Dinner in Cantor David Frommer’s sukkah in his San Francsico home, Oct. 10, 2017. (David A.M. Wilensky/J. Staff)
The wrenching anniversary of the Oct. 7 attack is behind us on the Gregorian calendar. But on the Jewish calendar, the anniversary is still ahead — Shemini Atzeret (for Conservative and Orthodox Jews in the diaspora) or Simchat Torah (in Israel and in Reform practice)
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I have a visceral memory of coming to synagogue that morning, knowing only that something very terrible had happened and trying to hold one another up in our shock and sorrow. That sacred day, I fear, will forever be marked by our traumatic memories of what some Israelis call “Black Shabbat.” But before we get there on the calendar, we have Sukkot.
The early rabbis had a remarkable disagreement about what were the sukkot (booths) in which the Israelites lived during their wilderness journey. “You shall live in booths seven days; all citizens in Israel shall live in booths, in order that future generations may know that I made the Israelite people live in booths when I brought them out of the land of Egypt — I, your God.” (Leviticus 23:43-44)
What’s to argue about? Jewish children know from a young age what a sukkah is — it’s the hut built outside many Jewish homes, symbolizing the flimsy structures in which the Israelites lived during their wilderness journey.
But the Sifra (an early collection of midrash on the Book of Leviticus, written perhaps in the third century CE) tells us that Rabbi Eliezer said, yes, the sukkot described above are actual sukkot. Remarkably, Rabbi Akiva says that the sukkot described in the text are not physical sukkot at all, but the “clouds of glory” — clouds infused with the presence of the Divine. Later commentators, including Rashi, carry this midrashic image forward through the ages.
One wonders why a revered ancient rabbi and a commentator as literal-minded as Rashi would reject the obvious and plain meaning of the text (a sukkah is a sukkah!) and instead suggest that what sheltered the Israelites on their journey was God’s protective clouds. Even more importantly, what might this midrashic image mean for us?
To be surrounded by the Divine clouds means to feel embraced by the presence of the Divine, by something larger than ourselves, by a Mystery we cannot name or see. Enveloped in Divine clouds, we would feel protected and safe, trusting that it was possible to go on. We would believe that even if bad things were to happen (which they surely will), we would be able to navigate the challenges.
I am particularly struck this year by the image of the clouds of glory. Like many people I know, I have spent the past year in a near-constant state of fear, anxiety, grief and trauma. I have spent countless hours devouring the Israeli press, as if knowing every detail of unfolding events would make me less frightened. It didn’t.
I am blessed to be one small step removed from the horrors of Oct. 7. None of my family members was killed or kidnapped in the attack or called into military service. So my engagement with the tragedy has been slightly less visceral than those on the front lines. Now that a year has passed, I can pause and take a breath.
For others like me, we could reach for the clouds as we move through the anniversary period (from Oct. 7 to Shemini Atzeret). What I mean is that we should be taking occasional moments off from reading, digesting and arguing about Israel, Gaza, Lebanon, Iran and antisemitism. For a moment here or there — even five or 10 minutes at a time — we can turn off the devices, put down the newspaper and notice ways in which we are, in fact, safe in this moment. We can notice some of the blessings in our lives and appreciate the people who offer us love and kindness, right here, right now.
We can choose to open up to sources of nourishment that are all around us and within us, giving thanks that we do not live in a physical war zone, even though some of our loved ones do. Even when we feel sad, angry, frustrated or fearful, we can notice that if we hold all of those feelings tenderly for a few moments, we feel just a bit lighter. And when we reach out to offer kindness to others, we almost always feel better. Together we create a sukkah of caring, of love and gentleness.
The “clouds,” representing sources of shelter and protection, are a metaphor. Of course, in our lives there are real dangers, which we must be attentive to and act on. But if we pause for brief moments to open to the ways in which we are safe and nourished — even in these terrible times — we will be better prepared to speak and act with wisdom and clarity when we must.
May Sukkot bring us moments of shelter, care and resilience. And may the New Year bring us a time of more peace and blessing in our lives and in the world.
This column appeared in J Weekly:
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