2025

On Sukkot, we read the biblical book of Kohelet, known in English as Ecclesiastes—and it’s traditionally attributed to King Solomon, said to be reflecting late in life on all he has seen and done. If the book of Proverbs, also attributed to Solomon shows him at his most confident—full of wisdom and certainty—Kohelet shows him older, quieter, and more questioning. He looks back and says, “I’ve built, I’ve gathered, I’ve achieved… and still, so much of it feels like hevel havalim—vanity of vanities, emptiness, vapor. Everything passes.”

Kohelet isn’t telling a story so much as offering a meditation. He wrestles with what gives life meaning when so much of what we build is temporary. He admits: “There is a time for every purpose under heaven—a time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to mourn and a time to dance.”

And it’s that voice—honest, sobering, but deeply human—that we bring into Sukkot, the most joyful festival of the year. Why? Because Sukkot is a holiday that celebrates joy through impermanence. We move out of our sturdy homes into a fragile little booth, a sukkah that could blow away in a strong wind. We decorate it, we sing in it, we bless our meals inside it—knowing it will last only a week.

That’s what Kohelet teaches: to find meaning not in what lasts forever, but in what’s precious right now. And that’s what Sukkot embodies.

Two years ago, right after Sukkot ended, our world changed. October 7 shattered a sense of safety and stability for Jews everywhere. And two years later, the pain is still close. The grief, the fear, the hostages still not home, and the unsettling realization that old hatreds can resurface in an instant—even among those we thought were friends.

Kohelet would say, “There’s nothing new under the sun.” That truth hurts. The hatred that our ancestors faced is still part of our reality today. It wears new faces, but it’s the same ancient poison. And yet—Sukkot refuses to let despair be the last word.

When we sit in the sukkah, we’re not only remembering fragility. We’re practicing resilience. Our ancestors built sukkot in the wilderness, with nothing but faith and hope. They built anyway. They believed anyway. And we still do.

Every sukkah, every Shabbat candle, every prayer for peace is an act of courage. They say: You can shake us, but you cannot uproot us. We are still here. Still building. Still blessing.

Kohelet’s realism keeps us humble; Sukkot’s joy keeps us grateful. Together they teach that even when the world feels uncertain, we keep showing up—with faith, with kindness, and with hope.

A midrash says that one day, God will spread a great sukkah of peace over all the peoples of the earth. That image feels far away—but every sukkah we build is a rehearsal for it. Every act of compassion, every bridge built, every prayer for wholeness adds one more branch to that shelter.

So this Sukkot, let’s hold both truths: that life is fragile, and we are strong; that pain endures, and yet so does hope; that though we have been hated, we will never stop loving, building, believing. Because even now—l’dor vador—from generation to generation—we are still the people who build fragile shelters …and fill them with light.