The Sukkah is Big Enough for All of Us

“It is appropriate for all of Israel to dwell in a single Sukkah.” - Sukkah 27b

That’s a mighty big Sukkah! Obviously, no Sukkah is large enough to hold the entire Jewish people. What is the meaning of this utopian vision?

I would often think of this Talmudic statement on the first night of Sukkot in Manhattan. As you can imagine, building a Sukkah there is complicated. Unless you happen to have a yard or an unobstructed terrace, you’d use communal or synagogue Sukkahs for meals. (Some people grew accustomed to making Kiddush and HaMotzi in the Shul Sukkah and then go home for their meals.) Some synagogues offer catered meals in addition to providing space for people to bring their meals. On the first night of Sukkot, we’d sit down to a meal surrounded by over 700 people spread out over five Sukkot!

The Sukkah has the power to bring people together, and we need this power more than ever.

On Yom Kippur, we saw a terrible scene in Tel Aviv as outdoor prayer services were disrupted by angry – and sometimes violent - protestors. The tensions between religious and secular are rising at an alarming rate. Fifty years after the Yom Kippur War demoralized Israel due to external enemies, this Yom Kippur, we are confronting an existential internal threat. One writer related how his granddaughter, who is in officer's training in the IDF, commented that Israelis know how to fight together and how to die together, but they do not seem to know how to live together. This is a frightening statement. It’s true that the numbers of the most extreme protestors (on any side) are relatively low, but these incidents have opened a deep wound in Israeli society.

The Sukkah teaches a path forward.

One Sukkah is enough for all Israel, but it need not be the exact same Sukkah for all.

Rabbi Baruch Epstein (Tosefet Beracha, Vayikra 23:42) notes there different spelling for the word Sukkot in the Torah. Sometimes, it is written in its full form – סוכות, and sometimes it is written with one fewer letter – סכות. These different spelling represents the different symbolism of the Sukkah – the clouds of Divine protection and the booths the Jews built in the desert. Sometimes, a Sukkah represents one, sometimes the other, and sometimes both. All Israel can find their place within the Sukkah. Some Jews prefer one type of service, some prefer another, and some don’t like any. The Sukkah teaches us that this is OK and to live – or pray – and let live.

Like a Sukkah, our commonality can be real even if it’s incomplete.

Friday night davening includes the following prayer: וּפְרושׂ עָלֵינוּ סֻכַּת שְׁלומֶךָ – Please spread over us a Sukkah of Your peace. Why do we pray for a Sukkah of peace? Why not a fortress of peace? Wouldn’t that be more secure? Rav Kook explains that Jewish law validates a Sukkah even when it has gaping holes, when it is built from little more than two walls or has large spaces between the walls and the roof. The same is true regarding peace. Peace is so precious, so vital, that even an imperfect peace between neighbors, or between an individual and the community, is worthwhile.

We should celebrate and amplify what we share and where we agree and not bemoan the differences. This is becoming harder and harder as people seem to think it’s their way and no other way and think those with different views are out “to get” them. We need to be bigger than that and see that we’re all in the same Sukkah as imperfect as it may be.

It is sadly ironic that one of the causes for fighting in Tel Aviv on Yom Kippur was whether the partition of flags set up for the prayer service was really a mechitza, outlawed by Tel Aviv, or not. Police Commander Micha Gafni deemed the frame acceptable because it was traversable, while Tel Aviv Mayor Ron Huldai said it was a violation. This is a very Sukkah-themed dispute, so we should turn to Sukkah for the solution.

Rebbe Nachman of Breslov taught that we should fulfill the mitzvah of Sukkah with the following intention: Concentrate on being part of the entire people of Israel, with intense love and peace, until it may be considered as if all of Israel dwells together in one Sukkah. Some may say this is too vague or idealistic. I would say that we need to start somewhere.

Rabbi Yuval Cherlow, a longtime advocate of religious-secular dialogue who heads a yeshiva in Tel Aviv commented, “Maybe something positive will grow out of the resistance we saw…sometimes it’s wiser to sidestep a controversy than dive head-first into it…This dialogue is exactly what needs to happen on the local level. It would be a step in the right direction.”

Let’s invite each other – those with whom we agree and those with whom we disagree – out to the Sukkah to create a more unified and peaceful people.

Red & White

“If your sins be like crimson, they can turn snow-white; if they be red as dyed wool, they can become like fleece.” (Isaiah 1:18)

Over and over again during the penitential season, we repeat the hope and aspiration for our sins to be cleansed and purified. We even try to look the part as white is a High Holiday fashion staple – especially on Yom Kippur.

The transformation from red to white featured prominently in the Yom Kippur service of “The Two Goats” described in the 4^th chapter of Yoma. The Kohein Gadol would draw lots. One goat would be a sin offering brought in the Temple, while the other went to Azazel, led to the wilderness, pushed off a cliff, and torn to shreds. This traumatic scene (especially for the goat) symbolized casting away and tearing apart sin with the chance to start fresh. It was a highlight for the spectators watching the service in the Temple as it also included a red/white symbol that would confirm atonement.

The Mishna (Yoma 4:1; 6:2,3,6,8) teaches:

“The High Priest tied a strip of crimson wool upon the head of the scapegoat… [Later, he] places both his hands upon it, and confesses (the sins of Israel) …and then passed the goat to the one who was to lead it to the wilderness… He divided a strip of crimson into two parts, half of the strip tied to the rock, and half of it tied between the two horns of the goat. And he pushed the goat backward, and it rolls and descends. And it would not reach halfway down the mountain until it was torn limb from limb… Rabbi Yishmael says…There was a strip of crimson tied to the entrance to the Sanctuary, and when the goat reached the wilderness and the mitzva was fulfilled the strip would turn white, as it is stated: “Though your sins be as scarlet, they will become white as snow” (Isaiah 1:18).”

A miraculous indicator of forgiveness! The red strip turns white. That would be just awesome! The Talmud (Yoma 39a-b) notes that it certainly was – but didn’t always happen.

“During all forty years that Shimon HaTzaddik served as High Priest… the strip of crimson wool that was tied to the head of the goat that was sent to Azazel turned white, indicating that the sins of the people had been forgiven…From then onward, it sometimes turned white and sometimes it did not turn white…[During] the forty years prior to the destruction of the Second Temple…the strip of crimson wool that was tied to the head of the goat that was sent to Azazel did not turn white.”

Maybe achieving atonement isn’t as easy as shoving the goat over the cliff.

The Talmud Yerushalmi (Shabbat 9:3) notes a different tradition for the red string. Each person hung one in their window at home. Some turned white and some stayed red. That embarrassed those who were not forgiven. So, they changed the practice and tied the red string to the door of the Temple Sanctuary. Here, too, sometimes it changed from red to white and sometimes didn’t. So, they changed the practice again and tied the red string to the rock where the goat went over the cliff.

Maybe it’s best not to know for certain whether we’ve been forgiven.

In a certain way, we act as if we will be forgiven. We confess, we regret, we commit to do better. We wear white, and red doesn’t seem to be a color worn on Yom Kippur. We’re speaking and dressing for the part of being forgiven. What else can we do?

Rabbi Avigdor Nebenzahl, Rabbi of the Old City and Senior Rosh Yeshiva at Netiv Aryeh, was asked what’s the best character trait to focus on and improve this time of year. He responded ahavat Yisrael, care and concern for others.

We talk the part, and we dress the part. At this time of year, we must walk the walk as well – even if we wear red.

One Yom Kippur night, Rabbi Shmuel Kamenetsky, head of the Talmudical Yeshiva of Philadelphia, came to Kol Nidrei wearing a red tie. A red tie!? He never wore a red tie! Why would he wear red on Yom Kippur?

The mystery remained until after Yom Kippur, when a ninth grader related a question he’d posed to the rosh yeshivah on Erev Yom Kippur. He asked if it was proper to wear a red tie on Yom Kippur, since that was the tie he had. Rav Shmuel assured him that it was alright and wondered why he was asking.

“My friends were teasing me and telling me that it’s not appropriate,” the student confided.

Rav Shmuel wished him well – and then found a way to make him feel comfortable and validated on the holiest of nights.

Now, it would be fantastic if I wore a red tie on Yom Kippur – and it turned white at the end of Neilah! But I love how this story takes the symbol of sin and turns it on its head. We will never fully understand the reason for the Azazel goat or how (or if) the red string turned white. We do know that Yom Kippur is an amazing day that provides us the opportunity to repair things and make them better. We need to think about that for ourselves, and, especially, act upon that towards others.

The Sound of Silence

Have you heard of Sanford Greenberg?

If you enjoy Simon and Garfunkel’s classic “Sound of Silence,” you’ve indirectly met him.

While attending Columbia University, Art Garfunkel befriended a fellow student named Sanford (Sandy) Greenberg. Then, tragedy struck when Greenberg was watching a baseball game and his vision suddenly became extremely blurry. He was told it was merely conjunctivitis, but he subsequently completely lost his sight. It turned out that glaucoma led to his optic nerve no longer functioning, and Greenberg was declared blind. He became depressed, but his friend Art stuck with him. He offered to walk him to classes and guide him around campus. The folk singer even adopted the moniker “Darkness” as a mark of empathy when he was with his troubled friend Sandy.

Garfunkel realized he needed to teach his friend how to be independent. One day, while at Grand Central Station, he had to urgently return to university for a forgotten assignment. This meant that Greenberg was alone in the crowded chaos of rush hour. Despite calling it the “worst couple of hours” of his life, Greenberg made it back to university where Garfunkel told him that the assignment was a ruse and he had followed him home the whole way, congratulating him on his independence.

Echoes of this episode can be found within the song Paul Simon wrote, which is a guide through troubled times, a mark of empathy in turmoil, and a beacon of hope that you are not alone – in a similar way to Art Garfunkel supporting Sandy Greenberg.

Greenberg had the chance to repay Garfunkel. One day, Greenberg received a call from Garfunkel asking whether he could help fund the $400 that the folk duo needed to record their album. Greenberg had only had $404 in his bank account, but he gave the full amount. The rest is history.

Next Shabbat, we will experience the “Sound of Silence.”

I doubt it will be one of the tunes used for the Rosh Hashanah liturgy, but there will be silence in place of the Shofar.

“If a tree falls in the forest and no one is around, does it make a sound?” “If all the Jews are assembled on the Day of Judgement, and there is no shofar, is it really Rosh Hashanah?” Rosh Hashanah and shofar go better together than chocolate and peanut butter. After all, the Torah’s name for the holiday is “Yom Teruah – Day of Sounding the Shofar!”

How are we to understand the silence of Rosh Hashanah on Shabbat? Maybe we need to appreciate there’s more to Rosh Hashanah than hearing the sound of the shofar. Maybe there really is a powerful sound of silence.

Have you ever heard a song on the radio and realized later that it got stuck in your head? No matter how hard you try, you can’t stop singing it or hearing it even if you’re not singing. The truth is, the more you try to stop thinking about it, the louder the song becomes and the harder it is to get that song unstuck. It’s like you’re hearing music without the presence of any actual sound waves entering your ear. Researchers from Dartmouth University studied this phenomenon. They played different songs, with and without lyrics, to volunteers with snippets cut out of them. They then scanned the brain for activity. What they found was that when familiar songs were played, the brain continued to be active - even during the silences where a piece of the song had been cut out. These volunteers reported that they had mentally heard the entire song, even though the song never entered their ears as sound waves.

Sounds a little like “people hearing without listening…”

When Rosh Hashanah falls on Shabbat, we may feel like the “main event” is missing. It is, however, an opportunity for us to dig a little deeper into our spiritual and emotional selves and listen to the “sound of silence.” We might consider how following Jewish tradition is more important than the inspiration of the shofar. We may miss hearing the shofar, but maybe we don’t need its clarion call to try and be better people. The silence is a chance to consider the many people who suffer with silence or darkness. We can strengthen our empathy.

Next Shabbat, we will not be in the middle of one hundred shofar blasts. We will be listening to the sound of silence, a chance to dig more deeply and quietly into our priorities for what, please God, will be a glorious and fulfilling New Year for us all.

We Each Possess the Power to Bless

This is a season for contrition and confession.

Starting with Selichot and culminating with ten times on Yom Kippur, we recite the Viduy, the confession. Most often “confession” is associated with articulating what we did wrong. That’s what makes the Viduy that acknowledges having completed the tithing of the third year of the seven-year Shemitah cycle so notable.

“I have cleared out the consecrated portion from the house; and I have given it to the family of the Levite, the stranger, the orphan, and the widow, just as You commanded me; I have neither transgressed nor neglected any of Your commandments. I have not eaten of it while in mourning, I have not cleared out any of it while I was impure, and I have not deposited any of it with the dead. I have obeyed my God; I have done just as You commanded me. Look down from Your holy abode, from heaven, and bless Your people Israel and the soil You have given us, a land flowing with milk and honey, as You swore to our fathers.” (Devarim 26:13-15)

This Viduy does not confess doing anything wrong. It is a Viduy delineating doing everything right. There is an important lesson inherent in this declaration. Just as we confess sins, we must also acknowledge the good that we do.

The final verse of the declaration strikes me as very powerful. After acknowledging that our ma’aser (tithing) mission is accomplished, we address God with something between a request and a demand to bestow blessing on the Jewish nation. The one who does right has earned the right to bless others.

Have you blessed someone recently?

In Judaism, the Kohen blesses. Parents bless children. At times, people seek the blessing of a tzaddik, righteous individual. The Rabbi blesses. The Rebbe gives a berachah. Here the Torah teaches that anyone who strives to be good has the right to bless. The Talmud (Berachot 7a) recognizes the value of the Average Joe’s blessing:

“Al tehi birchat hedyot kalah b'einecha - Do not view lightly the blessing of the ordinary person.”

Certain individuals may be in prioritized positions to bless, but each of us has the power to bless and should recognize the power of everyone else’s blessing.

[A woman approached Rabbi Yosef Rosen, the famed Rogatchover Gaon, and asked for a berachah. He said, "Nu, I'm not a rebbe!" A rabbi sitting next to him chided the great sage: “The Talmud says to take seriously the blessing of even ordinary people. How much more so a great rabbi like you should recognize your ability to bestow blessings and give the woman a berachah as she requests. The Rogatchover responded, “If ordinary people can bestow blessings, YOU bless the woman…”]

Rabbi Shlomo Carlebach would often end his teachings and stories with the words, “I bless you – and please me right back – with all the goodness and sweetness in the world.” Reb Shlomo blessed and sought blessing at the same time. Each of us has that potential.

During this time of year, Jewish law validates our potential to bless. The Kitzur Shulchan Aruch (128) writes:

“Beginning with the month of Elul until Yom Kippur, when you write a letter to your friend you should mention, either at the beginning or at the end, that you pray for him and bless him to be worthy during the forthcoming Days of Judgment to be inscribed and sealed in the Book of Good Life.”

Similarly, on Rosh Hashanah itself, the tradition is to bless each other with a Shanah Tovah – a good year. Officially, there is a longer declaration:

“L’Shanah Tovah tichateiv v’teichateim l’alter chaim tovim u-l’shalom – May you be signed and sealed immediately for a new year of good life and peace.”

Imagine saying this to each person individually. We’d never get out of Shul.

Maybe that’s the point.

We should recognize our power to bless and how powerful it is to be blessed by others. I bless you – and please bless me right back – to strive to live up to our potential, to acknowledge what we do right, and we attempt to create for ourselves and others a happy, healthy, and sweet New Year!