Mr. Charlie Harary

Sukkos Everywhere

We’ve just come through the intensity of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur and experienced days of awe, of judgment, of deep introspection. And now… Sukkos arrives.

Let’s be honest. Sukkos sometimes gets overlooked. We're emotionally and spiritually drained from the High Holidays and we're running to Home Depot or Lowe’s, scrambling to build a Sukkah. If you've ever gone Sukkah shopping, you know what I mean. It’s like a pop-up Jewish village in the lumber aisle. I’m convinced those stores need chesed training just for this week.

But the truth is, Sukkos holds a spiritual power that is in some ways even greater than Yom Kippur. And yet, we rarely give it the attention it deserves.

Let me explain.

If you’ve ever asked your child, “Where did you sit on the bus today?” or “How was recess?” and gotten that confused look—Why do you care about that?—you know the feeling. They're surprised. It's not about grades, or discipline, or something serious. It’s just… about them.

As a parent, you try to explain: “I care about you. Not just your achievements or your failures. I care about your whole life—your friends, your snacks, your mood, your dance recitals, your trivial stories. I care because I love you.”

That’s the bridge between Yom Kippur and Sukkos.

Yom Kippur is the mountaintop. We strip away everything—food, comfort, distraction—and stand raw and honest before G-d. It’s the moment of ultimate spiritual intimacy. We confess, we cry and we reconnect.

But there’s a danger in thinking that G-d only lives there—on the mountaintop—and that He only exists behind the Aron Kodesh, when we’re fasting, praying, in white clothing and speaking Hebrew. That He only cares about the “big stuff.”

Sukkos is here to teach us otherwise.

The Sukkah is called in Aramaic, “Tzila D’meheimenusa,” the Shade of Faith (Zohar, Parshas Emor, 103a). The Sages teach that G-d’s presence rests in a Sukkah as in a synagogue. It carries the same holiness as a Beis Midrash, but with one crucial difference: In the Sukkah, we’re supposed to act normal. “Teishvu ke’ein taduru—Dwell in the sukkah the way you live at home” (Sukkah 26a). We eat there. We laugh there. We hang out. We relax. We’re just… ourselves.

Why?

Because Hashem is telling us something profound. “I don’t only want you when you’re perfect. I don’t only care when you’re fasting. I want to be with you in every part of your life.”

Not just on Yom Kippur, but in carpool, in your kitchen, in your office, at bedtime with your kids, in line at the grocery store. Sukkos is the holiday of G-d’s embrace of your entire life. That’s why it’s called Zman Simchaseinu, the Season of Our Joy. The greatest joy in the world is to live your regular life and feel that G-d is in it. Not just when you're praying, but when you're eating, laughing, hosting friends, washing dishes, living life.

The Arizal offers a beautiful insight. He notes that the minimum halachic structure for a Sukkah is two full walls and a partial third. Why? Because that’s the halachic shape of an embrace. One side—another side—and an arm wrapping around. The Sukkah is a Divine hug.

You walk into a Sukkah, and whether you realize it or not, you’re being held by G-d. It won’t last forever. The Sukkah is temporary and fragile. But that’s the point. G-d is reminding us: “Even in the temporary, the fragile, the simple, I am here.” So if you can be in a Sukkah, be there, body and soul. And when you can’t, enter it with your mind and heart. Use this week to train your soul to feel G-d everywhere. Talk to Him in your language. Think of Him in your routine. Invite Him into your home, your work, your relationships, your worries, your dreams.

Because if you can carry the Sukkah’s message into your year—if you can walk out of Sukkos and bring G-d with you into your everyday life—then you’re never alone again.

And that is the deepest joy.

Rabbi Dovid Goldwasser

You Are Never Alone

We are now entering Zman Simchaseinu, the time of our greatest rejoicing. And yet, amidst the joy of Sukkos, there lies a profound message about judgment, mercy, and our unbreakable bond with Hashem, and with each other.

In Gemara (Bava Basra 9b) records a striking prayer by the great prophet Yirmiyahu HaNavi. He pleads before Hashem: “May they stumble before You. In the time of Your anger, deal with them.”

Yirmiyahu elaborates further. Even when the wicked subdue their Yetzer Hara and seek to perform righteous acts, such as giving charity, may they fail by offering tzedakah to those unworthy of it. In this way, they will not receive reward.

The Meshiv Nefesh, Rabbi Menachem Munish Halpern, raises the obvious question. How can a tzaddik like Yirmiyahu pray for such harsh consequences, especially for those trying, however imperfectly, to do the right thing?

The answer lies in the spiritual principle of middah k’neged middah, measure for measure. If a person gives tzedakah with exacting scrutiny—judging who is worthy, who is not—then Heaven judges that person the same way. Hashem scrutinizes their deeds, measuring each mitzvah against each aveirah.

But if a person gives with open arms, indiscriminately—“Kol ha’poshet yad, nosen lo,” whoever stretches out their hand, we give to them—then Hashem, too, acts without strict judgment. He pours kindness upon us, blessing upon blessing, regardless of our flaws. It is not about whether we are worthy; it is about the love in our heart.

This is the deeper meaning of Yirmiyahu’s prayer. May their kindness be imperfect so that Heaven will respond to them with compassion beyond perfection. When they give without full awareness, without knowing whether the recipient is deserving, Hashem will do the same, and give to them without condition. It is a prayer for mercy, not revenge.

And that is the message of Sukkos.

The arba minim—lulav, esrog, hadas, and aravah—represent the full spectrum of Jews. The esrog has taste and fragrance, symbolizing those with Torah and good deeds. The aravah, the willow, has neither. It represents those Jews who seem to have nothing.

And yet, on Hoshanah Rabbah, we take only the aravah in hand. We beat it, we cry out, we sing Hoshanos, as if to say, “Even when all that remains is the aravah, even when a Jew is stripped of Torah and mitzvos, they are still sacred. They are still part of us. And Hashem loves them.”

No matter what we’ve done. No matter what we lack.

It is said that saving one’s Aravos, the willow branches used on Hoshanah Rabbah, is a segulah for protection. Many Sifrei Kodesh note that these branches safeguard a person from physical danger, from robbery, from harm on the road. They should be saved in one’s home or placed in the Beis Midrash. And even if they are not carried while traveling, simply knowing where they are can serve as a source of protection from Heaven.

Let me share a story.

A Jew in Malaysia—a place without a large Jewish infrastructure—reached out to me through TorahAnytime. This individual watches the shiurim, does mitzvos, and tries to grow in Torah. A few years ago, he wrote to me that he feels lonely and isolated. He hears of the gatherings, the tefillos, and he feels the ache of being far away from it all.

To that person—and to anyone else who feels distant—I want you to know: You are never alone.

When World War I broke out, the great Ohr Sameach distributed parts of his own hoshanos to the Jewish soldiers drafted into battle. And not a single one of them was harmed. They all returned in peace; shalem b’gufam u’b’nafsham.

In that spirit, I say to every Jew: Save your hoshanos. Keep a few leaves in your home. Know where they are. Let them be a symbol that we are all united—every Jew, everywhere. From New York to Jerusalem to Malaysia, we are bound together by Torah, by memory, by destiny.

May this year be a year of bracha and hatzlacha in ruchniyus and gashmiyus. And to that precious Jew in Malaysia, I sent part of my hoshanos as a small sign of a great truth: You are one of us. And we are one nation. And the Geulah is coming.

Rabbi Shlomo Horwitz

Your Beautiful Sukkah

The great Rav Avraham Genachovsky zt”l, Rosh Yeshiva of Yeshivas Chebiner in Yerushalayim, lived in Bnei Brak. Beyond his towering stature in Torah, he was equally renowned for his extraordinary sensitivity and care for others. His close friend, Rav Chaim Kanievsky zt”l, once described him as a truly great man — gadol me’od me’od, a ma’ayon ha’misgaber, an overflowing spring of Torah, kindness and refined character.

One story captures this beautifully.

Rav Genachovsky had a neighbor, a widow who lived alone and often felt isolated. Before Sukkos, she asked him if he might have any extra s’chach she could use for her sukkah. He replied warmly, “Certainly; once I see how much I’ll need, I’ll let you know.” A few days later, she noticed a pile of s’chach outside his home. Assuming it was what he no longer needed, she took it for her Sukkah. In truth, it was not extra; it was the rabbi’s own s’chach.

When Rav Genachovsky realized what had happened, he immediately understood that if she discovered her mistake, she would be deeply embarrassed. Yet, there were two halachic problems. First, her s’chach was technically stolen, taken without permission, which would invalidate her Sukkah. To resolve this, he mentally transferred ownership to her, declaring in his mind that the s’chach now belonged to her. But there remained a second issue: the Sukkah still violated the principle of ta’aseh v’lo min ha’asuy—one cannot retroactively make invalid s’chach valid without lifting and replacing it.

What could he do without embarrassing her?

He devised a plan. Knowing he was on good terms with her, he knocked on her door and said kindly, “I happened to notice your Sukkah. It’s truly beautiful! May I come see it up close?” Flattered, she eagerly invited him in. After admiring it, he said, “It’s so lovely, I would be honored to be a partner in your mitzvah. Would you allow me to participate by lifting each piece of s’chach, just so I can have a share in your Sukkah?” She was touched by the offer and readily agreed. With quiet grace, the rabbi lifted each piece of s’chach and replaced it, thus making her Sukkah halachically valid, while preserving her dignity entirely.

It was an act of profound Torah greatness; not merely in scholarship, but in middos. In a single gesture, Rav Genachovsky fulfilled the halachah, spared a widow from shame, and transformed an awkward mistake into an act of kindness and connection.

And the truth is, we can all do the same.

Rabbi Mashiach Kelaty

Pouring Unity

One of the highlights of Sukkot in the times of the Beit HaMikdash was the joyous celebration known as Simchat Beit HaSho’eva, the celebration of the water-drawing ceremony. Every night of Chol HaMoed, there was music, dancing, and celebration as water was drawn and poured upon the Mizbeach.

And yet, one might ask: why such a celebration for water? Wouldn’t it make more sense to celebrate with wine, a festive meal, or some more elaborate offering? Why is water, a substance so simple, so tasteless, the focus of such overwhelming simcha?

A few years ago, I was sitting in the sukkah with some dear friends. My chavruta, Howard Freeman, shared an idea that brings this question into beautiful focus.

On the second day of Creation, Hashem separated the “upper waters” from the “lower waters.” Until then, all the waters of the universe were in harmony. Now, they were divided, with the heavenly waters above and earthly waters below.

It’s the only day in the entire Creation narrative where the Torah does not say, “Ki tov—It was good.” Why? Because separation had entered the world. Harmony had been broken.

The Midrash tells us something remarkable. The lower waters complained: “Why have You cast us down? Why are we being pushed away from the heavens?” Their pain was the pain of disconnection, of spiritual distance. And the silence of the Torah on that day reflects that pain.

Now, fast forward to Sukkot. Rav Yitzchak Hutner (Pachad Yitzchak) writes that the Simchat Beit HaSho’eva, the celebration of the water, is nothing less than the reunion of those separated waters. Through the process of teshuvah in Elul, through the Days of Awe, and through the cleansing embrace of Yom Kippur, we become purified. We re-enter relationship with the Divine. The upper waters—symbolizing Hashem—and the lower waters—symbolizing Klal Yisrael—are reunited. This, says Rav Hutner, is the secret behind the joy of Simchat Beit HaSho’eva. The pouring of water on the altar is not a mere ritual; it is a symbolic reconciliation. The separation of Creation is healed and Heaven and earth come back together.

That night in the Sukkah, my wife shared a thought that I turned over in my mind again and again.

She said, “Water is the only element that, once separated, can be perfectly reunited.” If you tear a piece of paper, no matter how precisely you try to glue it back, the seam will always show. Even if you solder metal, the weld line is visible. Every element of creation, once divided, bears the scar of separation.

Except for pure water.

Pour one cup of water into another, and they become indistinguishably one. You cannot tell which molecule came from where. The union is seamless. The fusion is perfect. At the Simchat Beit HaSho’eva, this is exactly what happens. Through purification and connection, Klal Yisrael and Hashem become indistinguishably fused. We are not two halves held together; we are a singular flow of being.

There is a profound teaching in the Zohar: “Kudsha Brich Hu, Oraysa, v’Yisrael Chad Hu—Hashem, the Torah, and the Jewish People are one.”

How can this be? Hashem is infinite. Moreover, the Torah is written and bounded, and we are flesh and blood. How can the three be one?

But now we understand. If Hashem is the upper waters, and we are the lower waters—and Torah is the flow between us, the essence of water itself—then when we are purified, all three are unified. Torah is often compared to water for this very reason (see Taanis 7a).

When we return to Hashem, when we draw close through teshuvah, through Sukkot, and through the joy of being His people, we don’t just reconnect. We become one.

And that, perhaps, is why the joy of Simchat Beit HaSho’eva was so intense. Because it wasn’t just about water. It was about healing the wound of separation in Creation. It was about spiritual unity after weeks of awe, tears, reflection, and return. It was about rediscovering our oneness with Hashem, with Torah, and with each other.

So yes, we pour water. But we celebrate it like it’s the rarest wine. Because on Sukkot, in the Sukkah and around the Mizbeach, we aren’t just pouring water.

We’re pouring unity.

Rabbi Uri Lati

I’ve Been Waiting

A young boy runs to his father. “Daddy, Daddy!” he cries. The father, busy and distracted, waves him off. “I don’t have time right now.” A few minutes later the boy returns. “Daddy, please, I need to talk to you.” “I’m very busy,” says the father. Finally, he sighs. “Alright, what is it?”

“Daddy, how much do you make an hour?” “Two hundred dollars. Why?” “Can I borrow $200?” Annoyed, the father hands it over. The boy gives him $200 of his own and whispers, “Daddy, can I buy an hour of your time?”

Even the best parents fall into this trap. Buying things for our children shows that we care; spending time with them shows that we love. A child won’t remember which toys or games he had, but he will never forget the time you took him out, laughed with him, or listened to him. When we buy, we show concern. When we give time, we show love.

That’s exactly how Hashem relates to us. Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, and Sukkot are not just days when He worries about our sins—they are days He spends with us. He draws us close, showing not only concern but deep, boundless love.

When we stand before Him renewed, He is not just the Judge who forgives, but the Father who longs to be with His children. “Ahavat olam ahavtanu”—His love is infinite. Hashem doesn’t just pardon us; He invites us. He wants to spend time with us. That is the greatest proof of His love.