In the Zohar, sitting in the sukkah is likened to sitting in the “shadow” or “shade” “of faith”—tzila di-meheminuta. Faith is usually imagined as a state of being that is personal, even one that is inherently internal; we usually experience and talk about faith as something that exists within us. But according to the Zohar, by sitting in the sukkah, we surround ourselves with faith. In presenting the sukkah as “the shadow of faith,” the Zohar is playing on an aspect of the ritual that appears already in the Talmud (Sukkah 11b). The Talmud makes a connection between contemporary sukkot and the booths in which the Israelites resided while wandering the desert, which Rabbi Eliezer claims were not physical structures but divine “clouds of glory.”  When cast in this light, the sukkah becomes a place of faith precisely because of its impermanence: stepping out of our comfort zone, putting ourselves in a liminal space like a temporary booth, prompts us to be faithful, as we reflect more on our reliance on God’s protection.

The Zohar and the ensuing Jewish mystical tradition continue to transform the sukkah into a place of faith through the ritual of ushpizin, Aramaic for “guests.” On every evening of the holiday, a different figure from the Jewish past is ritually invited to join those sitting in the sukkah. Originally, this meant the forefathers. But over time, Jews have added additional guests, including women and figures from more recent memory.

The Zohar argues for the importance of bringing in these heavenly guests by pointing to the repetition of the commandment to sit in the sukkah in Leviticus 23:42, “בַּסֻּכֹּת תֵּשְׁבוּ שִׁבְעַת יָמִים כׇּל־הָאֶזְרָח בְּיִשְׂרָאֵל יֵשְׁבוּ בַּסֻּכֹּת”; “You shall live in booths seven days; all citizens in Israel shall live in booths.” Rabbi Aba explains this repetition as follows:

-וְאָמַר רִבִּי אַבָּא, כְּתִיב ׳בַּסֻּכּוֹת תֵּשְׁבוּ שִׁבְעַת יָמִים׳, וּלְבָתַר ׳יֵשְׁבוּ בַּסֻּכּוֹת׳

.בְּקַדְמִיתָא תֵּשְׁבוּ, וּלְבָתַר יֵשְׁבוּ

.אֶלָּא, קַדְמָאָה לְאוּשְׁפִּיזֵי; תִּנְיָינָא, לִבְנֵי עָלְמָא

R. Abba said, “It states, ‘You shall live in booths seven days,’ and then ‘shall live in booths’—first you shall dwell and then they shall dwell. The first refers to the guests, and the second, to people of the world.”

Before one enters the sukkah, one must bring in the heavenly guests, and this ritual models for us the importance of bringing in earthly guests. What makes the sukkah a place of faith is not only that being outside makes us reflect more on our reliance on God. Rather, the Zohar teaches that when we force ourselves into these places of discomfort, into liminal spaces that are neither fully inside nor fully outside, we can actually encounter the divine—so long as we invite others to join us. Thus, it is by creating community that the sukkah becomes a site of holiness.

But what is holy about being somewhat outside, and somewhat inside? Why do we got into a hut in order to learn this lesson? Can’t we just invite the heavenly—and earthly—guests into our dining room? These questions feel especially acute here in New York City, when going into the sukkah often means being closer to the streets and to the alleys, places we may not normally find ourselves—places that we may associate with the unhoused, or with people who are otherwise on the margins of our society.

By forcing us into a liminal space, the sukkah thus bring us to a place of empathy. We cannot have a truly holy community without also thinking of those who live with impermanence year-round. Going out into the sukkah, dwelling both in and on impermanence, should be an opportunity for us to think about those in the liminal places of our society, who regularly deal with the issue of what the roof over their heads will look like.

After the intensity and spiritual highs of Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur, it is enticing to withdraw during the fall and winter. Yet Sukkot comes to remind us that our community’s work is far from over.

The publication and distribution of the 91�첥 Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l). 

When confronted with challenges I ask: When did this last happen? What did people do then, and what could we learn from it? We ask this in the Division of Religious Leadership and in the Hendel Center for Ethics and Justice. We stand on the shoulders of those who did our jobs before us. They spotted trends, observed demographic shifts, and responded to the times in light of the past. Were those times so different from ours? I suspect the details are different, but the underlying melody is often the same.

History frequently feels like it follows the swing of a pendulum. We go to an extreme, and just when we think we have witnessed or participated in enormous change, the pendulum starts swinging the other way.

There is nothing new under the sun. וְאֵ֥ין כׇּל־חָדָ֖שׁ תַּ֥חַת הַשָּֽׁמֶשׁ׃

This is true in rabbinical and cantorial education.

It is true in multifaith and justice work.

It is true in war and peace.

It is true about race relations in the US.

It is true about women’s rights in the US.

As our colleague Hazzan Natasha Hirschhorn says, these times are unprecedented, here we go again.

The Broadway musical Suffs, about the suffragists who worked for women in the US to have the right to vote, is an interesting juxtaposition to Kohelet. The main character, Alice Paul, sings about a march she is imagining into reality in Washington, DC, right before President Wilson’s inauguration. She sings, “How do we do what’s never been done, how will we find a way, find a way?”

On the one hand, marches were not a new invention. On the other, the right size, scale, and timing for the march was essential. It was titration. They needed the right formula.

In the show, women try different strategies to achieve the vote. Some suppressed their inner rage and made themselves palatable for the men in power. Others took to the streets, understanding that no amount of self-contortion would move the men to share power. They acted radically and did not conform. Some tried to minimize the size of the request and ask women of color to wait their turn. Others said we all get the vote, or nobody does.

Though they took different positions, the women could all feel they played a role in achieving the amendment granting women the right to vote. It was probably a combination of the harsh and the gentle tactics. Each person had to figure out which role they could best play, but they were all necessary.

In the seasons of our own lives, we feel pulled toward some types of work rather than others. During my career there were periods when I felt called to multifaith work. I worked at a Presbyterian seminary, Auburn Theological Seminary, during rabbinical school. I felt we could be better Jews if we were in close relationship with people who worshiped and believed differently from us. It helped give me perspective and appreciation for my own tradition. 

Then I had a period of justice work primarily in the Jewish community. Expanding our practice to include justice work as a religious expression on par with other halakhic obligations felt essential. I came to 91�첥 for that reason: to help shape us for this moment of justice work in the world, as observant Jews.

Suddenly, or not suddenly—a war in Israel and Gaza has interrupted everything else. 

Does the wisdom of Kohelet speak to us today? Kohelet teaches that there is a time for fighting and a time for peacemaking. Thematically, reading Kohelet on Sukkot, when things are fragile, can remind us that however we feel now will not be permanent. The time for whatever we are doing now will pass. We will have to “find a way, find a way,” in the words of Alice Paul.

לַכֹּ֖ל זְמָ֑ן וְעֵ֥ת לְכׇל־חֵ֖פֶץ תַּ֥חַת הַשָּׁמָֽיִם׃ {ס}        

עֵ֥ת לָלֶ֖דֶת        וְעֵ֣ת לָמ֑וּת        עֵ֣ת לָטַ֔עַת        וְעֵ֖ת לַעֲק֥וֹר נָטֽוּעַ׃        

עֵ֤ת לַהֲרוֹג֙        וְעֵ֣ת לִרְפּ֔וֹא        עֵ֥ת לִפְר֖וֹץ        וְעֵ֥ת לִבְנֽוֹת׃        

עֵ֤ת לִבְכּוֹת֙        וְעֵ֣ת לִשְׂח֔וֹק        עֵ֥ת סְפ֖וֹד        וְעֵ֥ת רְקֽוֹד׃        

עֵ֚ת לְהַשְׁלִ֣יךְ אֲבָנִ֔ים        וְעֵ֖ת כְּנ֣וֹס אֲבָנִ֑ים        עֵ֣ת לַחֲב֔וֹק        וְעֵ֖ת לִרְחֹ֥ק מֵחַבֵּֽק׃        

עֵ֤ת לְבַקֵּשׁ֙        וְעֵ֣ת לְאַבֵּ֔ד        עֵ֥ת לִשְׁמ֖וֹר        וְעֵ֥ת לְהַשְׁלִֽיךְ׃        

עֵ֤ת לִקְר֙וֹעַ֙        וְעֵ֣ת לִתְפּ֔וֹר        עֵ֥ת לַחֲשׁ֖וֹת        וְעֵ֥ת לְדַבֵּֽר׃        

עֵ֤ת לֶֽאֱהֹב֙        וְעֵ֣ת לִשְׂנֹ֔א        עֵ֥ת מִלְחָמָ֖ה        וְעֵ֥ת שָׁלֽוֹם׃ {ס}   

A season is set for everything, a time for every experience under heaven: A time for being born and a time for dying, A time for planting and a time for uprooting the planted; A time for slaying and a time for healing, A time for tearing down and a time for building up; A time for weeping and a time for laughing, A time for wailing and a time for dancing; A time for throwing stones and a time for gathering stones, A time for embracing and a time for shunning embraces; A time for seeking and a time for losing, A time for keeping and a time for discarding; A time for ripping and a time for sewing, A time for silence and a time for speaking; A time for loving and a time for hating; A time for war and a time for peace. (3:1-8)

To my surprise this has again seemed like a time for multifaith work. The Jewish people alone are small and insignificant in number compared to the number of people in the world. Perhaps this is the time to be catalyzers of coming together.

This moment is calling me to try to warm up relationships across faith lines. It is inspiring me to seek out colleagues in the seminaries and schools with which we share Morningside Heights. Covid and then the start of the war chilled old relationships. People changed jobs. Suddenly it felt like we didn’t have people to call on at the precise moment when we needed each other.

In Jewish tradition, reaching back to the Kabbalists in the 16th century we have had the custom to invite people into our sukkah as guests, ushpizin in Aramaic. This year, the ushpizin we are inviting to the 91�첥 sukkah are multifaith and civic leaders. We are reaching out and connecting. This past year (and its many curses) was filled with small and large acts of protest, fighting, and aggression. The war has not ended. Most people have changed some. For many of us, we have done it in isolation from our multifaith partners. All of us who are alive are wounded in some way. We are ready to reassess our tools and choose a different one than we have been using recently. But which one? The one I am grasping is reaching across the streets and welcoming people into our temporary dwelling. Looking for ways to mend or build relationships. We are not pretending this is a blank slate. We are saying that being together and creating new bonds is essential to building peace.

There is truly nothing new under the sun. Since Abraham, Jews have been welcoming strangers into their tents, practicing the mitzvah of hakhnasat orhim. Now is the time for each of us to take a step and reach out, particularly if we are nervous about doing so.

Having just marked the first anniversary of October 7 and now approaching Shemini Atzeret and Simhat Torah, there is much to despair. We never thought we would reach this terrible anniversary.

And so, like the characters in Suffs, we continue working on the same issues as our predecessors; we extend them grace for the paths they took, and we note that our children and grandchildren will scrutinize how we managed and judge us, and then pick up the mantle and lead.

This is a time to look deeply at our history and determine which of the tools our people have used throughout our history might suit today’s world.

Whichever tool you think it is now time to pick up, please do not tarry. As we learn from the writer Grace Paley, “The only recognizable feature of hope is action.”

The publication and distribution of the 91�첥 Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l). 

Part of Between the Lines: Author Conversations from The Library of 91�첥

������Qohelet: Searching for a Life Worth Living, philosopher Menachem Fisch and artist Debra Band together probe the biblical thinker’s inquiry into the value of life “under the sun.” In this first illuminated manuscript of this text and the first philosophical analysis tracing the coherent path of Qohelet’s full argument, Fisch uncovers Qohelet’s twin concerns: life is short, and situated as we are far below the heavens, we can never be assured of comprehending our world, nor understanding divine will and intent. In her 60 immersive and discursive illuminated paintings of the entire text, each accompanied by explanatory commentary, Band incorporates Fisch’s understanding of the text, employing the grandest of palaces, the Alhambra, as a central metaphor for the beauty and impermanence of human life and accomplishments. She fills its halls with often surprising imagery, symbolism and related poetry creating a visual midrash that relates Qohelet not only to biblical text and Jewish lore but also reveals its reverberations across Western civilization.

ABOUT THE AUTHORS

Menachem Fisch is Joseph and Ceil Mazer Professor Emeritus of History and Philosophy of Science at Tel Aviv University, TAU codirector of the Frankfurt-Tel Aviv Center for Religious and Interreligious Studies, and senior fellow of the Goethe University Frankfurt’s Forschungskolleg Humanwissenchaften. He is author ofThe View from Within: Normativity and the Limits of Self-Criticism(with Y. Benbaji, Notre Dame, 2011),Creatively Undecided: Toward a History and Philosophy of Scientific Agency(Chicago, 2017), andCovenant of Confrontation: A Study of Non-Submissive Religiosity in Rabbinic Literature(Bar-Ilan, 2019).

Debra Band draws upon her love of both the manuscript arts and the Jewish textual tradition in her acclaimed illuminated manuscripts. She is the author and illuminator ofThe Song of Songs: The Honeybee in the Garden(JPS, 2005),I Will Wake the Dawn: Illuminated Psalms(with Arnold J. Band, JPS, 2007), Arise! Arise! Deborah, Ruth and Hannah (with Arnold J. Band, Honeybee in the Garden, 2012), andKabbalat Shabbat: The Grand Unification(with Raymond P. Scheindlin, Honeybee in the Garden, 2016), among other works. Her paintings have been widely exhibited across the United States and Canada. She resides in Potomac, Maryland, with her husband, Michael Diamond, MD, and menagerie.

Just a few weeks ago we read Parashat Vayeilekh, which includes Moses’s command that the Torah be read publicly on Sukkot every seven years:

And Moses instructed them as follows: Every seventh year, the year set for remission, at the Feast of Booths, when all Israel comes to appear before the LORD your God in the place that He will choose, you shall read this Teaching aloud in the presence of all Israel.

Deut. 31:10–11

The ceremony is known by term hakhel (gathering), based on the first word of the verse that follows: “hakhel et ha’am,” “Gather the people—men, women, children, and the strangers in your communities—that they may hear and so learn to revere the LORD your God and to observe faithfully every word of this Teaching” (31:12)

Why does this gathering take place on Sukkot?

According to the biblical scholar Marc Brettler, it is likely that in agriculturally-oriented ancient Israel, Sukkot, not Rosh Hashanah, was the new year festival. Celebrated at the end of the harvest season, it marked the end of one year and the beginning of another. Sukkot was the time when everyone could finally rest after months of hard work. It was thus an appropriate time for this kind of large-scale ritual to take place. And since logistically it would be impossible to gather all members of the community annually, it was instructed to happen once every seven years.[1]

What happens at the Hakhel? The verse says that B’nai Yisrael must gather “so that they may hear, and so learn to revere the LORD your God and to observe faithfully every word of this Teaching” (31:12). Maimonides understands this as a kind of reenactment of the revelation at Sinai (Hilkhot Hagigah 3:6). The only other place in the Tanakh where the phrase “hakhel et ha’am” is used is earlier in Deuteronomy when Moses recounts God commanding him to gather the nation at Sinai.

In this sense, the Hakhel allows future generations to feel the sense of awe and wonder that was present at Sinai. Experiencing the sheer enormity of a gathering where all of Israel would be joined in common purpose would generate a powerful affective response. This sense of awe is furthered by what the Rabbis and commentators understood as the king’s unique role in the ceremony (Sotah 41a). Because the Torah was usually read to the public by the kohen gadol, a prophet or a judge, the king’s presence adds an element of surprise (Abarbanel 31:12).

The integral reason for the Hakhel is that it enables Israel to reconnect with God and renew their relationship with the covenant. Regardless of how powerful the original revelation at Sinai was, we need to be constantly reminded of it. And no one is exempt. According to Maimonides, “Even great Sages who know the entire Torah are obligated to listen with exceedingly great concentration” (Hilkhot Hagigah 3:6). The ritual thus unifies Israel in shared purpose and moral obligation.

The Hakhel is also an occasion to draw attention to the covenant. According to Sefer Hahinukh, when everyone congregates at one time, it inspires people to ask, “What is the reason that everyone is gathering together?” (612). The questions provide an occasion to “praise the Torah and to speak of its value,” to ignite a desire to know God and learn Torah. Gathering can amplify a message by creating a sense of curiosity and wonder.

While we of course do not convene the Hakhel in this way today, many Jewish communities, most prominently Chabad, have creatively thought of ways to revive the concept.[2]  Yet there are still other ways we can come together with a sense of shared purpose.

Why do we join public demonstrations? Why does even the sight of large-scale collective action provoke an emotional response? As we learn from our commentators’ views on the Hakhel, it’s because it produces a feeling of awe, of being part of something larger than ourselves, and can create a sense of solidarity without regard for distinctions of age, intelligence, or wealth. It is a moment when instead of feeling powerless to change, we can see that we are not alone in our struggles. We can feel strength and confidence in numbers. And in our “blink and you missed it” world, it allows us to draw attention to the causes and issues that are important in our lives.[3]

As the sociologist and journalist Zeynep Tufekci has written, “Collective action is a life-changing experience. To be in a sea of people demanding positive social change is empowering and exhilarating. Protests work because they sustain movements over the long term as participants bond during collective action.”[4]

I would encourage everyone to consider joining a demonstration, a march, a protest to support any cause about which you feel passionate. It can make you feel more hopeful, more confident, and it can inspire others to keep hoping and working for a better world.

The publication and distribution of the 91�첥 Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l).   

[1] Marc Zvi Brettler, “The Hakhel Ceremony” ().  There is also a well-known disagreement between the medieval commentators Ibn Ezra and Ramban about whether Hakhel takes place in the seventh year or the eighth year (the year after shemittah).

[2] Jackie Hajdenberg, “The ancient Jewish practice of Hakhel, an every-7-years gathering, gets a 21^st century revival,” JTA October 9, 2022.

[3] For a sustained discussion of the Hakhel as a framework for viewing “political gathering as spiritually transformative” see community organizer Meir Lakein’s “On Gathering”. Political Theology, Vol 23. No 1-2 141-147.

[4] “Do Protests Even Work?” The Atlantic. June 24, 2020.

High Holidays

Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur Resources

Learn More

Fall Festivals

Sukkot, Simhat Torah, and Shemini Atzeret

Learn More

Hanukkah

Resources for Festival of Lights

Learn More

Purim

Esther and more explained

Learn More

Passover

From preparation to Seder Study

Learn More

Shavuot

Insight into this Pilgrimage Festival

Learn More

Additional Holiday Resources

In his bookKohelet’s Pursuit of Truth, Rabbi Benjamin J. Segal, former president of the Schechter Institute of Jewish Studies in Jerusalem, presents an arresting new translation and commentary on Ecclesiastes that unlocks the ancient wisdom of one of the deepest and most controversial books of the Tanakh.

Adele Ginsberg’s Sukkah (Chancellor Shuly Rubin Schwartz)

This photo from The 91�첥 Library evokes for me the loving care with which many early twentieth-century 91�첥 faculty wives cultivated religious spirit and community. Ginzberg, or Mama G. as she was known, inherited the 91�첥 sukkah project from Mathilde Schechter. For decades, she raised funds, shopped, and supervised the sukkah’s decoration with fresh fruits, vegetables, and greenery. READ MORE

Ushpizin
Ushpizin, (literally, “guests”) is the tradition of inviting the exalted men and women of the Bible into our sukkot. Each year, professional and novice artists including 91�첥 students, faculty, and staff have taken the concept of ushpizin as the centerpiece and inspiration for an art installation in the famed sukkot built each year in the 91�첥 courtyard. 

Sukkot are impermanent by design. This is our lesson and our meditation throughout the week. In the Babylonian Talmud (Sukkah 23a), our rabbis argue about how strong a wind a sukkah should be able to withstand in order to be considered kosher: does it need to be able to withstand a strong wind, or just average wind? We can feel the tension—on the one hand, we want our sukkot to be strong and sturdy, on the other hand, the holiday pushes us to acknowledge that they may just blow away. The Mishnah in Sukkah 22a suggests that in the ideal sukkah, one should be able to see stars through the roof—in order, I think, that we might contemplate the great expanse of the universe, and our relative temporality and insignificance. 

Our rabbis assigned Kohelet, the book of Ecclesiastes, to be read on the holiday of Sukkot as a further directive to contemplate impermanence. “All is transient!” Kohelet exclaims (Eccles. 1:2) and spends the rest of the book trying to reconcile with this fundamental truth of our lives.

What is the purpose of pursuing anything, Kohelet asks, if we are all headed for the same end? What is the point of not only wealth, but wisdom? Wisdom doesn’t protect us from our inevitable death.

In 1973, Ernest Becker published his book The Denial of Death, a psychological schema that placed at the center of most human behavior this very fundamental fear: that our lives are insignificant, and we will die. His ideas developed into Terror Management Theory, a psychological theory stating that many of our actions are motivated by our need to insulate ourselves from our “deep fear of living an insignificant life destined to be erased by death.” Avoiding the fact of our mortality thus ends up animating nearly everything we do as humans.

According to Terror Management Theory, the pitfalls of this unexamined fear are not only personal and spiritual, but social and political, because one way that we address this fear is by assuring ourselves that we are part of an important group. We may tell ourselves, “Well, my life is short. But I’m part of the most important group, culture, religion or nationality. So that will outlive me.” It’s easy to see how this can become quite a dangerous ideology.

We see this problematic way of addressing fear of death playing out in other ways as well: we derive psychological comfort from not thinking about the climate crisis, or about the erosion of our democracy. Supremacist ideologies are taking hold perhaps in part to counteract our sense of individual insignificance, the same discomfort of the human condition upon which Kohelet spent twelve chapters reflecting.

At its worst, religion can be merely a way of denying death, at times to dangerous ends: by means of asserting our cultural or religious supremacy. 

But at its best, religion can be a roadmap for how to truly grapple with our impermanence. I believe that it is too tall an order for most people to confront their own mortality in a vacuum. We need narrative, ritual, and community to come to a sense of peace and wisdom—indeed, this is the journey that Kohelet takes: from fearful immobilization as an individual facing mortality, through a meandering and contradictory path through hedonism and greed, ultimately to the conclusion that doing mitzvot is the best way we have to live as mortals (Eccles. 12:14). (Whether this was the author’s conclusion or added later by the sages, we can still choose to integrate it into our interpretation of the book’s message). 

Thus we come to Sukkot. We have the blessing of a week-long ritual that rehearses impermanence for us in an external, physical, communal, and joyful way. Our tradition gives us this gift. We learn not to take for granted those structures that we hope to continue, but to work together to continually rebuild them. We also learn to embrace impermanence. Our tradition tells us: there is no use in denial, and there is no use in comforting distraction. Together, we practice impermanence with our eyes wide open, looking at the stars together. 

As we continue to eat, sing, and dwell in sukkot together this week, may we be shaped into human beings more capable of facing the uncertainty of life. During this zeman simhateinu, may we confront our fears not only with wisdom, but with joy.

The publication and distribution of the 91�첥 Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l).