Fragility and Hope (Sukkot)

As we enter Sukkot, I can’t help but think about the strange beauty of the sukkah. These little huts — open to the wind, vulnerable to the rain — are not fortresses. They are reminders.

The Talmud debates what they represent: the huts our ancestors lived in, or the divine clouds that sheltered them. Either way, the sukkah is meant to be permeable. You can see the stars through the roof. You can feel the breeze pass through. It’s temporary, unguarded — and yet, we dwell in it with joy.

Each day we pray: “Ufros aleinu sukkat shlomecha” — “Spread over us the sukkah of Your peace.”

But what a curious thing to ask for — a peace that is like a sukkah: fragile, temporary, exposed. Wouldn’t we rather ask for a peace that is solid, lasting, unbreakable?

And yet, after thousands of years of learning and rebuilding, we know that real peace must be built again and again. Like the sukkah, peace is not a one-time construction. It requires daily labor — vulnerability, courage, and faith.

That’s why we don’t recite a blessing when building the sukkah, only when dwelling in it. Holiness comes not from the act of creating structure, but from the act of living within it — trusting that it will hold, cultivating this ritual of hope, even when peace sways.

Hope — that sacred word. Hope that in the coming days, we might yet see the return of our 48 beloveds. Hope that families will again be whole. Hope that the world might breathe a sigh of relief, and begin the long journey of healing.

May we be so blessed.