By Rabbi Dr. Michael Leo Samuel in Chula Vista, California
Not melody, nor art of silver flute,
A primal cry where human tongues are mute.
Tekiah rings—a sudden, piercing dawn,
The slumber from the weary spirit drawn.
A solitary spear of holy light,
That cleaves the deep, forgotten realms of night.
Then fractured into weeping, raw and wild,
Shevarim falls—the sobbing of a child.
The brittle walls of ego crack and split,
To let the hidden spark of God be lit.
A rapid pulse, Teruah’s trembling beat,
Like footsteps rushing to the Mercy Seat.
The heart awakens from its heavy trance,
And enters in the soul’s celestial dance.
No words remain, no rhetoric or plea,
Just breath that yearns toward eternity.
The horn dissolves the dust of yesterday,
And blows the ashes of the past away.
One final blast—Gedolah—boundless, high,
It stitches earth unto the vaulted sky.
The Book lies open, radiant and clear:
Return, O soul—the living King is here.
*
A narrow bridge
Rav Nahman of Breslov taught: The whole world is a narrow bridge— and the essential thing is not to be afraid.
He did not say the drop isn’t real. He did not say the timber won’t shake. He told us that fear is a terrible architect. When fear builds, it builds cages. But when courage walks, it turns a precarious ledge into a pathway forward.
Today marks the twenty-fifth anniversary of September 11. On that clear morning, the bridge was not a metaphor; it was steel and ash. Yet even amid terror, ordinary people walked down smoke-filled stairs to save strangers, and first responders ran toward the fire. They proved what free nations and the Jewish people have always known: terror can shake our foundations, but it cannot shatter the covenant of human dignity.
We know the bridge has felt fragile this past year. When hatred resurfaces, when our sanctuaries require guards, or when joy is attacked—as it was on Bondi Beach during Ḥanukkah—the temptation is to look down at the chasm and freeze.
Instead, look at what our people actually do.
When the festival was attacked, the community returned to the water and lit the candles again. That is not denial; it is our oldest instinct. We refuse to let our tears extinguish our flame.
Tradition teaches that Rosh Hashanah marks the birth of Isaac—Yitzḥak—whose name means “he will laugh.” Think of what Isaac endured: bound on the altar, marked by trauma, carrying that memory for the rest of his life. Yet Elie Wiesel reminded us that Isaac is our first survivor precisely because he walked down that mountain, built a home, loved, and chose to laugh. His laughter was not amnesia. It was defiance. It declared that pain may shape a life, but it is not permitted to steer it.
That same defiant joy beats at the heart of our modern story. Emerging from the ashes of the Shoah, survivors had every reason to construct a museum of grief. Instead, they built a vibrant democracy, revived our ancient tongue, gathered the scattered, and planted orchards in the desert. Even now, after the agonizing trials following October 7th, Israel consistently ranks among the happiest nations on earth. That joy is not naive. It is an act of deep spiritual grit—a knowing that meaning, family, and purpose outlast every storm.
On Rosh Hashanah, we do not surrender the calendar to our enemies. We declare the world Hayom Harat Olam—born anew today.
We cross the narrow bridge not by looking down into the abyss, but by looking ahead and holding each other’s hands:
· In synagogues that fill with song.
· In homes that still kindle the lights in the window.
· In students who master our texts, and tables where we still bless the bread.
The bridge remains narrow, but our footing is ancient, tested, and secure. Step forward with heads held high. Choose life, choose laughter, and do not be afraid.
Do.
*