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Sermon Archive |
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Rabbi Sarah Wolf Ufros Aleinu Sukkat Sh’lomecha - Spread Over Us Your Shelter of Peace The Talmud tells us that as the sun set on the first Friday after the creation of the world, at the end of the first day of human life, Adam and Eve were struck with terror. “It is because I have sinned that the world around me is becoming dark” Adam cries. “The universe will now become void and without form again!” At the thought of creation itself being undone, he and Eve spend the whole night weeping (BT AZ 8a). Having never experienced the dark, Adam and Eve are understandably terrified. And it is clear that to the writers of this story, the night was an especially dangerous time. Even sleep was a cause for fear. Our Sages considered sleep to be one-sixtieth of death, recognizing the anxiety inherent in slipping into unconsciousness, not knowing for sure that we will wake up, nor what exactly we will be waking up to in the morning. It is no wonder, then, that our ancestors composed a prayer for protection during the nighttime. This blessing is the Hashkiveinu, the second blessing after the Shema that is only recited in the evening. You can find it in your prayer books on page 28 if you’d like to take a look. In it we pray, “Lie us down to peace, Adonai our God, and raise us up to life, our King. Spread over us the shelter of Your peace.” The Hashkiveinu may have originally taken the place of the Amidah during the evening service because it was seen as the most vital petition one could make as the night approached. The original text of the blessing includes a list of possible threats from which Jews in the ancient world saw themselves in need of protection: enemies, plagues, the sword, and famine. It is a list that exposes a sense of powerlessness. At the mercy of other and often hostile nations, Jews were in an especially vulnerable position. The darkness, especially, hid danger, from robbers to wild animals. The potential for violence or deprivation must never have been far from their minds. In reaction to this vulnerability, the blessing’s authors call on God to spread out a sukkah of peace over us all and to hide us in the shadow of God’s wings, shielding us from all the evils of the world. Today, we may not experience night as such a frightening occurrence. In general, American Jews are safe; we are not a persecuted, powerless minority the same way our ancestors were. And like others in this country, we can stave off the darkness with electricity and protect our households with deadbolts and alarm systems. Yet there are still those among us who do not lie down in peace, but instead lie awake at night in fear. As for Adam and Eve, the end of the day brings with it the potential for destruction. For far too many people, there are still real dangers lurking in the darkness, even in the presumed safety of our homes. In an adaptation of the Hashkiveinu, Rabbi Cindy Enger writes,
For victims of domestic violence, the home is not a shelter of peace. It is estimated that a shocking 20 to 30 percent of women will be the victims of domestic abuse at some point in their lives. These numbers hold true for same-sex and opposite-sex relationships, and across different ages, races, socioeconomic classes, and religions. Yet for a long time, the Jewish community has remained silent about the issue, pretending that we are immune. We tell ourselves that Jews just don’t abuse their spouses, just like we don’t have problems with alcoholism or drug abuse or mental illness. Stereotypes like the overbearing Jewish woman and the meek Jewish man serve to perpetuate the notion that domestic violence couldn’t possibly happen in our community. And the traditional Jewish value of Sh’lom Bayit, peace in the home, has long been seen as the woman’s responsibility, so women feel the pressure of keeping up the appearance of a peaceful home. Susan, a victim of domestic abuse, told her story at her synagogue in North Carolina after decades of silence. She explains it this way: “Women stay in and participate in abusive situations because we spend so much of the first years trying to work harder, faster, smarter to become the wife he wants. We are fixers and pleasers - it's our job...and we are good at it! We can walk on egg shells and never make a sound. We teach kids to play quietly when Daddy comes home.” The Jewish community reinforces the silence. As Susan notes, “What goes on in your house does not make for lively chitchat around the mahjong table or at the Sisterhood luncheon. So you hide it.” And even once the community finds out the truth, they may not respond in a compassionate way. Once Susan left her husband, she says, “I was not embraced by the Jewish community. I no longer fit the profile. My presence threatened their illusions. Domestic violence was not part of an acceptable Jewish identity....” For women like Susan, home and synagogue, two places which should be sources of comfort and security, are the very places in which they suffer the most shame and the most hurt. The Hashkiveinu prayer is not just a powerful plea for safety and protection. It is also a model for how we can combat the silent threat of domestic abuse. “Look out for us,” we pray, “keep enemies, plagues, swords, famines, and troubles from our midst, and remove Satan from in front of us and from behind us.” Enemies, plagues, swords, even Satan. In order to protect ourselves from these perils, we begin by naming them. Victims of abuse are often too afraid or too ashamed to ask for help. By naming the threat, by speaking out about domestic abuse in our community, we can begin to create the kind of atmosphere in which those who are in desperate need of aid can receive it. On this Shabbat, as we near the end of Domestic Violence Awareness Month, we join with synagogues across the Bay Area along with Shalom Bayit, an organization that helps victims of domestic abuse, and break the silence. We pray that those who are suffering from domestic abuse seek help, from trusted friends or family, clergy or fellow congregants, or organizations like Shalom Bayit. Susan, the woman who told her story years after her abuse, reminds us of the power of our congregation, both to hurt but also to heal. “These are the steps to healing” she says. “We must name it, we must tell the truth, and we must let this community surrounding us become for us a healing community.... We need our faith institutions to embrace us in safety. It is only thus that our open wounds will begin to feel the precious balm of healing.” Ufros aleinu sukkat shlomecha. Spread over us the shelter of Your peace, O God. And let our synagogue be a sanctuary in the fullest sense of the word. |
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