The Hebrew month of Tishrei, as we all know, is jam-packed with holidays (thus creating the unique Israeli Delay Syndrome of “After the chagim!”). Along with the many mitzvot during this time are several beautiful customs that, while they are not technically required by Jewish law, nevertheless add a distinct mood and flavor to the period.
For example, there is the custom – possibly unique to Judaism – to seek out friends and neighbors prior to Yom Kippur and ask for their forgiveness for anything we might have done to slight or slander them in the year past. There is also the widespread wearing of white and immersing in a mikveh (ritual bath), connoting a sense of (desired) purity and humility in advance of our standing to be judged.
The special blessing given to our children just before the start of Yom Kippur accentuates our deepest desire to see the next generation imbued with our cherished ideals, so they can go on to someday pick up where we leave off. We also purport to invite mystical, biblical guests (Ushpizin) into our sukkah, heralding the importance of hachnasat orchim, the Abrahamic virtue of taking in guests to generously share our home and holiday tables.
But along with these meaningful customs are some, let us say, sketchy, or somewhat controversial “fringe” rituals that are the subject of much debate among the rabbis. One of these is tashlich, a kind of “virtual repentance” whereby we cast breadcrumbs into a body of water in a symbolic “throwing away” of our sins (never mind the fact that the fish may eat these “sins” and we may later eat those same fish).
There is also kapparot, another “virtual reality” event involving transferring our sins to a chicken, which is then slaughtered before us (and ideally given to a poor person for the pre-Yom Kippur meal). While politically correct society has condemned this rite as a form of animal cruelty – and replaced it with the waving of coins – it is still practiced in its original form in some circles and retains its stark message of the brevity of life and the urgency to utilize our time.
A third rather unusual practice, shrouded in Kabbalistic mysticism, is the taking of willow branches on Hoshana Raba, the seventh day of Sukkot, and beating them on the ground until the leaves fall off. (At a rabbinic conference, I once proposed that we combine these three “out there” rituals by taking a chicken, beating it against the ground, and then throwing it into the river. It is still under consideration.)
And then there is the sukkah, a biblically ordained commandment that takes up an entire week. Imagine the puzzled stares of onlookers in Flagstaff, Arizona, or Osaka, Japan, when they view these thatched huts popping up, with festive songs and tantalizing aromas emanating from them. They certainly would wonder why we Jews are moving out of our safe and secure homes and transferring to these “little grass shacks,” especially as the rainy season is set to begin.
So why do we do it? What is the message being sent by the sukkah?
The Talmud quotes two opinions on the matter. Rabbi Eliezer says that these booths are a reference to the miraculous “clouds of glory” with which God surrounded the Israelites throughout their 40-year sojourn in the desert after having left Egypt. These clouds protected the Israelites from the elements and the hot desert floor, kept their clothing clean, and guided the nation through the wilderness.
We can certainly relate to this. The terror and tragedy of the past year notwithstanding, there certainly has been a “protective shield” surrounding us of late, as we have withstood blistering barrages of deadly missiles, any one of which could have caused massive destruction. The enemy’s ineffectiveness is nothing short of a biblical-sized miracle, even with our brilliant, space-age defense network. So the sukkah is a reminder that as long as God guards us, we will be safe in any surroundings.
Rabbi Akiva has another opinion. He says that these “booths” refer to the actual huts that the Israelites built while in the desert, serving as their dwellings on the 40-year journey to Israel. I suggest that Rabbi Akiva is taking the miracle part out of the equation, to make a subtle but very crucial point – one that we can certainly appreciate on this Sukkot. Let me digress for a moment to explain.
The most intense moment of the entire year was when the kohen gadol (high priest) entered the Holy of Holies on Yom Kippur to pronounce God’s ineffable name and pray for the nation’s salvation. The Mishnah Yoma tells us that the rabbis cautioned him to keep his prayers short and concise (good advice at any time!); if he prayed too long, it would further strain the nerves of the nation anxiously awaiting forgiveness and could even result in his death.
What exactly was the supremely important plea to God that he uttered? One opinion is that he prayed that the sun should not be too strong, causing us discomfort, nor the rain too intense such that it harms the crops. Another opinion says that he asked that the roads from Jerusalem – which the pilgrims would use as they traveled to and from the Temple – not be covered in mud.
At first glance, these seem like petty petitions. The kohen gadol could have asked for “big” things – for mountains of gold, for eternal peace, for the ultimate redemption. But what he asked for is, in essence, what we all crave – the simple things that make our lives easier: normalcy, order, the ability to get through the day safely with a smile on our face.
The same Rabbi Akiva, in his famous comforting of the rabbis who wept upon seeing the Temple in ruins, quoted from the prophet Zechariah: “There will yet come a day when elderly men and women, canes in hand, will sit pleasantly in the streets of Jerusalem, and the streets of the city will be filled with children happily playing their games.” A walk in the park, kicking the football around – this was the dream of the future.
The message here, for us, is painfully obvious. After a year of national grief and worry, a year of continuous tragedies and trauma, what we really want – and need – is simply to live, without that daily “headline horror” that greets us as we open the newspaper or social media. We want to ask our kids, “What did you do in school today?”; our spouses, “Did you have a good day?” without sharing dreadful, demoralizing news.
The sukkah represents that simpler, gentler mood and mode that we all crave. No frills, no finances, no fancy dinner parties to obsess over. Just our closest family and friends huddled together in love, amid the beauty of nature. For nature is a constant; barring some meteorological aberration – like Hurricane Milton – nature goes about its business flawlessly, without fanfare. It represents a world that, in its pristine innocence, can be trusted and counted upon each and every day.
As my friend Rabbi Effie Kleinberg says, sometimes “calm,” “mundane,” and “boring” can be more satisfying than “sensational.” Somehow, that modest little sukkah manages to shrink our universe to just the right size.
Sukkot is followed immediately by Simchat Torah. My short prayer: May that day – now tainted by the pogrom of October 7 – be restored to one of unadulterated, pure joy for the Jewish people in a world that can finally be trusted.
The writer is director of the Jewish Outreach Center of Ra’anana. rabbistewart@gmail.com