Building from Uncertainty
The Temporality and Permanence of Sukkot
Just last week, Jews across the world stood before the closing gates and pleaded to God “chotmeinu,” “seal us,” in the Book of Life. This shift from the word used throughout most of Yom Kippur -- “kotveinu,” “inscribe us”-- reflects the increased urgency for closure we experience as Yom Kippur comes to an end. We don’t just want to be written, we want to be sealed.
Now, we’re asked to move from the walls of the synagogue, of our homes into flimsy huts. At any moment, the weather could change. The very scaffolding around us could fall away. Whereas we just had the finality of closing the gates, of “seal us,” we are currently surrounded by the uncertainty of our sukkot.
I could easily point to teachings from our tradition suggesting that the gates don’t really close until the end of Sukkot, but I think there’s a deeper truth here. Life is always uncertain. Our awareness of this uncertainty ebbs and flows, but the uncertainty itself is a constant. Sukkot offers each of us the opportunity to transform how we approach uncertainty in our own lives.
Throughout the past year and a half, I have often, despite my best intentions, attempted to resolve lingering uncertainty. I have doom scrolled. I have asked medically knowledgeable friends when the pandemic will be more under control. I have questioned what this time next year will look like. Yet none of it has made me feel better. I’ve been reminded of what I had been taught about uncertainty: ironically, trying to rid ourselves of it makes it more powerful.
How, exactly, we relate to uncertainty makes a difference. In his acclaimed book about the High Holy Day season, This is Real and You are Completely Unprepared, Rabbi Alan Lew writes, “No building of wood and stone can ever afford us protection from the disorder that is always lurking all around us.” Stability amidst constantly shifting external circumstances must come from within.
This isn’t to say the physical doesn’t matter. People without a roof over their heads might not have the luxury of thinking about their spiritual temperament on Sukkot when they’re focused on meeting their basic needs. As we feel our own vulnerability on Sukkot, we can also be sensitized to the vulnerability of others.
While external realities like affordable housing and vaccine distribution are within human control, the truth remains that, on some level, life will always be uncertain. We can expand our capacity for uncertainty by embracing it. We can enter the Sukkah.
The Biblical origins of this holiday provide insights about how to sit in the Sukkah not in spite of its fragility, but because of it. In Jewish collective memory, Sukkot commemorates when the Israelites dwelled in booths during their journey through the wilderness. Sukkot is a paradigm shift from other parts of the Israelites’ experience in the desert, where they spent much of their time looking back--complaining that they would have been better off as slaves in Egypt--or looking forward--wondering how long it would be until they reached their destination. Sit right where you are: not back in Egypt, not in the Promised Land, but here, in the desert.
For those not completely sold on this idea of sitting amidst the wind and rain, with the fact that even at the brightest point of the day, there’s supposed to be more shade than sun in our sukkot--know that the rituals of the holiday provide a way in: bless, orient, and, most importantly, rejoice.
Before we eat, we recite the blessing “leshev basukkah”-- blessed are you God, who commanded us to sit in the sukkah. This formula, like any other blessing, can be an invitation to mindfulness, but I think it goes one step further. It demands of us continuous presence. This is not a blessing I’d make if I popped into the sukkah quickly. This blessing comes before eating substantive meals in the sukkah. According to some rabbinic authorities, if you temporarily leave the sukkah and plan on resuming eating upon return, you must make the blessing again. With this blessing, we anchor ourselves in the present and acknowledge that God is dwelling in the sukkah with us. When in doubt, sit down, strap in, and remember why you’re here.
When we sit with ourselves, though, feelings often come up. The fear of uncertainty creeps back in. Here’s where returning to the framework for this blessing can be helpful. In the rabbinic imagination, this blessing is a reminder that holding uncertainty isn’t just okay, sometimes it’s absolutely essential. In fact, the rabbis of the Talmud debate how Jews in the diaspora should approach the Sukkah on the final day, Shemini Atzeret, because there is some ambiguity around the day. Without getting too in the weeds, this matters because for the rabbis, saying a blessing that doesn’t need to be said--a bracha levatala--is far from ideal. Rather than trying to get rid of the ambiguity, the rabbis integrate it into the holiday itself. Outside of Israel, we are to continue dwelling in the sukkah on the eighth day but refrain from making a blessing, somewhat akin to embracing the gray space. We don’t push uncertainty out of our sukkah, we make room for it.
As we welcome whatever other feelings might accompany this uncertainty--like ushpizin, guests in our sukkah-- we also turn to another central ritual of Sukkot. Lulav and etrog--the touch, smell, sound of Sukkot--can give further guidance in sitting with uncertainty. We shake east, south, west, north, up, down. Through this ritual, we situate ourselves amidst our surroundings, both directionally and spiritually. For those of you with a background in psychology or trauma, this might sound familiar. One well-known technique for mindfulness in anxious times centers around the five senses. Though slight variations exist, the basic idea is as follows: while taking deep breaths, acknowledge five things you see, four things you touch, three things you hear, two things you smell, and one thing you taste. This grounding technique can help us to be present in moments of intense emotion. Similarly, in reorienting us to our surroundings, the sensations of lulav and etrog help us be present amidst uncertainty.
This presence can radically transform our experience of uncertainty, a fact some Jews have long known; we are far from the first to experience the rhythms of the Jewish calendar during tumultuous times. In August 1941, Rabbi Kalonymous Kalman Shapira--also known as the Warsaw ghetto rabbi or the Esh Kodesh (Holy Fire)--wrote a clarion call from the bleak confines of the ghetto:
“It is clear, amidst all this suffering, that if only everyone knew that they would be rescued tomorrow, then a great majority - even of those who have already despaired - would be able to find courage. The problem is that they cannot see any end to the darkness...Do not attempt to project into the future, saying “I cannot see an end to the darkness, but simply accept whatever happens to you, and then you will be with God.”
It’s true. We’d probably feel better if we knew when we could send children to school without worrying about them getting sick, when it would be safe to make decisions about interpersonal situations without having to do mental gymnastics, when the immunocompromised would not be pushed to the margins. Yet trying to project into the future will only drive us deeper into despair. Returning to the present, returning to God’s presence--what we’ve been striving for this entire holy day season--that is the work. With lulav and etrog in hand, we bring our attention back.
Sukkot: an opportunity to embrace the unknown, sit with the present moment, and experience the joy of liberation from past and future worries. And Sukkot is not just practice in coping with the hardships of contemporary life; it’s a spiritual practice with real implications for how we engage in our broader communities.
The beautiful thing about uncertainty is that it’s an opening. Contemporary author Rebecca Solnit points out in her book on hope, “in the spaciousness of uncertainty is room to act.” What does she mean? She sees “hope not as optimism that everything will be fine, but as an embrace of the uncertainty about what will happen and a commitment to try to shape it, to bend that arc toward justice.” When we are present to the reality of our lives, we can cultivate the moral imagination to help create the world we want to experience.
This year, let us avoid seeing our sukkot as an escape from our daily lives. Rather, let the rhythms and rituals of the holiday remind us that life never really is all that certain, but through acceptance of this reality, we gain the strength and courage to act. In eight days, let us leave our sukkot with newfound hope and resilience. The world is uncertain. Our task is to build anyway.