Yesterday was Sukkot.
October 7.
Two years to the day.
We gathered beneath the branches of the sukkah — that fragile, holy shelter that lets the light in and the rain through. We held the arba minim — lulav, etrog, hadas and aravah — and turned in every direction, reminding ourselves that the Divine fills the world: north and south, east and west, above and below. We sang the words of Kohelet: “For everything there is a season, a time for every purpose under heaven.” And we prayed that this might finally be the season of peace — Chag HaAsif and Chag Simchateinu not just in name, but in truth: a festival of gathering, a festival of joy.
We prayed for an end to war. For the return of the hostages. For a path of dignity, safety and hope for the Palestinian people. We prayed for hearts to soften.
And while we prayed, a billboard in our own city shouted “Glory to Hamas.” Another read, “October 7 — do it again.” While we whispered blessings, others screamed vengeance. While we built a sukkah to invite peace, we were reminded just how fragile peace still is.
It would be easy to turn away, to let weariness harden into cynicism. But that is not who we are. Sukkot calls us back to courage — to choose faith over fear, to open our hearts when the world closes in.
The sukkah has always been a contradiction: exposed yet sacred, temporary yet eternal. Its walls remind us that strength is not found in what we build to keep others out, but in what we open to let others in. And the lulav and etrog, bound with the myrtle and willow, remind us that holiness is made from difference — each with its own texture, each essential, each incomplete without the others.
This week, as billboards shout hate, we are called to answer with love. To invite rather than retreat. To bring life, laughter and presence into this fragile space and declare: the world is still worth mending.
This Friday night we will gather again — under the branches, beneath the stars. We will sing. We will eat. We will share stories and blessings. We will remember that hope is not something we feel; it’s something we do. Bring your family. Bring your friends. Bring your questions, your doubts, your dreams.
Our sukkah is open. Our hearts are open. Because this is what Sukkot has always meant: to build a home for hope, even when the world feels unsteady.
May this Chag HaAsif truly be a season of gathering. May this Chag Simchateinu truly be a season of joy. And may we, together, live the words of Rav Kook: הַיָּשָׁן יִתְחַדֵּשׁ וְהַחָדָשׁ יִתְקַדֵּשׁ — The old shall be renewed, and the new shall be made holy. Because that is our calling. That is our hope. That is who we are.