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--some "light and wisdom in the midst
of chaos". Hope you find it of help during these difficult times......

Why a Sukkah?

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's 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?

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