I have a strong childhood memory of sitting in a chilly succah as rain plops into the rapidly cooling soup. It’s not an unhappy memory, mind you – but one that defines Succot in England for me. Succot as a time of hardiness against the chill.
However, it’s only in recent years that I have come to appreciate that there might be some advantages to Succot in a colder clime, compared to in Israel, or in balmier parts of the world.
That is because Succot is designed to expose us to our vulnerability. For one week we take away the illusion of safety and protection in our robust houses. We sit in what Rabbi Alan Lew calls “the interrupted idea of a house, a parody of a house”. With its roof showing the stars, and only two and a half walls required by Jewish law, the succah nods towards protection but then laughs in its face.
And yet, curiously, Succot is intended to be a festival of joy. “You shall rejoice on your festival and feel complete happiness,” says the Torah of Succot. How are we to understand the juxtaposition of vulnerability and joy?
One beautiful answer is that Succot is the completion of a psychodrama in our calendar which began, not just at Rosh Hashana, but back in July with Tishah b’Av. Tishah b’Av, the saddest day of the Jewish calendar, mourns the destruction of two Temples – and with them, two eras of thriving and independent Jewish life.
To put it slightly differently, at Tishah b’Av we mourned the loss of two secure and majestic houses. Metaphorically homeless and vulnerable, we crawled into Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, exposed and ready to bare our souls. We faced our mortality and somehow we emerged on the other side. Shaken, yet still here.
This is Succot. Building the parody house after the ultimate House has fallen. It is the realisation that everything can be questioned, or even lost altogether, and yet we can still be here. It is the knowledge that happiness can sometimes be greater outside the illusion of safety. That when we leave behind our brick and cement homes for the fresh autumn air of the succah, there can come a joy in – not despite of - the vulnerability.
Perhaps that’s why Rabbi Moshe Isserles, the great Rema, says that it is meritorious to start building the succah straight after Yom Kippur. Having experienced 25 hours of fasting and prayer, feeling as though our lives and futures are in the balance, the shofar sounds and we eat, drink and breathe a sigh of relief. We could so easily slip back into the old bolsters, padding and false certainty, but the succah forces us to stay exposed.
We live in a time where we can relate all too easily to shaken certainties. Certainties of safety in Israel and of safety in England have looked very different in the last few years. Succot is the festival which tells us that the response is not to build more fortified houses, but to accept and face up to the feelings of exposure.
Security is important – of course – but it’s also important to feel the vulnerability of this moment. For me, this looks like staying in the wider world, keeping our connections with non-Jewish friends, colleagues and organisations, and being honest about how we’re feeling.
Succot teaches us that rather than feel afraid, there can even be a sense of joy in the surrender. “OK,” we say, “this isn’t the world it used to be. But we’re going to live joyful Jewish lives anyway.” The Succot parallel is that it’s chilly and the rain is falling, but we come together with family and friends, put on coats and drink soup, and in some ways we feel more alive than if we were drinking the same soup in a cosy dining room.
It’s no coincidence that of the five Megillot, at Succot we read Kohelet, Ecclesiastes. I like to think of the author of Kohelet as an intelligent, questioning and nihilistic teenager, whose favourite sceptical line is “hakol hevel” – “everything is pointless” (or vanity or nothingness).
Kohelet sets out to find meaning in life, whether through acquiring great wisdom, or great wealth, or through hedonistic pleasures. Kohelet doesn’t shy away from the suffering in the world: “I saw all the oppression that is done under the sun. Look, the tears of the oppressed – they have no one to comfort them” (4:1). Nevertheless, his conclusion is surprisingly life-affirming: “The sum of the matter, when all is said and done: Revere God and observe His commandments, for this is the whole duty of humankind” (12:13).
This is Succot – not shying away from a difficult world. Not putting defences up against it. But finding joy in the vulnerability.
Rabbi Jonathan Wittenberg writes in his book The Eternal Journey: “It is at this time of year that I realise I am a Northern Jew, a Jew of deciduous lands. If someone were to tell me I would never again celebrate Succot among the chestnuts and the red and yellow leaves, I would mourn for the booth as, for me, it really ought to be.” I relate to this.
Sure, Succot in a hot country might be more relaxing. But Succot with fallen leaves all around, a chill in the air and raindrops in the soup brings us closer to its bittersweet intended meaning. Succot in England has my heart.
Miriam Lorie is rabbi at Kehillat Nashira, Borehamwood and Jofa UK rabbinic scholar
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