After preparing food in advance for our holiday meals, building the sukkah, and decorating it with my kids, I found myself with a bit of time on my hands before the holiday began. I know the rhythm of Sukkot well: the shopping lists, the palm branches, the string lights, the endless tape and zip ties to hang our decorations with – so when I clicked on Rabbi Tuly Weissās Bible Plus class, I thought it would be review. I was wrong. It wasnāt about holiday dĆ©cor. It was about stepping into an ancient commandment that changes how we see home, safety, and even God Himself.
Rabbi Tuly began with the core text in Leviticus 23:
āSay to the children of Israel: On the fifteenth day of this seventh month there shall be the Festival of Sukkot to the Lord, seven days… You shall live in booths seven days, in order that future generations may know that I made the children of Israel dwell in booths when I brought them out of the land of Egypt. I am the Lord your Godā (Leviticus 23:34-43).
At first, it sounds straightforward. Build a booth. Sit in it. Remember the Exodus. But Rabbi Tuly paused and pointed out something Iād never noticed – the verb tense. God doesnāt speak in the past. He says I made the children of Israel dwell. Each generation is included. Every year, when we step into our sukkah, we arenāt re-enacting history; weāre stepping back into it.
That realization changes everything.
The wilderness generation had no land, no crops, no savings accounts, and yet they were never more secure. Their roofs leaked starlight, but Godās protection was constant.
So why would God ask us to relive our most fragile chapter?
Why command us to leave our sturdy homes for a structure that can barely stand against the wind?
Rabbi Tuly explained the Rabbinic details with contagious enthusiasm. A sukkah must have at least three walls and a roof of natural material called sāchach – something that grew from the earth but is no longer attached. The roof must give more shade than sun yet remain thin enough to see the stars. It cannot be permanent; it must breathe.
The sukkah isnāt designed for comfort. Itās designed for truth. Its fragility is its theology. The gaps in the roof are not flaws but reminders that protection doesnāt come from lumber or nails. It comes from above.
In the desert, Israel had no infrastructure, only manna, water from a rock, and clouds of glory. The sukkah makes that dependence tangible. Itās faith turned physical.
Deuteronomy 16 adds another layer:
Nothing but joy. The Torah could have said ārejoice,ā but instead insists on unbroken joy. Real joy, Rabbi Tuly said, isnāt about owning everything. Itās about knowing Who gives everything.
Thatās the quiet challenge of Sukkot. All year long we fortify ourselves: financially, emotionally, physically ā and then Sukkot arrives and tears the roof off. For one week we trade plaster for palm branches, climate control for open air, and somehow, we feel safe.
In part two, Rabbi Tuly promised weād explore the deeper spiritual meaning behind the different rituals of the holiday: how a temporary hut reveals eternal truths about divine protection and human dependence. And most importantly, how it’s applicable, even if you yourself are not celebrating.
For now, Iām still sitting with this first lesson. The sukkah teaches us not to fear fragility, but to dwell within it. Because when the walls are thin enough, thatās when the presence of God can come through.
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