In 1984,
when the nuclear arms race was in speed-up mode, The
Shalom Center built a sukkah between the White House
and the Soviet Embassy in Washington.
We
focused on the line from the evening prayers -
"Ufros alenu sukkat shlomekha" -
"Spread over all of us Your sukkah of
shalom."
And
we asked, "Why a sukkah?" - Why does the
prayer plead to God for a "sukkah of
shalom" rather than God's "tent" or
"house" or "palace" of peace?
Because
the sukkah is just a hut, the most vulnerable of
houses. Vulnerable in time, where it lasts for only a
week each year. Vulnerable in space, where its roof
must be not only leafy but leaky - letting in the
starlight, and gusts of wind and rain.
For
much of our lives we try to achieve peace and safety
by building with steel and concrete and toughness.
Pyramids, air raid shelters, Pentagons, World Trade
Centers. Hardening what might be targets and, like
Pharaoh, hardening our hearts against what is foreign
to us.
But
the sukkah comes to remind us: We are in truth all
vulnerable. If "a hard rain gonna fall," it
will fall on all of us.
Americans
have felt invulnerable. The oceans, our wealth, our
military power have made up what seemed an
invulnerable shield. We may have begun feeling
uncomfortable in the nuclear age, but no harm came to
us. Yet yesterday the ancient truth came home: We all
live in a sukkah.
Not
only the targets of attack but also the instruments
of attack were among our proudest possessions: the
sleek transcontinental airliners. They availed us
nothing. Worse than nothing.
Even
the greatest oceans do not shield us; even the
mightiest buildings do not shield us; even the
wealthiest balance sheets and the most powerful
weapons do not shield us.
There
are only wispy walls and leaky roofs between us. The
planet is in fact one interwoven web of life. I MUST
love my neighbor as I do myself, because my neighbor
and myself are interwoven. If I hate my neighbor, the
hatred will recoil upon me.
What
is the lesson, when we learn that we - all of us -
live in a sukkah? How do we make such a vulnerable
house into a place of shalom, of peace and security
and harmony and wholeness?
If
I treat my neighbor's pain and grief as foreign, I
will end up suffering when my neighbor's pain and
grief curdle into rage.
But
if I realize that in simple fact the walls between us
are full of holes, I can reach through them in
compassion and connection.
Suspicion
about the perpetrators of this act of infamy has
fallen upon some groups that espouse a tortured
version of Islam. Whether or not this turns out to be
so, America must open its heart and mind to the pain
and grief of those in the Arab and Muslim worlds who
feel excluded, denied, unheard, disempowered,
defeated.
This
does not mean ignoring or forgiving whoever wrought
such bloodiness. Their violence must be halted, their
rage must be calmed - and the pain behind them must
be heard and addressed.
The
lesson is that only a world where we all recognize
our vulnerability can become a world where all
communities feel responsible to all other
communities. And only that kind of a world can
prevent such acts of rage and murder as we witnessed
in New York and Washington.
Instead
of entering upon a "war of civilizations,"
we must pursue a planetary peace.
Shalom,
Rabbi Arthur Waskow
Director of The Shalom Center www.shalomctr.org
