Rabbi Avi Wiesenfeld

Live the Sukkah

What exactly makes a Sukkah so holy? Is it the schach, the walls, the decorations, the beautiful furniture, or is it something else entirely?

Here is the remarkable thing. You can have a Sukkah that looks magnificent from the outside and yet is spiritually empty. And you can have the simplest Sukkah imaginable, yet something extraordinary is happening inside.

The Torah does not tell us to build a beautiful Sukkah. It tells us, “L’maan yeidu doroseichem—So that your generations will know” (Vayikra 23:43). The purpose of the Sukkah is to live its message. A Sukkah is not merely about its walls or decorations. It is about what happens within those walls.

Years ago, a wealthy American came to Eretz Yisrael for Sukkos. He wanted the finest Sukkah possible, so he ordered special schach, custom-made walls, a magnificent crystal chandelier, and beautiful decorations. It cost a fortune. Next door lived an elderly widower whose sukkah could not have been more different: four simple walls, basic schach, a plastic table, and a few folding chairs.

One evening, the wealthy man was sitting in his Sukkah surrounded by his family when he noticed something strange. His neighbor’s little Sukkah was packed. First the widower welcomed a single mother and her children. Then an elderly man arrived. Then a couple who apparently had nowhere else to go.

Soon the Sukkah was overflowing. There was singing and laughter. Children were running around. Someone shared a dvar Torah. The old man barely had room for himself, yet somehow he kept finding room for one more person.

Finally, the wealthy man walked over. “How are you fitting everyone in here?” he asked. The old man smiled. “I’m not.” He pointed upward. “That’s Hashem’s job.”

Then he pointed toward the entrance of his Sukkah. “My job is just to open the door.”

Two sukkahs stood side by side. One cost a fortune and the other cost almost nothing. What Hashem asks us is, “How beautiful is your sukkah?” but, “What is happening inside your Sukkah?”

Don’t just walk into the sukkah. Live the sukkah.

Chazal teach, “K’sheim shechal Shem Shamayim al ha’chagigah, kach chal Shem Shamayim al hasukkah—Just like the Name of Hashem rests upon the Korban Chagigah (a sacrificial offering), so does Hashem dwell upon a Sukkah” (Sukkah 9a).

On Sukkos, you are not merely performing a mitzvah inside the sukkah. You are sitting inside a mitzvah.

And that is no small matter.

Rabbi Dov Tepler

The Return of the Clouds

The question is a well-known question. Why do we celebrate Sukkos on the fifteenth of Tishrei? If the sukkah commemorates the Ananei HaKavod, the Clouds of Glory that surrounded Klal Yisrael when we left Mitzrayim, seemingly Sukkos should be celebrated in Nissan, when we left Egypt.

The Vilna Gaon explains that it is true that we received the Ananei HaKavod when we left Mitzrayim. However, after the Chet HaEgel, the Clouds of Glory departed. Moshe Rabbeinu then ascended Har Sinai and ultimately descended on Yom Kippur with the Luchos Shniyos, bringing Klal Yisrael the message of forgiveness. The preparations for the Mishkan followed, and on the fifteenth of Tishrei the Ananei HaKavod returned.

That is what we celebrate on Sukkos. We celebrate the return of the Clouds of Glory after the Chet HaEgel and the teshuvah of Klal Yisrael.

But the Vilna Gaon points out something even more remarkable. The second Ananei HaKavod were greater than the first. Originally, the Clouds of Glory were perceived only by the tzaddikim and nevi’im. When they returned after Yom Kippur, however, their presence could be perceived by everyone.

How, though, could the relationship afterward possibly be greater than it had been before the sin?

Rav Elya Svei explains a magnificent idea.

The kapparah of Yom Kippur does not simply mean that the dirt has been washed away and we are restored to where we were before. Through genuine teshuvah, the relationship itself can become deeper than it was previously. Klal Yisrael could, so to speak, turn to Hashem and say, “The closeness You gave us before was not enough. The proof is that despite all that closeness, we still fell and sinned. If we are going to succeed now, we need a deeper relationship with You.” And Hashem agreed.

The second Ananei HaKavod were greater than the first. They had fallen and Hashem did not merely take them back. He brought them closer.

That may also illuminate an observation of the Meshech Chochmah. Earlier in the Torah, before the Second Luchos, the festival is called Chag HaAsif, the Festival of Gathering. Later, after the Second Luchos, it is called Chag HaSukkos, connecting the Yom Tov explicitly to the sukkah.

There are, in a sense, two dimensions to Sukkos.

There is Chag HaAsif. We gather our harvest and are reminded not to become consumed by the physical world. We leave our permanent homes and enter a temporary dwelling. Yes, we need parnasah and we need homes, food, and material necessities. But ultimately, everything comes from Hashem. In the Midbar there was no pantry filled with food for tomorrow. Each day Klal Yisrael received the mann, and each day they had to trust again: Hashem took care of me today, and He will take care of me tomorrow. That is Chag HaAsif.

But after the Second Luchos, Sukkos became something more. Now it is Chag HaSukkos. We are celebrating not merely simplicity and trust, but renewed closeness. We are celebrating the return of the Ananei HaKavod, and not merely the old clouds, but something greater than what existed before.

That is why these days contain such extraordinary simchah. Sometimes after you fall, you don’t just get up and pick up where you left off.

You pick up far better than you ever were.

Rabbi Chaim Gross

Part of the Joy

When the younger brother of the Vilna Gaon, Rav Avraham, received a letter from his older brother inviting him to leave his small town and move to Vilna, it seemed like an offer no Torah scholar could possibly refuse.

The Vilna Gaon was offering to learn with him every day. Imagine having the Vilna Gaon as your daily chavrusa.

Yet Rav Avraham wrote back that he could not accept the offer. His Rebbetzin was unwilling to leave their small shtetl under any circumstances.

Why?

To understand the answer, we need to know something about Rav Avraham. Born two years after the Vilna Gaon, he was himself an extraordinary talmid chacham. He served in distinguished rabbinic positions, but perhaps his greatest legacy was his sefer Maalos HaTorah, devoted to demonstrating the incomparable value of limud haTorah.

Rav Avraham writes that one of the greatest forms of teshuvah is Torah learning—more powerful than the severe fasting and self-affliction practiced by many in his time. He writes that one of the primary causes of Klal Yisrael’s galus is bittul Torah, and therefore one of the great paths toward geulah is limud haTorah.

But now let us return to his Rebbetzin.

In those days, obtaining an esrog in Lithuania could be extraordinarily difficult. Wealthier members of a community might purchase their own, while the community would generally raise money to obtain an esrog that everyone else could use. One year, an unusually long winter had left the roads muddy and nearly impassable. Travel and commerce were severely limited, and as Sukkos approached, esrogim were almost impossible to find.

Finally, one esrog arrived in Rav Avraham’s town. There was only one problem. The price was astronomical. Even the wealthy members of the community were unwilling or unable to purchase it. The gabbaim held an emergency meeting and ultimately decided that the community simply could not afford the expense. That evening Rav Avraham came home and told his wife the disappointing news: that year, their community would apparently be unable to fulfill the mitzvah of arba minim.

His Rebbetzin was devastated. And then she had an idea.

When they married, they had received a large, comfortable home as part of their dowry. She turned to her husband and said, “Why don’t we borrow the money and buy the esrog? After Sukkos, we will sell our house, repay the loan, and move into a small home like everyone else.”

Without hesitation, Rav Avraham agreed. They borrowed the money and bought the esrog. And that Sukkos, an entire Jewish community was able to perform the mitzvah of arba minim. After Yom Tov, Rav Avraham and his wife did exactly what they had promised. They sold their beautiful home, repaid the debt, and moved into a small, cramped house where they would remain.

Now we can understand why, years later, Rav Avraham’s Rebbetzin refused to move to Vilna. She explained to her husband, “Every time I walk past that beautiful house where we once lived, I experience such simcha. I look at it and remember, ‘We gave up that house so that an entire community could perform a mitzvah. That is a pleasure I am not willing to give up.”

Think about what she was saying.

She was prepared to give up the opportunity for her husband to learn every day with the Vilna Gaon because she could not bear to surrender the daily reminder of a mitzvah they had sacrificed so much to perform.

That was the atmosphere in their home. And Rav Avraham himself shared that extraordinary love of ruchniyus. Despite tremendous physical weakness, his spiritual vitality was so remarkable that the Vilna Gaon reportedly described his younger brother as a neshamah bli guf, a soul without a body.

Rav Avraham himself once wrote that he was so physically weak that he could not understand how he continued living. But, he explained, the tremendous simchah and pleasure he experienced from toiling in Torah was what sustained him.

Rav Nisan Waxman, in writing about Rav Avraham, observed how difficult it was to compose the biography of someone who had spent his entire life trying to conceal his own greatness. And when the Vilna Gaon once heard people referring to him as a chassid—a person of extraordinary righteousness—he reportedly corrected them.

His younger brother Rav Avraham, he said, was deserving of that title. Perhaps this story tells us why. A husband and wife gave away their beautiful home for one esrog—not an esrog for themselves, but an esrog so that other Jews could perform a mitzvah. And afterward, whenever the Rebbetzin passed the home she no longer owned, she did not feel regret. She felt joy. Because when a person truly loves a mitzvah, what the mitzvah costs is not remembered as a sacrifice.

It becomes part of the simchah.

Rabbi Doniel Staum

In Your Hands

One of the remarkable features of Sukkos is that it contains two extraordinary mitzvos, either one of which could seemingly serve as the centerpiece of an entire Yom Tov: sukkah and arba minim.

Regarding the arba minim, the Torah tells us, “U’lekachtem lachem bayom harishon—You shall take for yourselves on the first day” the four species (Vayikra 23:40).

The Midrash (Vayikra Rabbah 30:16) makes an extraordinary statement about the word rishon. In the merit of “U’lekachtem lachem bayom harishon,” Hashem promises that He will reveal Himself to us as the Rishon, punish Eisav, who is called rishon, rebuild the Beis HaMikdash, which is called rishon, and bring Mashiach, who is also called rishon. All of this in the merit of the arba minim.

What is so powerful about this mitzvah?

One of the most famous teachings of Chazal is that the four species represent four different types of Jews (ibid. 30:12). The esrog has both taste and fragrance, representing the Jew who possesses both Torah and good deeds. The lulav has taste but no fragrance, representing Torah without corresponding good deeds. The hadassim possess fragrance but no taste, representing good deeds without Torah. And the aravos possess neither.

Yet what does Hashem tell us to do? Bind them together. The mitzvah cannot be fulfilled with only the esrog. We do not discard the aravah because it lacks the qualities of the others. We take them all and form one agudah.

Perhaps that is the extraordinary zechus of the arba minim: the zechus of shalom. When Klal Yisrael comes together, despite our differences, we become goy echad ba’aretz—one nation. That does not mean we must agree about everything. There can be genuine disagreements, even important ones. But disagreement does not have to destroy love. Beneath the differences must remain a sense that we belong to one another.

We find a similar idea at the Seder. We speak about four sons: echad chacham, echad rasha, echad tam, v’echad she’eino yode’a lishol. Yet all four remain sons. Even the rasha remains within “Banim atem laHashem Elokeichem.” He may be distant, but he is still a child of Hashem.

There is a powerful chinuch lesson here as well.

Why did Yitzchak Avinu continue showing love toward Eisav? One explanation is that Yitzchak understood that Eisav was not where he needed to be. But he noticed something significant: Eisav still wanted his father’s approval. Even if Eisav was attempting to manipulate Yitzchak, why did Yitzchak’s opinion matter to him at all? Yitzchak saw within that desire a point of connection. Eisav still cared what his father thought. Perhaps, Yitzchak hoped, that connection could be developed and ultimately bring him back.

That is a profound lesson for parents and mechanchim. Sometimes a child is struggling. But look for the point that remains connected. If he still wants your approval, still wants to belong, still wants some relationship with you, build on that. Every child wants to succeed. Sometimes there are simply obstacles standing between the child and that success.

The Chofetz Chaim told a beautiful story about an ignorant villager who traveled to purchase an esrog for his son-in-law. He found an absolutely magnificent esrog and paid an enormous amount of money for it. On his way home, he met another equally ignorant man. The second man saw the esrog and exclaimed, “That is magnificent! I would love an esrog like that for my son-in-law. I will pay you the full price if you give me half.”

The first man thought this was a wonderful deal. So he cut the esrog in half. When he arrived home, he proudly presented half of this magnificent esrog to his son-in-law, who was a talmid chacham. His son-in-law stared at it. “What am I supposed to do with this?” “What do you mean?” his father-in-law replied. “This is the finest esrog money can buy!”

His son-in-law explained, “I would rather have an esrog that is smaller, less beautiful, and far less expensive, but whole. Half of the most beautiful esrog in the world is worthless for the mitzvah.”

The Chofetz Chaim said that Hakadosh Baruch Hu can say something similar to us.

You bring Me beautiful Torah, beautiful tefillah and beautiful mitzvos. But there is another half of being a Jew: bein adam lachaveiro. Our relationship with Hashem cannot be divorced from the way we treat His children. Hashem does not want half a Jew. He wants something whole. And so on Sukkos, we take the arba minim into our hands, even the aravos.  We bind them together, hold them close, and lift them toward Hashem.

As we do, perhaps we can think: I am holding Klal Yisrael in my hands. The Jews I understand and the Jews I do not understand. The Jews with whom I agree and the Jews with whom I profoundly disagree. The people who make my life easier and even those who sometimes make it very difficult. They are still part of the agudah. They are still part of Klal Yisrael.

And if we can hold the arba minim together in our hands while holding our fellow Jews within our hearts, perhaps we will be zocheh to all those extraordinary promises of the Midrash: the Beis Hamikdash and Mashiach.

Rabbi Dovid Goldwasser

Sitting With Hashem

The Gemara (Avodah Zarah 3b) describes a remarkable scene that will take place in the future.

The nations of the world will come before Hakadosh Baruch Hu and ask for an opportunity to perform a mitzvah. Hashem will tell them, “I have an easy mitzvah: sukkah. Go and perform it.” They enter their sukkahs, but then, “Makdir aleihem chamah bitkufas Tammuz—Hashem causes the sun to blaze with the intensity of the summer heat.” One by one, they leave their sukkahs. But they do not merely leave. “Kol echad v’echad meva’et b’sukkaso v’yotzei—Each one kicks his sukkah on the way out.”

The question is: why does Hashem specifically choose the mitzvah of sukkah as their test? One explanation is that the sukkah represents Divine protection. We leave the apparent security of our permanent homes and place ourselves beneath the schach, demonstrating that ultimately our protection does not come from walls, roofs, possessions, or anything else in this world. It comes from Hakadosh Baruch Hu.

But that belief is tested precisely when the sukkah becomes uncomfortable. Klal Yisrael understands that even when circumstances are difficult, Hashem remains our protection. The nations in the Gemara leave the sukkah and kick it. Their response demonstrates that once the sukkah no longer seems to be protecting or serving them, they want nothing to do with it. A Jew’s relationship with Hashem is different.

There is a remarkable story told about Jews exiled to Siberia, where religious observance was strictly forbidden. Sukkos arrived, and somehow a group of Jews found a way to observe the mitzvah. They moved the horses out of a stable, cleaned the area as best they could, removed portions of the roof, and arranged whatever suitable material they could obtain for schach. There, hidden away in the frozen Siberian landscape, they built a sukkah. On the first night of Sukkos, they slipped out one by one, risking severe consequences simply to spend a few moments inside. And when they entered, they made Shehecheyanu.

Think about that. Shehecheyanu v’kiyemanu v’higiyanu lazman hazeh. Thank You, Hashem, for keeping us alive and allowing us to reach this moment. They were not sitting in Yerushalayim. They were not surrounded by family, beautiful decorations, or an elaborate Yom Tov meal. They were prisoners in Siberia, secretly sitting in a converted stable. And they said Shehecheyanu.

You can take a Jew thousands of miles from home and take away his possessions and his comfort. You can place him behind the mountains of darkness. But he remains a Jew. And when he finds a sukkah, he enters it not because everything in his life is comfortable, but because beneath that schach he knows that he is still sitting with Hashem.

And that is the most comforting place to be in the world.

Rabbi Jeremy Golker

Secrets of the Sukkah

A man had learned Meseches Sukkah extraordinarily well. He knew the masechta backward and forward—Gemara, Rashi, Tosafos, Rishonim, Acharonim—and felt confident enough to go to the Vilna Gaon to be tested. A brave man indeed. But despite all his preparation, he was completely unprepared for the Gaon’s first question. “How many times,” the Vilna Gaon asked him, “does Meseches Sukkah refer to a kosher sukkah, and how many times does it refer to a pasul sukkah?”

You can know Maseches Sukkah extremely well and still have absolutely no idea.

The Vilna Gaon explained that there are 91 references to a kosher sukkah and 85 references to a pasul sukkah. And there is a remarkable remez. The word sukkah can be spelled malei (samech-vav-chof-hei), with a vav, or chaser, without a vav (samech-chof-hei). When spelled malei, it has a gematria of 91. When spelled chaser, it has a gematria of 85. Amazingly, according to this tradition, the numbers correspond precisely: 91 references to a kosher sukkah and 85 to a pasul sukkah.

But the number 91 contains an even deeper message. The Cheshek Shlomo, at the beginning of Meseches Sukkah, points out something fascinating. Throughout Tanach, the word sukkah is generally written chaser without the vav, while in the Gemara and Shulchan Aruch we commonly find the full spelling. Why?

The Cheshek Shlomo explains that the word sukkah alludes to the Names of Hakadosh Baruch Hu. Two of the primary Names through which we refer to Hashem are the Shem Havayah, which has a gematria of 26, and the Shem Adnus, which has a gematria of 65.

Twenty-six plus sixty-five equals 91.

Chazal teach, as Rashi cites in Parshas Beshalach, “Ein Hashem malei v’ein hakisei malei ad sheyimacheh zaro shel Amalek—The Name of Hashem and His throne will not be complete until the memory of Amalek is eradicated” (Shemos 17:16). Until the ultimate redemption, there remains, as it were, something incomplete in the revelation of Hashem’s presence in this world.

Perhaps that explains why throughout Tanach, before the coming of Mashiach, sukkah is generally written chaser. It has not yet reached 91. The Name of Hashem has not yet been fully revealed. But when sukkah is written malei, it equals 91, representing the joining together of 26 and 65, the Shem Havayah and the Shem Adnus.

And then comes the remarkable exception. There is a place in Tanach where sukkah is written malei: “Vayehi v’Shalem sukko, u’me’onaso b’Tzion—His sukkah was in Shalem, and His dwelling place in Tzion” (Tehillim 76:3). There the word is complete.

And perhaps that is precisely the point. The Pasuk speaks of Hashem’s dwelling in Tzion, pointing us toward the ultimate state of Divine revelation, when Hashem’s presence will be manifest and His Name will be complete.

Suddenly the sukkah becomes something far greater than a temporary hut. When we walk into the sukkah, we are entering a place whose very name hints to the complete revelation of HaKadosh Baruch Hu. Twenty-six plus sixty-five equals 91. The Name of Hashem, as it were, permeates the sukkah itself.

There is one final remarkable point.

One of the most magnificent tefillos we have is Aleinu. Perhaps because we say it so often, we sometimes fail to appreciate just how extraordinary it is. In its second paragraph, Al kein nekaveh lecha, we describe a majestic tomorrow, namely a world transformed by the recognition of Hashem: “Liros meheirah b’siferes uzecha,” and “V’chol bnei basar yikre’u vishmecha.” We envision the day when all humanity will recognize Hashem and His sovereignty will be revealed throughout the world.

How many words are there in that second paragraph of Aleinu? Ninety-one. Once again, we are describing the world toward which 91 points: a world in which evil has been vanquished and the Name of Hashem is complete.

And perhaps that is one of the experiences of entering the sukkah. For seven days, we step out of our ordinary homes and into something that gives us a taste of a different world—a taste of the closeness and clarity that will characterize the days of Mashiach.

The sukkah is 91. Hashem’s Names are 26 and 65.

And when we enter the sukkah, we are entering a space that whispers of a future in which the presence of Hashem will finally be apparent to everyone.

Rabbi Eytan Feiner

Real Beauty

The concept of hiddur mitzvah appears throughout Shas. In Maseches Sukkah, for example, Chazal discuss binding the arba minim together as an expression of “Zeh Keili v’anveihu” (Sukkah 11b; 33a). Distinct from these individual discussions is a Beraisa of Rabbi Yishmael that actually lists examples of hiddur mitzvah—a teaching that remarkably appears six times throughout Torah Shebaal Peh. Its source is “Zeh Keili v’anveihu” (Shemos 15:2). The Mechilta (Beshalach 3) asks how we can beautify Hashem. The Maharsha (Shabbos 133b) and Netziv (Birchas HaNetziv) explain that we beautify ourselves through His mitzvos. As the Ramchal develops (Mesillas Yesharim, ch. 19), beautifying a mitzvah reveals how precious Hashem’s service—and ultimately Hashem Himself—is to us.

Rabbi Ari Bensoussan

Laughing with Rav Chaim

For several years, something remarkable was happening in the Bensoussan family. My older brother Avi and his wife were struggling to have children and my wife and I were struggling as well. So were my younger brother Yassi and my sister Alana. Years were passing, and none of us were having children. Finally, my older brother Avi called me and said, “Ari, you have to go to Rav Chaim Kanievsky in Eretz Yisrael. Get some kind of advice from him. Something unusual is happening here.”

I told him, “Rav Chaim is probably going to tell me, ‘Brachah v’hatzlachah.’ What do you expect me to come back with?” “No,” he insisted. “Don’t leave until you get something. Ask him if there is some kabbalah we can take upon ourselves, something we can do.”

So I went.

Early one morning, after davening vasikin with Rav Chaim, I went up to his home. The man ahead of me was apparently a very wealthy individual and an extraordinary baal tzedakah. Someone was describing to Rav Chaim, in great detail, all of the remarkable things this man had accomplished. The list seemed endless. Rav Chaim sat behind his shtender, listening quietly. Finally, when the entire account was finished, Rav Chaim looked up and said, “Brachah v’hatzlachah.”

Now, brachah v’hatzlachah from Rav Chaim Kanievsky is certainly no small thing. But I remember thinking, “If this man, after everything he has done, received brachah v’hatzlachah, what exactly am I going to get? I’m going to have to call Avi and tell him, ‘Sorry. Brachah v’hatzlachah. That’s all I’ve got.’”

Then it was my turn.

I run a camp during the summer, and if there is one thing you learn how to do in camp, it is make enormous, colorful signs. So the night before, I had taken out markers and prepared a giant poster. I wrote my older brother’s name, my name, my younger brother’s name, my sister’s name—everyone was there, written clearly in Hebrew, in different colors. This was not a little note. This was a full Camp Shira production.

When my turn came, I walked over to Rav Chaim and unveiled this enormous poster. I placed it directly on his shtender. Rav Chaim began reading it carefully while I explained to his attendant that several siblings in our family had been married for years and were still waiting for children.

Rav Chaim finished reading. I thought of my brother Avi and knew I could not leave yet. So I asked the attendant, “Is there any kabbalah we can take upon ourselves? Is there anything we should do?”

The attendant repeated the question to Rav Chaim. And Rav Chaim started laughing. He laughed and laughed.

Now, when the Gadol HaDor starts laughing, what exactly are you supposed to do? You laugh with him. So suddenly Rav Chaim is laughing, I am laughing, everyone around us is laughing, and then they ushered me out of the room.

That was it. I walked outside, immediately pulled out my phone, and called my brother. “Avi, you’re not going to believe what happened.” “What did Rav Chaim say?” “It was amazing.” “What?” “Rav Chaim said we have to daven.”

Avi was quiet for a moment. “Wow. Really?” And I said, “I think so. He just laughed and laughed. I guess that’s what it means. There is something he knows that we don’t.”

A few months later, my mother went to Rav Yaakov Hillel. You have to understand my mother. She is not someone who walks into a room timidly. She told Rav Yaakov, “My children have been married for years and have not had children. What should I do?” Rav Yaakov gave her a brachah that they should have children. My mother said, “No, you don’t understand. It has already been so long that they have to catch up. I want twins.”

Rav Yaakov looked at her as if to say, What exactly do you want from me? “I want twins,” she repeated. He told her, “Daven. Hashem should listen to your tefillos.”

And then something extraordinary happened. My older brother Avi had twin boys. Three months later, my wife and I had twins. My younger brother Yossi had a daughter. Within weeks, my younger sister Alana had a son.

There are things in life that, medically, statistically, or logically, may seem extraordinarily difficult or even impossible. But Hashem is in charge. That does not mean we ignore medicine, reality, or our responsibilities. But it means that we never mistake the natural world for the One Who controls it.

Hashem wants to give us good. Make Him Echad in your life. Recognize that ultimately there is nothing independent of Him. And then talk to Him. Talk to Him when things are going well and talk to Him when nothing makes sense. Talk to Him when you have exhausted every calculation and every possibility. Keep talking.

That is the ingredient we so often miss. We believe in Hashem, but sometimes we forget to actually speak to Him. Tefillah means living with the knowledge that the door is never closed, because the One on the other side of that door is the One Who created everything in the first place.

Rabbi Yisroel Majeski

The Bus In Your Mind

Here we are, the season of simcha. We can feel it in the air. But how do we bring the joy of Sukkos into our own lives and into our families?

Rav Wolbe once observed that this may be one of the most demanding mitzvos in the Torah. V’samachta b’chagecha does not ask us to experience a fleeting moment of happiness. It asks us to live with simcha throughout Yom Tov.

I was once giving a class on happiness to a group of young men, and I made the familiar point that money does not buy happiness. One fellow raised his hand and said, rather cleverly, “Rabbi, maybe money doesn’t buy happiness; but have you ever cried in a BMW? I’d rather cry in a BMW.”

I told him, “Actually, I think I’d rather cry in a Camry. Because if you’re crying in a Camry, at least you can still tell yourself, ‘Maybe one day, when I have the BMW, I’ll finally be happy.’ But if you’re already crying in the BMW, now what? You need a Lamborghini?”  Deep down, we all know that possessions cannot produce genuine simcha. So what can?

Rav Wolbe, citing the Kuzari, teaches something extraordinary about the simcha of Yom Tov. We might imagine that when we are fasting, crying, and afflicting ourselves, we are somehow closer to Hashem than when we are sitting at a Yom Tov table, eating, drinking, and rejoicing. But that is not necessarily so. A person can draw close to Hashem through simcha just as profoundly.

But simcha takes work. We have to stop and ask ourselves: why am I happy? What exactly am I celebrating?

On Yom Tov, you are being invited to Hashem’s seudah. Imagine receiving a personal invitation to dine with a king or the president inviting you to a private meal. You would feel honored simply to have been invited. Haman was intoxicated by the fact that Esther had invited him to a banquet with the king. And here, the King of the universe is inviting you.

Sometimes I walk through an airport and look around. Thousands of people are traveling everywhere—Australia, Europe, Israel, cities across the world. Everyone is rushing somewhere, absorbed in their own lives. And there I am, one tiny person among thousands. Yet Chazal tell us, “Bishvili nivra ha’olam—The world was created for me.” Hashem values you and invites you into His Sukkah, to sit at His table.

We live in a world struggling terribly with self-worth. Rabbi Dr. Abraham Twerski often emphasized how profoundly low self-esteem can affect a person’s life. The yetzer hara convinces us that we are insignificant, that we do not matter. Sukkos tells us otherwise. You have been invited into the King’s Sukkah. Think about what that means.

There is another dimension to Sukkos that can transform our simcha: bitachon.

A sukkah represents trust in Hashem. We leave the apparent security of our homes and enter a fragile structure beneath the schach. We remember that our ancestors followed Hashem into the wilderness, surrounded by nothing, and Hashem sustained them. Water came from a rock and food descended from Heaven. The Jewish people learned that security does not ultimately come from walls, salaries, possessions, or circumstances. It comes from Hashem. And that message can never become old.

Every year we enter the sukkah and hear it again as though for the first time: Hashem can take care of you. Hashem can provide for you in ways you never imagined. Hashem can lead you through places in which you cannot yet see the road ahead. My father would say every year, “Who is the happiest person in the world? The person who has bitachon.” Because when everything is in Hashem’s hands, you do not have to carry the entire world on your shoulders.

“Hashem li, lo ira; mah ya’aseh li adam—Hashem is with me; I will not fear. What can man do to me?” (Tehillim 118:6). That is not an old message. It must be made new again and again. Bitachon, bitachon, bitachon. There are few things in life that can bring a person greater inner peace.

And there is one more idea I was heard.

Imagine you are standing at a bus stop waiting for your bus. One bus approaches and you look at the number. “No, not that one.” Another comes. “Not that one either.” Then finally you see the 19. “That’s mine.” And you get on.

Our thoughts are like buses. Just because a thought arrives does not mean you have to get on. A negative thought pulls up: “Everything is going wrong.” You can say, “No. Not my bus.” Another arrives: “Nothing is ever going to work out.” Again: “Not that one.” We cannot always control which thoughts appear, but we can choose which thoughts we entertain, which thoughts we nurture, and which thoughts we allow to carry us forward.

The yetzer hara is remarkably skilled at directing our attention toward everything that is wrong. And yes, every one of us has difficulties every family has challenges. Every life has disappointments. But then we walk out of our permanent home and enter the sukkah. The walls may shake a little and the schach may move in the wind. Yet we sit there and say, “We are together. We are with Hashem and we have so much bracha. There are gifts in our lives that have become so familiar that we barely notice them anymore.” Sukkos is a time to notice them again.

 The words machshavah (thought) and b’simcha (joy) are the same, because our thoughts profoundly shape our simcha. What we choose to focus upon changes the emotional world in which we live.

I have a former student who recently went to spend Yom Tov with his in-laws, and the situation was extremely difficult. He called me and described what was happening. There was tension, people were shouting, and it was anything but geshmak. But then he said something remarkable: “I am going into Yom Tov choosing what I am going to focus on. I have my wife, my children and my siblings. There is good here, and I am going to focus on that.”

We do not always choose where Hashem places us. We do not choose every circumstance or every challenge. But within those circumstances, we retain an extraordinary power: the ability to choose where we direct our attention.

That is part of the avodah of simcha.

So carry these four things with you into the Sukkah: remember how precious you are. Remember whose Sukkah you have been invited into. Remember that Hashem is taking care of you. And choose, again and again, to notice the bracha that is already present in your life.