Rabbi Chanan Gordon

From Brokenness to Joy

When we carefully explore the theme of joy on Sukkos, it is valuable to recognize that before we can arrive at an understanding of what it fully means, we must revisit the deeper roots of this Chag, embedded in the Torah's account of our journey through the wilderness.

The Torah introduces the mitzvah of dwelling in a Sukkah in the context of the Ananei HaKavod, the divine Clouds of Glory that guided and protected Am Yisrael through the desert (Vayikra 23:42). But these clouds were not simply a GPS system for our travels. Chazal teach us that they returned only after the greatest national failure in our history: the sin of the Golden Calf.

After the Chet HaEgel, Moshe Rabbeinu pleaded with Hakadosh Baruch Hu for forgiveness. And in that moment of brokenness, Moshe asked not only for Divine mercy, but for a sign that Hashem would never abandon us, and that we would not be replaced. To that, Hashem responded not only with forgiveness, but with a deeper promise: He will never break His covenant with us.

And this, my friends, is the true foundation of Sukkot and of Simcha. Simcha does not emerge from perfection; it emerges from reconciliation. It is born when we realize that even after our lowest point, HaKadosh Baruch Hu welcomes us back with love and renews the covenant.

But what does it mean to be a “Goy Kadosh,” a holy nation? And how does that relate to joy?

To understand holiness, it helps to examine its opposite. During Havdalah at the conclusion of Shabbos, we contrast Kodesh, holiness, with Chol, the mundane. The root of Chol is related to sand, a substance whose grains never truly bind. You can pour water into it, stir it endlessly, and yet each particle remains disconnected.

Chol is fragmentation. Kodesh, then, is integration, the unifying force that brings disparate parts together into harmony.

This is what Sukkot epitomizes. It’s the time when we are asked to unify the broken pieces of ourselves, of our relationships, and our connection to the Divine.

The Sifrei Mussar teach that a person cannot genuinely connect with Hashem if he is at war with himself. If there’s internal tension or self-deception, the spiritual signal is scrambled. Consider the language of the Torah. In Lashon HaKodesh, the word for "face" is not singular. It is “panim,” faces, in the plural. Why? Because each of us has multiple “faces”: the one we show to the world, and the one we carry within. True peace, menuchas hanefesh, can only come when our outer persona aligns with our inner identity. When we are authentic.

The Sukkah is the perfect setting for this honesty. Stripped of our material walls, away from the distractions of modern life, we are left with only ourselves, our families, and G-d. The Sukkah becomes a place not just of physical simplicity, but of emotional and spiritual clarity.

The Arba Minim, the Four Species, represent not only different types of Jews, but also different parts of the body. The lulav as the spine, the etrog as the heart, the hadasim as the eyes, and the aravot as the lips (Vayikra Rabbah 30:12). On Sukkot, we bind them together as one. This symbolizes the unification of our disparate inner drives: body and soul, thought and action, external and internal.

Rav Dessler, in Michtav MeEliyahu, writes that the human being lives in a constant tension between the voice of the guf (body) and the voice of the neshama (soul). Most of the year, the voice of the guf dominates, fueled by noise, distraction, and material desire. But during Sukkot, especially within the humble walls of the sukkah, the soul finally gets a chance to be heard.

This moment of harmony, of inner alignment, is the true source of Simcha.

Finally, just as we unify the self, we are also called to unify with one another. Sukkot is the most inclusive of holidays. The arba minim bring together the righteous and the struggling, and the Sukkah invites in every type of Jew, from every walk of life (see Sukkah 27b).

True Kedusha is not isolation; it is unity. It is the rejection of fragmentation, of sand-like separateness, and the embrace of connection. It is in this embrace, this wholeness, that Simcha is born.

Simcha therefore is not a spontaneous emotion. It is the result of healing, integration, and honesty, in our relationship with Hashem, with ourselves, and with each other.

The Ananei HaKavod did not return until after our national sin. Likewise, true Simcha comes after Teshuva, after brokenness, and through the courageous act of showing up as we truly are.

So let us dwell in our Sukkot not just physically, but emotionally, stripped of pretense, reconnected to our core, and grateful for the chance to begin again.

Rabbanit Elana Mizrahi

Think Differently

I love Sukkot.

Every year, when I sit in my sukkah, I feel something so deep and comforting. I close my eyes and I can almost imagine the Ananei HaKavod, the Clouds of Glory, surrounding me. The Shechinah envelops us. It’s as if Hashem is giving us a hug. There’s a quiet warmth, a stillness, a peace. This is how the Sukkah is meant to feel: na’im, pleasant, calming, holy.

A few years ago, we moved into a new apartment with a small balcony, and it was our first time building a sukkah there. There was no infrastructure for cchach; no beams or poles. So my husband and children got to work. They bought long poles, drilled them into the walls, assembled the frame, and then we put up our decorations. The plan was to save the actual laying of the Schach, the final mitzvah step, for right after Yom Kippur, in the spirit of going from one mitzvah to the next.

So there we were, after the fast, sitting at our break-fast meal, exhausted but spiritually elevated. My teenage son turned to us and said, “You know, I read that if you use bamboo schach, you really need to wash it first. Because if it’s been rolled up all year, it could have bugs in it.”

I looked at him and said, “Great. So you wash it.”

And he did. He and his sister got to work, dragging the schach through the house, spritzing it down in the bathtub, carrying it out to the balcony, and setting it up. Baruch Hashem, our sukkah was now ready.

But then—still tired from the fast—my son came back and, with a grin, said, “Mommy… do you think you could mop up the mess?” He looked at me, smiled sweetly, and added: “It’s part of the mitzvah.”

And you know what? He was right. And he knew just how to say it so I’d hear it. Because I’ve been his mother for a while, and he knows that if he says the right words, I’ll find the koach to do it. So I got up. I got the sponge, the mop, the soap, and the bucket. And I cleaned.

But here’s the thing. I wasn’t just cleaning. I was building the sukkah. That mindset shift changed everything.

Instead of “I’m exhausted,” it became, “I’m participating in a mitzvah.” Instead of “I’m mopping the floor,” it became, “I’m preparing for the Shechinah to dwell here.” Instead of “One more chore,” it became “One more act of connection to Hashem.”

That’s the power of mindset. That’s the power of koach hamachshava, the strength of thought.

The Ben Ish Chai brings a beautiful teaching on this. He quotes the Gemara (Shabbat 133b) which interprets the verse “Zeh Keili v’anveihu—This is my God and I will glorify Him” as a command to beautify mitzvot. A beautiful sukkah, a beautiful lulav, a beautiful shofar, beautiful tzitzit.

But what does it mean to make something beautiful?

The gematria (numerical value) of the word na’eh (pleasant or beautiful) is equal to twice the value of koach (strength). Why? Because real beauty in mitzvot comes from two kinds of strength: Koach hamachshava, the strength of thought, and Koach hama’aseh, the strength of action When we put our intention into a mitzvah, when we add mindfulness and heart into what we do, it transforms the action into something that is not just functional, but beautiful.

Even something as simple as mopping. Even something as mundane as washing schach. Even the hidden work, the “no-one-saw-it-but-Hashem” kind of work.

This is what sanctifies our homes. This is what builds our sukkah. This is what fills our mitzvot with joy and depth and na’eh. Remember, the Kohanim in the Beit HaMikdash didn’t just sing and offer sacrifices. They cleaned, they washed, they cooked, they prepped. The holiest work included the simplest tasks.

So when we feel overwhelmed, when we feel unseen, when we wonder if our efforts even matter, remember this: Your thoughts add beauty, and your quiet acts build a Sukkah where the Shechinah can dwell.

Let’s use our double koach, our thoughts and our actions, to create mitzvot that are na’eh, beautiful and uplifting.

And let’s remind ourselves: it’s not always about doing more. It’s about thinking differently about what we already do.

Rabbi Doniel Staum

Dignified Dancing

The Chasam Sofer writes that the greatest moment of intimacy and closeness to Hakadosh Baruch Hu throughout the entire year is not on Yom Kippur, but on Shemini Atzeres. As remarkable as that may sound, this final Yom Tov contains within it a peak of kedusha and spiritual elevation that even surpasses the sanctity of the holiest day of the year.

To understand this, let us look to Sefer Shmuel II, Chapter 6, when Dovid HaMelech was finally able to bring the Aron Hashem back to Yerushalayim. The Navi tells us that Dovid danced with unrestrained joy and passion before Hashem (Shmuel II 6:14). He was flailing his arms, his entire body immersed in divine ecstasy, expressing his connection with every fiber of his being.

But not everyone appreciated this display. His wife, Michal, daughter of Shaul HaMelech, looked out the window and was embarrassed. She saw it as undignified, unbecoming of a king. When Dovid returned home, she expressed her disapproval, questioning how a Melech Yisrael could allow himself to be seen dancing in such a manner.

Dovid’s response is striking. Precisely for this reason, Dovid says, Hashem chose me over your father’s household (ibid. v. 21). At first glance, the reply seems unusually sharp, perhaps even uncharacteristic of the noble Dovid HaMelech. But Rav Yonasan David offers a beautiful insight.

Shaul HaMelech’s greatness lay in his extraordinary anavah, his humility. That humility was the very trait that made him worthy of kingship. But the role of a king demands more. A king must not only be personally great, but must also rise to the occasion, lead with confidence, and embody the dignity of Malchus Yisrael. As Shmuel HaNavi rebuked Shaul after his failure to destroy Amalek: "Though you may see yourself as small, you are the head of the tribes of Israel!"

Shaul’s humility, though admirable, became a flaw in the context of leadership. And that, said Dovid, is why Hashem chose me: to model what it means to throw off self-consciousness when it comes to Kavod Shamayim. To dance without inhibition. To declare before the world that Hashem is our King.

This is what we reenact on Simchat Torah. There are two days in the Jewish calendar when our joy is not only internal, but bursts outward into physical celebration: Purim and Simchas Torah. On these days, we dance, we leap, we sing not despite our dignity, but because true dignity lies in being unashamed to honor Hashem with all our strength.

There is profound symmetry here. Purim came about through a descendant of Shaul, Mordechai HaTzaddik, who, perhaps by nature, was reserved and private. But he understood that this was not a time for restraint. He cried out before the palace, rallied the people, and through his actions brought about salvation. He corrected what Shaul could not. And so the celebration of Purim had to be similarly unrestrained, an external expression of deep inner faith.

On Simchas Torah, we too are dance without embarrassment. As Reb Nachman of Breslov taught, when we lift our feet off the ground, we symbolically detach ourselves from the physical world. And though gravity pulls us back, we jump again. Again and again. Because Simchas Torah is the climax of Zman Simchaseinu, and it is only appropriate that it be visible and expressive. Kavod Shamayim demands it.

In this joy lies a profound closeness to Hashem. It is not the quiet introspection of Yom Kippur, but a joy that flows from having been cleansed, having reconnected, and now, having reaffirmed our eternal bond with the Torah and its Giver.

May we all be zocheh to taste that joy, to internalize it, and to carry it with us throughout the year.

Rabbi Palacci

The Tefillin and the Etrog

There was once a man who lived in a distant town, far from wealth or luxury. He was a simple, poor man, barely affording daily necessities, let alone anything extra. His wife, from time to time, would ask him gently, “Honey, can you buy me this?” “I’m sorry,” he’d reply. “What about that?” “Sorry again. We just don’t have the money.” Life was difficult.

Now, back in the day, owning a set of Arba Minim—especially an etrog—was a rarity. My grandfather used to tell me that in his town, the entire shul would share one lulav and one etrog. That’s how expensive and scarce they were.

Well, this poor man had one item of tremendous sentimental and spiritual value: his great-great-grandfather’s tefillin. Aside from his own tefillin, it was the most precious thing he owned. He cherished it. It connected him to generations past and to legacy.

One year, as Sukkot approached, he felt an overwhelming yearning to fulfill the mitzvah of Arba Minim with all his heart. He wanted to do it right and he wanted to buy his own etrog.

And so, with tears in his eyes and resolve in his heart, he made the decision. He sold his great-great-grandfather’s tefillin. It fetched a hefty sum. And with that money, he bought a beautiful etrog. The most mehudar etrog he could find. He returned home, glowing with joy.

“I did it,” he said to his wife, “Look! I got an etrog! Isn’t it beautiful?”

She stared at him, shocked. “You bought that with that much money? Where did you get the money from? You always tell me we don’t have any!”

He hesitated a moment, then answered honestly: “I sold the tefillin from my great-great-grandfather.” She was stunned. “You what?! Let me see that etrog!”

Before he could say a word, she grabbed it—and threw it against the wall. To his horror, though not surprisingly, it cracked. Now it was pasul (invalid). He walked over silently, picked up the broken etrog, and saw that she was right. It could no longer be used.

He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t scold. He didn’t shout. He said nothing.

That night, the man had a dream.

In the dream, a voice from Heaven said to him: “Do you think your greatest act was selling your great-grandfather’s tefillin to buy the etrog? No. That was noble, yes, but your greatest act, the one that caused the greatest stir in Heaven, was that you kept your mouth shut. You didn’t respond with anger. You held back. You controlled yourself. And for that, the gates of Heaven opened.”

Because that’s what Hashem wants from us.

It’s not only about the money we spend or the religious artifacts we possess. It’s about our middot, our character traits. It’s about kindness, self-restraint, and sensitivity. It’s about choosing love over ego, peace over pride.

So remember this. Sometimes the loudest noise in Heaven is the silence we choose on earth.