Hi Dad,

By all means, please share the message of Rabbi Waskow with Mr. Fein and let him know that he could either use it directly or contact Rabbi Waskow. It came by email and it is credited to him. I would imagine that if given the credit, Rabbi Waskow would not mind. I personally think that anything that goes out over email is fair game. I got it from someone who got it from someone at Champlain College who got it from Rabbi Waskow. I've included it again below.

As I sit here at 11:00 p.m. in my study so safe from the tragedies of NYC, Washington, and Pennsylvania, I hear the loud roar of the F-16 fighter planes overhead. They've dotted the atmosphere on and off since Tuesday morning. I have heard rumor that our F-16's (in VT) are the ones that shot down the plane in PA. But rumors abound. I guess I should feel safe that the F-16's are here, but it is only a false sense of security. It has been exceedingly hard for me to deal with the realities of this tragedy. All day, I have felt an inner dread fill me and incredible sadness wash over me. I cannot understand the hate that could cause one people to do this to another. But I have never understood war.

Today, here in VT, people have attempted to go back to their lives as best they could. But the realities are not far from our minds. I feel helpless in my desire to help the victims. I cannot go to any of these places. I cannot give blood since I just gave last week. Though, in fact, the Red Cross was overwhelmed by the response of Vermonters and have turned people away in droves. The wait to given blood was between 2 and 7 hours. People had to come, fill out the paperwork, and take a number which had a time on it. Even with the numbers, the wait was long. Temple is having a blood drawing on November 11th, a date we chose a month ago. If people give by Sunday they can give again on the 11th. We were going to run it from 9-2:00. I think we will have to open our doors all day. I am getting clothing together to send to NYC if it is needed. I'm hoping that Temple will respond by donating money to the effort or a food drive (which we usually do on Yom Kippur to aid the food shelf), or something. Sending money to the Red Cross or Salvation Army or wherever is also an option.

Love from me, as always, Gayle
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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 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