[9-14-01]
Rabbi Arthur Waskow, director of The Shalom Center,
has shared these reflections on an ancient Jewish tradition:
building a sukkah, a fragile, temporary hut, as an expression of the
shalom -- the pease -- that comes from God and that is also a human
task.
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 wereamong 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? 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 such a world can prevent such acts of rage and murder.
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.
Instead of entering upon a "war of
civilizations," we must pursue a planetary peace.
Shalom, Arthur
Rabbi Arthur Waskow
Director, The Shalom Center
<www.shalomctr.org>
<www.FreeOurTime.org>
