Rebbe Nachman of Breslov (1772-1810) is famous for many sayings, not the least of which is familiar to many as the central lyric of a popular Hebrew song: “All the world is a very narrow bridge, and the most important thing is not to fear at all [Kol ha’olam kulo gesher tzar me’od, v’ha’ikar lo lefached klal].” The expression suggests that, besides a concern as to the strength of the bridge (steel or otherwise), we also may want to consider its width. Even the strongest bridge in the world won’t help if it fails to provide adequate space for us to pass over it without risk of falling off. Maintaining connections only works when they are capable of handling the traffic load. All of this applies equally well to the internet hookup of the modern age. We want consistent service but we also want broadband.

Socially speaking, narrow bridges represent highly polarized contact between people. If we have a wide range of common interests, that tends to broaden our relatability. But what about a situation where the entire world takes on a semblance of narrowness? Getting over our fear of falling whilst focusing on our balancing act would then be a requirement for moving through life. The implication of Rebbe Nachman’s statement is that there is either limited middle ground or none at all connecting between extremes. At times, we have to build the bridge ourselves. But what if it is also possible to change this vision of the world? Perhaps the reason that the world appears narrow is a problem of our perception rather than an unavoidable feature of Creation.

By magnifying the word tz’ar or ‘narrow’ we can begin to unpack some of its significance. Starting with this two letter sub-root, we find that it forms the core of the word mitzrayim (Egypt) which is often read as meitzar mi, an expression which can literally be rendered as the ‘constriction [of] who.’ The question of who (mi) asks after a person or persons. In contrast to the query of ‘what’ (mah) that relates to object-things, ‘who’ addresses the subject (if not the subjective). The phrasing: ‘who did what’ evokes a subject (agent) in connection with an object (or objective). In this case then, the kabbalists are looking at Egypt as a kind of confined (meizer) subjectivity (mi). The inner person cannot emerge but remains locked away because the terms of the world are too narrow.

Just as a person cannot breathe if the air’s too thin, I cannot connect to the world and others where my options for self-expression are so extremely restricted by the sparseness of meaningful social interactions. I may be afraid to go outside myself. Tragically, this may result in no one knowing me or at least not knowing the real me. Nor will I feel like I am able to get to know you. Our connections that bridge between us would then be limited to the usual pleasantries, the candor, tact and decorum, the manners of proper social etiquette, but never beyond the pre-defined microsphere of surface chatter. So often we live in a world of marketing and branding that would sooner exchange the depth psychology gleaned from a profound encounter with a real person for the manageable, time-saving acquisition of a label with which to situate and address the other. Yet, in doing so, everyone’s reservoir of subjectivity suffers depletion which in turn dries up the once fertile grounds of our relationships.

Another allusion in the word tz’ar (narrow) can be seen in an acronym formed by its two letters Tzadik-Reish which stand for the tzaddik (righteous) and rasha (wicked) which accentuates the polarization of society. The entire world becomes exceedingly narrow when we feel like it is polarized into good people and people who are the opposite of good. Such black and white distinctions rarely conform with our experience. Life is much more complicated than that. Sure, at every moment I can feel myself torn between doing the right thing and the wrong thing, but the danger lies in turning this around on others. When my link to you is founded on a two-category classification system it will tend towards chaos and collapse.

The binary of righteous/not righteous, good and bad, can undergo a multitude of reincarnations or substitutions but the result is usually the same–a world of extremism which is difficult to negotiate and where social relations are likely to breakdown. Many recent events coupled with an inflammatory media narrative that likes to stretch the bridge thinner, replace the terms tzadik (righteous) and rasha (wicked) with alternating attributions of rigid categorical thinking towards anyone who does not agree or align themselves in the same way. Is this not one of the main problems in our politics today? Is one either a conservative or liberal, a republican or democrat, religious or secular? While we could continue to enumerate countless other forced divisions, the ‘net’ result is the same. The solution to this (and because a solution is at hand we needn’t fear what initially looks like a narrow bridge) is to introduce intermediaries. Restore the excluded middle and everything widens.

In order to fill in the gap between the extremes we need to bring in a third category which can depolarize the other two. For this we can import a lesson from another Chassidic master and friend of Rebbe Nachman, the Alter Rebbe (Rabbi Schneur Zalman of Liadi) whose classic work known as the Tanya is also called sefer shel beinoni or ‘the book of the intermediate.’ While a full blown analysis of his use of ‘betweenness’ to rectify the narrowness of the tzadik-rasha (righteous-wicked) dialectic cannot be given at this time, let us suggest that the concept of the beinoni functions as a bridge within the bridge. Aspiring to be a person in the middle–to recenter ourselves and thus improve our balance and stability–is a consequence of intermediality. Most of us have difficultly relating to ‘idealized’ extremes, be they the desirable or undesirable. Reflecting this, living the life of a ‘middleman’ encourages us to see ourselves (and others) as works in progress.

The word beinoni (intermediary) begins with the letter Beit so when it is dropped in between the letter Tzadik and Reish of the word tz’ar (narrow), it is like interposing all of the missing breath of society. In fact, when we look at this literally, Tzadik, Beit, Reish form the root of the word tzibur which means ‘community.’ The wider the bridges, the better constituted the community becomes. Likewise, if the middle drops out and excessive tension mounts between the extremes (we hear reverberations of this every time someone says: ‘What could a conservative and a liberal possible have to say to one another?’) then the netting tears. We are left with a bridge that is easy to fall off of and may prove unnavigable to all but a thin slice of ourselves.

Finally, we should also address why Rebbe Nachman calls the world a ‘very’ (me’od) narrow bridge. In the Zohar we find that the original social disfunction involving the eating from the Tree of Knowledge by Adam must also be repaired by Adam. His name has tree letters according to this esoteric teaching: Alef-Dalet-Mem which stand for Adam-Dovid-Moshiach. Leading with the Alef, it represents Adam himself who undergoes many reincarnations. Even so, some stops on this collective-soul train are more important than others. The midway station for his extended biography has him returning as the soul of King David (Dovid who signified by the Dalet in Adam). Dovid himself is included in the identity of the last king (Moshiach–the messiah) who is called Moshiach ben Dovid (the messiah, son of David). In the mystical tradition, Moshiach is not only the offspring of the Davidic line, he is on some level literally a reincarnation of Dovid (David). Consequently, the last letter (Mem) of Adam (whose name encapsulates this threefold identity) corresponds to Moshiach.

Now returning to the word me’od (very), it too is spelled with the same three letters (Alef-Dalet-Mem) only the order is altered to put the Mem of Moshiach at the front of the word (Mem-Alef-Dalet). From this, it is learned that the redemptive configuration of this soul entails entering into a exceptional state. Me’od (very) marks a superlative. If Adam personifies the human, then me’od would be tantamount to the trans-human or the ‘consummate’ condition of humanity. This completion transforms the tz’ar or narrowness in the greatest breadth as we connect to the coming global community.

The age of internet has fundamentally changed how we learn. In Part Six our investigation of networks will address the theme of education and the linking together of all of our learning.

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