The Sukkah: The Shack as a Symbol of Strength

I was fortunate to spend a year of college in Israel, studying at the Hebrew University in Jerusalem. I have many wonderful recollections of that year, but there is one that always comes back to me during this season.

It was 1981, months before the final Israeli withdrawal from Sinai. When the university offered tours of the Sinai for visiting students, commencing the day after Simchat Torah, I knew that this was an opportunity that I could not let pass. I developed a great appreciation for the barren beauty of deserts that year and during subsequent trips to Israel, always enjoying the trips down the Arava Road to Eilat, or wandering in the Negev, around Be’er Sheva, Sde Boker, Arad, Avdat, and Mitzpe Ramon.

My trip along the eastern tier of the Sinai (what then remained under Israeli administration) introduced me to places that were mentioned in the Bible, like Hatzerot and Di-Zahab. There was so much to see and do in this desolate wasteland, but one memory remains vivid. It was during a visit to a Bedouin encampment in Hatzerot. There we were led into a structure for guests. I looked up and took note of the roof, offering more shade than sunlight but with the blue sky visible. As I had just celebrated Sukkot in Jerusalem the week before, I knew that I was now sitting in a sukkah just like those that our ancestors lived in as they made their 40-year trek from the slavery of Egypt to their promised homeland of Eretz Yisrael. I felt great excitement sitting in this sukkah in a place where our forebears had made similar sukkot over three thousand years earlier. Indeed, the sukkah is a durable symbol that reaches back to our earliest years as a people.

Rabbinic law goes into detail concerning the construction of the Sukkah, which may seem strange for a temporary structure intended to last only a week. But these laws are intended to guarantee one thing: that a kosher Sukkah is one that may be sturdy enough to withstand routine elements, but not solid as to be invulnerable to excessive conditions.

It may seem stranger to consider the use of the Sukkah as a metaphor. We find in our tradition a recurring reference to sukkat shalom, a shelter of peace. If the Sukkah is, at best, a temporary structure with a porous roof, should we not hope to find the shelter of peace described as a permanent structure, perhaps a binyan shalom?

Peace, by its very nature, is a fragile structure. It is always susceptible to collapse from strong winds, but it needs to be strong enough to withstand the day to day pressures that could bring down a weaker structure. Peace does not exist in fortresses where people live in isolation from others; nor does it flourish in closed quarters that allow no light to permeate its inner parts.

This metaphor has a place in the celebration of Sukkot. The Torah speaks of seventy sacrifices offered during the seven days of Sukkot; rabbinic tradition has it that each of those offerings corresponds to one of the seventy nations believed to exist in biblical times. These offerings were brought for the welfare of these peoples, even though their religions and cultures were anathema to the ways of the Jewish people. And still, each of these peoples, as part of the family of humankind, were peopled by those likewise created in the image of God, and still worthy of ritual offerings on their behalf.

Fragility is a theme of this holiday. It comes at the time when the cold winds start to blow, when in Eretz Yisrael the rains just start to come. It is a time of material uncertainty, a time when our future sustenance comes to question. Only days after standing in judgment for our lives before God, we stand again, now with palm, myrtle, willow, and etrog, pleading hosha’na! Save us! Give us, we pray, a year of sustenance. For those of us who live in urban society, we may fail to grasp the importance of this moment, but this holiday was fraught with meaning in agrarian Israel.

But as serious as this holiday is, it is celebrated with the greatest of joy. It is ironically known as z’man simchateinu, the time of our rejoicing. This sobriquet for the holiday is derived from Lev. 23:40: “you shall take [the four species] and rejoice before the Lord, your God, for seven days.” The Mishna speaks of the water drawing festival during Sukkot as a celebration unparalleled. “Whoever had not seen the water drawing celebration never witnessed a joyous celebration in his days,” says the Mishna (Sukkah 5:1.) If the focus of the holiday is the fragility and unpredictability of nature and human sustenance, doesn’t it seem ironic, even audacious, for such celebration?

Such juxtapositions are not uncommon in Judaism. Yom Kippur, with its themes of repentance and judgment, is not a morose day, but a day of joy, a celebration of both our capacity to seek forgiveness and to mend our ways, as well as a faith in a loving and forgiving God. Sukkot, with its overriding concern for continued sustenance, is celebrated with a joy that comes from a confidence of faith in God as provider. Prayer from a position of confidence, even at a moment of grave concern, is stronger than petition from despair and anguish, when one is most in need. But even more important is the rejoicing that is part of the obligation connected with the observance of the holiday, as if to say that we should not become overwhelmed by our concern over what the future might bring.

For now, we should sit back and enjoy our meals in the sukkah, with the hope that we will be strong enough to withstand the occasional winds that affect our lives.

Teshuvah, Tefillah, and Tzedakah: Alleviating the severity of the decree

The Supreme Court of the Universe has come to order. Its Sole Judge has taken His seat at the bench as court officers and officials flit about performing their tasks. There is much dread and anxiety as the shofar sounds to call everyone to silence, and the only voice that is heard is the still, small voice that obscures its tremendous power. The Judge sits and take account of all beings and all deeds, and sentence is passed on each and every defendant: who shall live, who shall die. Who shall prosper, and who shall suffer impoverishment. Who will be empowered, and who will suffer humiliation.

This is the scene described in Unetaneh Tokef, a highlight of the High Holiday liturgy traditionally recited before the Kedushah of Musaf. We may be familiar with the story that ascribes its authorship to a rabbi in Germany who suffered martyrdom about one thousand years ago and composed these words with his dying breaths on Rosh Hashannah. That story, however, may be a later attribution for a composition that may, in fact, be among the oldest of prayers in the Machzor.

The scene is one of fear and dread, leaving all silent and helpless before the Almighty Judge. But one line shatters this image, telling us that all is not lost. As guilty as we are, we are told that we have recourse; “Teshuvah, (repentance,) Tefillah, (prayer,) and Tzedakah, (acts of righteousness,) diminish the severity of the decree.” Of all things, why do these three acts matter? And how do we know that they make a difference?

A midrashic text may offer us an answer. Midrash is more than stories and parables; it attempts teach us any meaningful lesson that we can derive from Biblical texts, our holiest writings. The rabbis of the Midrash, often the same rabbis who are cited throughout the Talmud, need to justify their teachings through offering Biblical proof texts, verses that verify the validity of their interpretation. We are told that the proof text for this central assertion of Unetaneh Tokef comes from a verse in 2 Chronicles 7:14:

R. Yudan [said] in the name of R. Leazar:

Three things discharge the decree, and they are:

Tefillah, Tzedakah, and Teshuvah,

And these three are found together in a single verse:

“when My people… pray,” – this is tefillah

“seek My face,” – this refers to tzedakah, as it says:

“and I, with righteousness (tzedek) will grasp Your face,” (Ps 17:15)

“and turn from their evil ways,” – this is teshuvah-

then, “…I will forgive their sins…” (Midrash Bereshit Rabba 44.)

Careful readers of Unetaneh Tokef will likely stop and scratch their heads when they read this passage, because despite their similarities there are also some differences between them. And if we look for other versions of this midrash elsewhere in rabbinic literature, we will come up with a consistent conclusion, that Unetaneh Tokef departs from the midrash upon which it is most likely based. Is Unetaneh Tokef out to teach us something new and different?

The first thing we note is that there is a variation in the order of elements. The prooftext and the rabbinic texts place tefillah first, tzedakah second, and teshuvah third, while the author of Unetaneh Tokef places teshuvah before the other two. What can we make of this? Perhaps it makes sense to put teshuvah first because this is a poem intended for Rosh Hashannah, and repentance is foremost on one’s mind. But this variation in order teaches an important lesson as well. We find a progression that is significant, both to the time, and to the necessary ingredients for improving the personal encounter with the Divine. Teshuvah requires introspection, recognizing the imperfection of the self, the frailty of the human condition, and the admission of our faults before the Almighty. Next, tefillah opens up the lines of communication between the Jew and the Almighty that allows for the presence of God to be manifest to the individual and that allows the individual to become ever more present before God. Last, tzedakah advances the human – Divine encounter beyond the individual by making the human an agent of Godliness on earth and among His creations. By tzedakah we mean not just the simple act of dropping coins in a pushke or writing a check – these may be important aspects of tzedakah, but what is more important is how we act to bring about balance and harmony within creation. What we do to enable the hungry to eat, the homeless to live in safety and security, the jobless to stand on their own two feet, the captive to find freedom, the lost soul to find community, for us to share as custodians of creation by helping to heal its wounds and mend its rifts – this is tzedakah in its full sense. As we perform this role, we become almost indispensable to God and for His creation.

Thus, the verse can be understood as follows: God says, when His people engage in prayer, practice the ways of His presence (through tzedakah,) and turn away from wrongdoing (through teshuvah,) God will forgive. So we go from mending our own standing before God through teshuvah, to establishing a relationship with God through tefillah, and finally, to acting as an agent of God through tzedakah.

Unetaneh Tokef takes another subtle twist from the rabbinic sources cited earlier. Those texts speak of tefillah, tzedakah, and teshuvah as means for cancelling the decree. Unetaneh Tokef, however, states that teshuvah, tefillah, and tzedakah diminish the severity of the decree. Unetaneh Tokef grapples with the presence of evil and the challenge of how one perceives it. How can one understand divine forgiveness in light of the misfortune or suffering of a person who lives a blameless or righteous life? This question has plagued many a theologian from time immemorial, and we are not likely to answer it anytime soon. What we do know is that the perceptions of misfortune and suffering can make a difference in the way we act and react to its challenge. One who sanctifies the encounter with God through repentance, prayer, and righteousness likely responds to adversity with equanimity; while one who suffers and lives discordantly with misfortune may cause disquietude and wrongdoing as a result. Our perceptions of evil are sometimes the very causes of, or excuses for, evil; through teshuvah, tefillah, and tzedakah, we can mitigate the evil that comes into the world by rising above pain, misfortune, and misery.

In truth, we may be miniscule in the awesome picture we find in Unetaneh Tokef, but our acts and our attitudes can enable us to play a part in it as well.