Jewish tradition recognizes this feeling, and even offers a powerful response: the idea of spreading a tabernacle of peace.
Where does this idea come from? It appears in a seemingly simple, yet profoundly meaningful, line from the Tikkunei Zohar (106): "Blessed are You Y”Y, who spreads the tabernacle of peace."lxv
Now, you might be wondering, what exactly is a "tabernacle of peace?" Let's unpack that a bit.
First, the word "tabernacle." In Hebrew, we're talking about a sukkah, or a temporary dwelling. Think of the sukkah we build for the festival of Sukkot, a fragile, impermanent structure. But this isn't just any sukkah. It’s a sukkah of shalom – of peace. A sanctuary, however fleeting, dedicated to wholeness and harmony.
The Tikkunei Zohar, a central text of Kabbalah (Jewish mysticism), often delves into the hidden meanings of words and phrases. It suggests that this "tabernacle of peace" isn't just a physical structure. It’s something far more profound. It's about creating an atmosphere, a space – both within ourselves and in the world around us – where peace can dwell. Where shalom can take root and flourish.
So, who spreads this tabernacle? The text attributes it to God, referred to here as "Y”Y," a shortened form of the Divine Name. But here's the beautiful thing: we're invited to participate in this divine act. We, too, can become spreaders of the tabernacle of peace. How? Through our actions, our words, our intentions. Every act of kindness, every attempt to bridge divides, every moment of forgiveness... these are all threads that help weave this tabernacle.
Think about it. What does it mean to "spread" something? It implies movement, expansion. It suggests that peace isn't a static thing, but a dynamic force that needs to be actively cultivated and shared. We don’t just have peace; we spread it. We radiate it outward, creating ripples of harmony that touch others and, ultimately, the world.
But why a tabernacle of peace, specifically? Why not a fortress, or a palace? The choice of the word "tabernacle" is deliberate. It reminds us that peace is often fragile, vulnerable. It requires constant tending and protection. Like the sukkah, it's a reminder of our own impermanence, our own need for connection and community.
And maybe, just maybe, in actively participating in building this tabernacle of peace, we not only repair the world, but also repair ourselves. We become more whole, more connected, more truly human. We become partners with the Divine in bringing shalom to a world that so desperately needs it. It's a beautiful, powerful thought, isn't it?