(ט) כָּל שִׁבְעַת הַיָּמִים אָדָם עוֹשֶׂה סֻכָּתוֹ קֶבַע וּבֵיתוֹ עֲרַאי. יָרְדוּ גְשָׁמִים, מֵאֵימָתַי מֻתָּר לְפַנּוֹת, מִשֶּׁתִּסְרַח הַמִּקְפָּה. מָשְׁלוּ מָשָׁל, לְמָה הַדָּבָר דּוֹמֶה, לְעֶבֶד שֶׁבָּא לִמְזוֹג כּוֹס לְרַבּוֹ, וְשָׁפַךְ לוֹ קִיתוֹן עַל פָּנָיו:
(9)All seven days of Sukkot, a person renders his sukka his permanent residence and his house his temporary residence. If rain fell, from when is it permitted to vacate the sukka? It is permitted from the point that it is raining so hard that the congealed dish will spoil. The Sages told a parable: To what is this matter comparable? It is comparable to a servant who comes to pour wine for his master, and he pours a jug [kiton] of water in his face to show him that his presence is not desired. So too, in the sukka, rain is an indication that the Holy One, Blessed be He, does not want the person to fulfill the mitzva of sukka.
Rabbi Morey Schwartz, What Rain in the Sukkah Can Teach Us About Resilliancehttps://forward.com/opinion/475684/what-rain-in-the-sukkah-can-teach-us-about-resilience/
Ritva articulates that it is not the leaving itself that is under discussion; rather, it is leaving the sukkah too hastily — returning to our homes at the first sign of rain, that is being censured.
The Mishnah positions those who flee too quickly from the mild discomfort of the sukkah as ungrateful servants who have come to serve the master but have quickly grown impatient, angry and resentful at the first sign of discomfort, splashing the wine from the wine ladle into the face the master, as if to exclaim dramatically —“fine, if you don’t appreciate my service, then I am out of here.”
Not to be taken literally, then, this Mishnah teaches us that to depart from the sukkah at the first sign of small discomfort, before the rain has become truly impossible to bear, insults the Creator who invited us to leave our homes and to dwell in the sukkah — outside, amidst nature, away from the creature comforts of our everyday lives.
It would seem that Ritva is recommending we display a bit of patience along with our devoted dedication, maintaining our faith even when things do not go as smoothly as expected. In doing so, we demonstrate to God that we’re not going to bolt the very second things become uncomfortable.
Ritva articulates that it is not the leaving itself that is under discussion; rather, it is leaving the sukkah too hastily — returning to our homes at the first sign of rain, that is being censured.
The Mishnah positions those who flee too quickly from the mild discomfort of the sukkah as ungrateful servants who have come to serve the master but have quickly grown impatient, angry and resentful at the first sign of discomfort, splashing the wine from the wine ladle into the face the master, as if to exclaim dramatically —“fine, if you don’t appreciate my service, then I am out of here.”
Not to be taken literally, then, this Mishnah teaches us that to depart from the sukkah at the first sign of small discomfort, before the rain has become truly impossible to bear, insults the Creator who invited us to leave our homes and to dwell in the sukkah — outside, amidst nature, away from the creature comforts of our everyday lives.
It would seem that Ritva is recommending we display a bit of patience along with our devoted dedication, maintaining our faith even when things do not go as smoothly as expected. In doing so, we demonstrate to God that we’re not going to bolt the very second things become uncomfortable.
Alan Lew, This is Real and You Are Completely Unprepared
And it exposes the idea of a house as an illusion. The idea of a house is that it gives us security, shelter, haven from the storm. But no house can really offer us this. No building of wood and stone can ever afford us protection from the disorder that is always lurking all around us. No shell we put between us and the world can ever really keep us secure from it. And we know this. We never really believed in this illusion.
And it exposes the idea of a house as an illusion. The idea of a house is that it gives us security, shelter, haven from the storm. But no house can really offer us this. No building of wood and stone can ever afford us protection from the disorder that is always lurking all around us. No shell we put between us and the world can ever really keep us secure from it. And we know this. We never really believed in this illusion.
(א) דִּבְרֵי֙ קֹהֶ֣לֶת בֶּן־דָּוִ֔ד מֶ֖לֶךְ בִּירוּשָׁלָֽ͏ִם׃ (ב) הֲבֵ֤ל הֲבָלִים֙ אָמַ֣ר קֹהֶ֔לֶת הֲבֵ֥ל הֲבָלִ֖ים הַכֹּ֥ל הָֽבֶל׃ (ג) מַה־יִּתְר֖וֹן לָֽאָדָ֑ם בְּכׇ֨ל־עֲמָל֔וֹ שֶֽׁיַּעֲמֹ֖ל תַּ֥חַת הַשָּֽׁמֶשׁ׃ (ד) דּ֤וֹר הֹלֵךְ֙ וְד֣וֹר בָּ֔א וְהָאָ֖רֶץ לְעוֹלָ֥ם עֹמָֽדֶת׃
(1) The words of Koheleth son of David, king in Jerusalem.
(2) Utter futility!—said Koheleth—Utter futility! All is futile!(3) What real value is there for a manIn all the gains he makes beneath the sun?
(4) One generation goes, another comes,But the earth remains the same forever.
Yair Rosenberghttps://newsletters.theatlantic.com/deep-shtetl/651c6e56acb9ac00375a138a/sukkot-meaning-teachers/?ref=deep-shtetl-newsletter
The thin line between flourishing and failure is also a theme of the holiday’s scripture. In synagogue, Jews traditionally read the biblical book of Ecclesiastes, a ponderous and often pessimistic tract that opens with the famous words: “Futility of futilities, everything is futile.” But the original Hebrew holds a secret that is not readily apparent in translation. The Hebrew word for “futility” is havel or הבל. The word for “everything” is hakol or הכל. As you can see from the lettering, the difference between the two words is a single stroke of the scribe’s pen. That’s all it takes to turn “everything” into nothing, utility into futility. Observing this point, the Oxford scholar John Jarick wrote, “we might say that [Ecclesiastes] has crafted the most compact form of parallelism to be found in the Hebrew Bible.” It is as though the biblical author wanted to illustrate how the slightest shift in a life story can completely change its contents.
...
Perhaps this is why Sukkot comes after the Jewish holidays of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. Those two solemn occasions, observed within the solid four walls of the synagogue, emphasize God’s judgment of human affairs. But the fostered fragility of Sukkot reminds us to temper our judgment of one another, and to understand that our fortunes and misfortunes are not entirely of our own making. When we see others struggling or suffering—whether here in the United States or outside it—we are meant to remember that “I could be you and you could be me,” and that we all have the power to change another person’s circumstances, to turn their havel into hakol.
The thin line between flourishing and failure is also a theme of the holiday’s scripture. In synagogue, Jews traditionally read the biblical book of Ecclesiastes, a ponderous and often pessimistic tract that opens with the famous words: “Futility of futilities, everything is futile.” But the original Hebrew holds a secret that is not readily apparent in translation. The Hebrew word for “futility” is havel or הבל. The word for “everything” is hakol or הכל. As you can see from the lettering, the difference between the two words is a single stroke of the scribe’s pen. That’s all it takes to turn “everything” into nothing, utility into futility. Observing this point, the Oxford scholar John Jarick wrote, “we might say that [Ecclesiastes] has crafted the most compact form of parallelism to be found in the Hebrew Bible.” It is as though the biblical author wanted to illustrate how the slightest shift in a life story can completely change its contents.
...
Perhaps this is why Sukkot comes after the Jewish holidays of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. Those two solemn occasions, observed within the solid four walls of the synagogue, emphasize God’s judgment of human affairs. But the fostered fragility of Sukkot reminds us to temper our judgment of one another, and to understand that our fortunes and misfortunes are not entirely of our own making. When we see others struggling or suffering—whether here in the United States or outside it—we are meant to remember that “I could be you and you could be me,” and that we all have the power to change another person’s circumstances, to turn their havel into hakol.
Rabbi Sari Laufer, Wood, Wire, and Nails, Kol Nidre 5783
V’samachta b’chagecha…v’hayita ach sameach. These words, from the Book of Leviticus, close out the instructions for the celebration of Sukkot. You shall rejoice in your festivals, and you shall be—ach sameach. It’s usually translated as “nothing but happy” but let me suggest another possibility. Ach can also mean but, it can mean despite it all. Ach might be--I am happy in this hyper present. In this moment.
I am happy despite my pain, I am laughing with my tears, I am celebrating within my sorrow.
It feels almost too simple. Faced with the existential pain of Yom Kippur, faced with our own suffering, our own losses and despairs, and brokenness--you are telling me that our grand tradition says go outside in a hut and be happy? How can that be the answer to someone in deep darkness?
Because the command to be “ach--only? Even? But? sameach, appears only during Sukkot. THAT is the wisdom. Not Passover, when we are gathered around a table with friends and family. Not Shavuot, when we stand together to receive Torah. Not Rosh HaShanah, the birthday of the world. No, the command is given on Sukkot, when we are sitting there, exposed, out in the open. It seems no coincidence that we must be able to be joyful—that we are obligated—to be joyful, when the rain is falling or the sun is pounding, when we are at our most vulnerable, when the very structure surrounding us could collapse. Will collapse.
V’samachta b’chagecha…v’hayita ach sameach. These words, from the Book of Leviticus, close out the instructions for the celebration of Sukkot. You shall rejoice in your festivals, and you shall be—ach sameach. It’s usually translated as “nothing but happy” but let me suggest another possibility. Ach can also mean but, it can mean despite it all. Ach might be--I am happy in this hyper present. In this moment.
I am happy despite my pain, I am laughing with my tears, I am celebrating within my sorrow.
It feels almost too simple. Faced with the existential pain of Yom Kippur, faced with our own suffering, our own losses and despairs, and brokenness--you are telling me that our grand tradition says go outside in a hut and be happy? How can that be the answer to someone in deep darkness?
Because the command to be “ach--only? Even? But? sameach, appears only during Sukkot. THAT is the wisdom. Not Passover, when we are gathered around a table with friends and family. Not Shavuot, when we stand together to receive Torah. Not Rosh HaShanah, the birthday of the world. No, the command is given on Sukkot, when we are sitting there, exposed, out in the open. It seems no coincidence that we must be able to be joyful—that we are obligated—to be joyful, when the rain is falling or the sun is pounding, when we are at our most vulnerable, when the very structure surrounding us could collapse. Will collapse.
Rabbi Nina Beth Cardin, The Tapestry of Jewish Time
Most days of our lives we find a measure of security in our walls and our bricks and our boundaries. "Good fences make good neighbors." And that security -- as God learned in the desert -- is essential to our well-being. And yet, there are times when our ordinary world meets extraordinary challenges, when our boundaries are penetrated and our fences fall. What then? What will comfort us in the presence of dangers that walls cannot repel: the dread of illness and loss, the pain of shame and uncertainty, the shadow of hopelessness or despair, the fear of failure, the struggles with aging?
Most days of our lives we find a measure of security in our walls and our bricks and our boundaries. "Good fences make good neighbors." And that security -- as God learned in the desert -- is essential to our well-being. And yet, there are times when our ordinary world meets extraordinary challenges, when our boundaries are penetrated and our fences fall. What then? What will comfort us in the presence of dangers that walls cannot repel: the dread of illness and loss, the pain of shame and uncertainty, the shadow of hopelessness or despair, the fear of failure, the struggles with aging?
Sukkot reminds us that the ultimate security is found not within the walls of our home but in the presence of God and one another. Indeed, there is a midrash that says that sukkot are not buildings at all but the glory of God. This holiday helps us understand that sometimes the walls we build to protect us serve instead to divide us, cut us off, lock us in. The walls of our sukkot may make us vulnerable, but they make us available too.