The Fragile Hut That Teaches Us About Security

Every fall, something strange happens in Jewish neighborhoods around the world. People abandon their comfortable homes to eat meals in rickety outdoor structures with gaps in the walls and branches for a roof. Some even sleep there, despite the autumn chill. To an outsider, it might look like camping gone wrong. But this practice, the holiday of Sukkot (Feast of Tabernacles), contains one of Judaism’s most powerful teachings about what it really means to feel secure.

The Torah commands us to live in these temporary shelters, called sukkahs, to remember the booths our ancestors lived in during their forty years of wandering through the desert after leaving Egypt. Simple enough, right? Except that two of Judaism’s greatest sages couldn’t agree on what those original “booths” actually were.

Rabbi Eliezer had an extraordinary answer: They weren’t physical structures at all. They were clouds—the miraculous Clouds of Glory that surrounded the entire Israelite camp throughout their desert journey. Imagine an entire nation traveling through one of the world’s harshest environments, protected by divine clouds that provided shade from the brutal sun, safety from enemies, and a constant visible reminder that God was watching over them. According to tradition, these clouds even flattened mountains to make the path easier and kept everyone’s clothes miraculously clean and perfectly fitted for forty years straight.

If Rabbi Eliezer is right, then sitting in our fragile sukkah isn’t about remembering vulnerability at all. It’s about celebrating the ultimate protection. Every time the wind rattles the walls or rain threatens our dinner, we’re reminded that real security doesn’t come from solid construction. It comes from the same divine source that provided Clouds of Glory to surround our ancestors like a protective shield.

Rabbi Akiva saw it completely differently. To him, the booths were exactly what they seemed: actual huts and tents that the Israelites built with their own hands. Simple, temporary, offering minimal protection from heat, cold, and wild animals.

But Rabbi Akiva’s interpretation reveals a different kind of miracle—the miracle of radical faith. Think about what the Israelites did: They left Egypt, a place that for all its cruelty at least offered food, shelter, and predictability. They followed Moses into an unknown wilderness to live in flimsy structures, completely dependent on God for their next meal and their next drink of water. The prophet Jeremiah later recalled this moment with wonder: “I remember the devotion of your youth, how you followed Me in the wilderness, in a land not sown” (Jeremiah 2:2).

From this perspective, the sukkah represents something equally powerful: the human capacity to choose meaning over comfort, to embrace uncertainty in pursuit of something higher. Yes, our ancestors’ shelters were fragile, but they housed a people undergoing the most profound spiritual transformation in history.

So which rabbi is right? The beautiful answer is: both. Their disagreement teaches us that faith works in multiple ways. Sometimes we experience God’s protection as miraculous intervention—like those Clouds of Glory that shield us from dangers we never even notice. Other times, we experience it as the courage and strength to find meaning and create holiness even when circumstances are challenging and uncertain.

Whether we’re talking about supernatural clouds or humble huts, the message is the same: Our ancestors lived in complete dependence on something beyond themselves, and that experience of trust brought them closer to God than any permanent dwelling ever could.

When we build our sukkah each year and step inside, we’re entering into both interpretations at once. We’re trusting that the same God who protected our ancestors continues to watch over us—sometimes through miracles we never notice, sometimes by giving us the strength to build something meaningful even when life feels unstable.

In a world obsessed with security—where we’re told to invest in better locks, bigger insurance policies, larger savings accounts, and sturdier homes—the sukkah whispers a different truth. Our deepest security doesn’t come from what we can control or accumulate. It comes from our relationship with something far greater than ourselves.

For one week each year, we leave our solid homes and sit in structures where we can see the stars through the roof. We eat, laugh, and celebrate in spaces that wouldn’t pass any building inspection. And in doing so, we remember what our ancestors knew: that sometimes the most secure place to be is in a fragile shelter, trusting in something we cannot see.

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