realized that he was walking on a tightrope - across a lake of fire…. He began to get frightened - he started to lose his balance. He teetered precariously from one side of the rope to the other. Then, just as he was about to fall into the sea of fire, the Baal Shem Tov called out to him: "Its alright! Don't be afraid! You can fly! You can fly!"
And the Story ends there……
I've only recently begun to understand the true meaning of this story. But I think the central idea behind it is that each of us, at some point in our lives, comes to a realization that there are aspects of life that we desperately try not to see - but we are unsuccessful. Ours is a society that invests an enormous amount of time and capital creating diversions. Whether it is watching the latest news about OJ Simpson, or visiting a certain bathroom stall in the Minneapolis airport, or downloading videos of beauty pageant faux-pas we squander precious resources just so we don't have to confront the real issues that plague us - the yir'ah that comes when we acknowledge the truth about our world.
In Bob Dylan's immortal words: "How many times can a man turn his head, pretending he just doesn't see?"
We're good at avoiding.
We gossip about celebrities' personal demons but we give short shrift to the demonic regimes in Darfur and Iran.
We obsess about dieting, but we don't talk about the hunger in our streets.
We attack politician's personalities so we don't have to look at their policies.
The list goes on and on…..
But once we have seen what it means to confront the fear and awe which give meaning and purpose to our lives, we have no choice but to act on the imbalance in our world. And that is the central meaning of the sacred day. Once we have acknowledged our fear - our yir'ah; once we have opened our eyes - all pretense is stripped away - all excuses are gone as well. We have no choice but to work to make our world a better place.
But it is not only in the arena of the imbalances and injustices in our world that our awareness of yir'ah compels us to act. When our eyes are opened, we need to look at the way that we are living our lives as well.
My dear friends, the Torah commands us to "Choose Life." Why? Because we're afraid. We're afraid because we have been hurt by life. We're afraid to take risks because we might fail - we will fail - all of us fail - at some time in our lives. We're afraid that we might expose our vulnerabilities, our weaknesses, our frailty.
Moses stood before God at the burning bush - filled with doubt.
Jacob awoke from his dream - shaken by the experience.
Each of us, at some point in our lives, comes to a realization that we have to face our fears, head on. And what are we afraid of? We are afraid of opening up to those around us. We're afraid that we might expose our weaknesses. We're afraid to reach out and mend fences - to try to heal wounds that have been festering in our homes, our families, our relationships.
Each year, on Yom Kippur I say the same thing - and it rings true every year.
If there are are relationships in your life that are damaged - take a risk - try to mend them.
If you have hurt somebody - ask for forgiveness.
If you have been hurt by someone - search deep within your soul to try and forgive them.
Some of the most tragic moments I experience as Rabbi are when I stand with a family at the bedside of a loved one and help them come to terms with the fact that opportunities have been squandered and lost forever - opportunities to say "I'm sorry", "I love you." "I forgive you…."
Choose life, my friends. It's not worth holding on to grudges. It's not worth waiting until the last minute - when it is too late. All of us are walking that tightrope. All of us, at some point in our lives have our eyes opened to the realization that our greatest fear is not that we are mortal - but that we have not utilized the precious gift of life to its' greatest potential.
There is a passage in the Amidah that is added for these Yamim Noraim - these Days of Awe and Fear:
Zochreynu L'Chayim, Melech Chafetz Ba-Chayim, L'Ma-an-cha Elohim Chayim - Remember us unto life, O Sovereign who delights in life, for Your own sake, O God of Life.
This prayer is a both a plea and a challenge. We need to live our lifes - for ourselves and for God who "delights in life." The Yir'ah we experience on Yom Kippur reminds us that we are in a relationship with God. We are simultaneously small and insignificant and we are the objects of God's "delight." We need to fully live our lives - not only for ourselves - but for God - the source of the gift of our lives.
So be afraid, my friends, be very afraid - but let our fears compel us to embrace life - to embrace one another and make ourselves and our world a more perfect place. Ken Y'ehi Ratzon.
(Endnotes)
1 This reference is from a sermon by Rabbi Joshua Boettiger of the Reconstructionist Chavurah of Vermont, 5767. I was unable to find the original source of this quote.