Dear Friends,
One of the great paradoxes of Sukkot is that it is called z’man simchateinu—the time of our joy—yet the central commandment of the festival is to leave the safety of our secure, comfortable homes and dwell in fragile, temporary huts open to the elements. The sukkah, with its open roof and swaying walls, reminds us that life is uncertain. The Mishnah even teaches that the roof of a sukkah must allow us to see the stars at night and let the rain pour through during a storm as physical reminders that we are never as protected or in control as we might like to believe.
Yet we live in a world that tries to convince us otherwise. We build walls and systems to keep out the wind and rain, to manage risk, to control outcomes. We tell ourselves that with enough imagination and effort, we can bend reality to our will. As Ernest Becker notes in his book The Denial of Death, it’s a comforting illusion that helps us summon the courage to live fully, but it is an illusion nonetheless.
Each fall, Sukkot arrives to remind us that control is, ultimately, a mirage. Like our ancestors wandering through the wilderness, we are dependent on forces greater than ourselves—on nature, on one another, and on God.
And yet, even as we acknowledge that fragility, our tradition commands joy: V’samachta b’chagecha — “you shall rejoice in your festival.”
That’s the paradox.
We are not told to deny our vulnerability but to celebrate life despite it. The sukkah challenges us to sit beneath a roof that lets in the rain or the heat and still find gratitude for the blessings that surround us.
Over the past two years, many of us have felt more vulnerable than ever. The world feels fragile and broken. Our sense of security as Jews has been shaken as antisemitism once again spreads across the globe. And our hearts ache for those still in danger because of this war.
As Shabbat approaches and Jews everywhere pray for the safe return of the hostages still held in Gaza and for an end to this devastating war, I find myself living deeply inside Sukkot’s paradox—holding both concern and cautious hope. After two painful years, recent days have brought glimmers of movement, signs that nearly two dozen living hostages— and, heartbreakingly, many of the dead—may soon return home. But I am also a realist. I know how fragile hope can be. We have seen how quickly progress can stall and dreams can be dashed. And we are ever-aware that the return of the hostages and a ceasefire, when they come, will only mark the beginning of a long and difficult road toward, God willing, lasting peace.
Still, Sukkot calls us to hold both truths at once—the vulnerability and the joy, the fear and the faith. Perhaps that is what z’man simchateinu truly means: not joy born of comfort, but joy born of trust—trust that, even in uncertainty, when we stand together we can, as our ancestors once did in the wilderness, move forward.
This Shabbat, as we find ourselves in the midst of Sukkot and anxiously awaiting news from Israel, may we remember that even in the most fragile of worlds, joy remains possible. May that joy sustain us until every hostage returns home, and then drive us to work for a day when all who dwell in the land can sit together beneath one vast sukkah of peace.
Shabbat Shalom and Chag Sameach,
Rabbi Daniel M. Cohen