Shabbat Chol Ha-Mo'ed Sukkot
Written by Rabbi Professor Marc Saperstein Wednesday, 26 September 2007
The liturgical paragraph beginning יי אלהינו לשלום השכיבנו, ‘Grant, O Eternal God, that we may lie down in peace’, is part of the evening service, used every night throughout the year. Yet certain phrases from this paragraph seem especially relevant during the Sukkot week: ופרוש עלינו סוכת שלומך, “spread over us the sukkah of Your peace’, echoed in the phrase from the final sentence, הפורש סוכת שלום עלינו, ‘Who spreads the sukkah of peace over us . . . .’
In these phrases, the sukkah is used as an image, a metaphor. But why this particular metaphor? After all, peace is one of the exalted of all Jewish values, while the sukkah—important as it is for the holiday we are currently observing—is not something of transcendent value. The materials needed to build a sukkah are relatively inexpensive, and no extensive time is required to build it. Why does the prayer not say, ‘build over us the stately mansion of your peace’, or ‘the majestic palace of your peace’, or another image that might seem more appropriate? What does the sukkah have to do with peace?
Perhaps there is something important to learn from the choice of this metaphor. A palace or castle or mansion is built on strong foundations out of stone. Once built, it will stand by itself for centuries. Travelling through this country and other European countries, we can see castles constructed in the Middle Ages, their thick walls still standing strong. The sukkah is totally different. It is erected for short periods of time. It is fragile and vulnerable to the elements. A strong wind can come and blow its roof off. It can be undermined by water seeping through the ground or burnt if someone carelessly drops a lit match. You have to watch it carefully, tend to it constantly, lest it be suddenly destroyed.
Historically, peace has been far more like a temporary sukkah than a permanent castle. A historian once calculated that since the year 1500, there have been only about 30 years in which there was no warfare of any kind somewhere in the world. Peaceful relations are established after centuries between Germany and France, but then fighting breaks out to devastate the Balkans. The Cold War comes to an end, but we are now part of a war “against terrorism’. Israel establishes peaceful relations with Egypt and Jordan, but violence erupts from Lebanon and Gaza, and threatens from Syria and Iran.
We erect structures of peace with care, but they are so easily blown over by the strong winds of hatred, undermined by the seeping waters of suspicion, consumed by the fires of nationalistic self-righteousness. In order for the edifice of peace to remain standing, we have to be constantly on guard; we cannot take it for granted that peace once achieved will naturally endure—a lesson learned all too bitterly in our own time.
Yet despite the transient, vulnerable nature of the sukkah, there is an advantage to a roof that is not solid and opaque, blocking our vision above. The roof of the sukkah must be open, so that we can see the stars in the heavens, suggesting the unlimited potential toward which we might aspire if only the enormous resources squandered on destruction could be channelled into the enhancement of human life.
Pesach celebrates the exodus from Egyptian bondage, Shavu’ot the revelation at Sinai. The third great event of our national origins, which should be the cause for our celebration at a festival season, is the entrance into the Promised Land. But Sukkot does not celebrate this; instead it refers back to the period of wandering in the wilderness. We have still not entered the Promise Land of peace; we are still wandering in the wilderness of suspicion and mistrust, violence and war. Yet, though the goal often seems so far away, we can envision the goal before us, and we can pursue it with hope and prayer: ופרוש עלינו סוכת שלומך, ‘spread over us the sukkah of Your peace’. Let the serenity and tranquillity of our individual sukkot radiate into the world outside its walls.
