Sukkot – The Shelter of Belonging

From Cry, to Voice, to Shelter

The journey of the chaggim is not only historical; it is deeply personal — a spiritual and emotional arc that mirrors the path of parenting itself. Pesach begins with a cry: “And God heard their cry” (Shemot 2:24). It is the holiday of liberation, but also of compassion — the Divine response to pain that could no longer be hidden. Redemption begins when a cry is finally heard. For parents, too, this is where the journey begins: with the courage to hear our child’s cry, even when it comes in the form of silence, anger, or defiance. Pesach is the first act of love — to notice the pain that the world has overlooked and say, You are not invisible.

Shavuot answers that cry with a voice: “Each soul heard the Divine Voice according to its strength” (Shemot Rabbah 5:9). After the pain comes revelation — the moment when a child feels seen and known. At Sinai, the Torah was not shouted from a distance; it was spoken panim el panim, face to face. Each person received it in their own way, their own language, their own heart. This is the essence of attunement: love that speaks personally, not generically.

And then comes Sukkot. After the cry of Pesach and the voice of Shavuot, Sukkot gives us a home — not a fortress of certainty, but a fragile dwelling of faith. Its roof must let the rain through; its walls may sway in the wind. Yet this impermanent space becomes our greatest joy — zman simchateinu.

The Sfas Emes (Sukkot 5631) teaches that the sukkah is not merely a structure, but tzila d’mehemenuta — the “shade of faith.” It shelters us not from discomfort, but from despair. To enter the sukkah is to step into God’s embrace, to learn that holiness can dwell even within vulnerability.

For parents, this is the culmination of the chagim’s message. Pesach teaches: Don’t leave a child behind — redemption begins when you hear their cry. Shavuot teaches: Speak in a voice your child can hear — revelation begins when you attune. And Sukkot teaches: Even in imperfection, build a shelter of belonging — joy begins when love becomes a dwelling. And if Pesach teaches us to hear and Shavuot to speak, Sukkot teaches us what to do next: to hold.

Because in that shelter — fragile, open, and real — joy is not postponed until everything is stable. It is born right there, in the courage to stay, to listen, and to love inside the uncertainty.

The Four Sons and the Four Species – From Hearing to Holding

Pesach introduces the Four Sons — wise, rebellious, simple, and silent — each one engaged on their own terms. The Torah does not erase difference; it honors it. There is no single way to ask, to learn, or to return. Parenting begins here — not by correcting the question, but by meeting the child who asks it.

Sukkot continues this same teaching through the Four Species. The Midrash (Vayikra Rabbah 30:12) explains: the etrog has both taste and fragrance, symbolizing those who live with both learning and deeds. The lulav has taste but no fragrance — those with Torah knowledge but less outward kindness. The hadas has fragrance but no taste — the good-hearted, those who act with compassion even when learning feels hard. And the aravah has neither — those who may feel empty, unseen, or spiritually distant.

And yet, the mitzvah can only be fulfilled when all four are bound together. Alone each is incomplete; together they become one living body. The lulav without the aravah is not kosher, just as a home or community without its struggling souls is spiritually broken. The halachic act of binding — wrapping and tying what might otherwise scatter — becomes a ritual of belonging. Halachically, the binding must be firm yet not strangling — a precise image for how embrace should feel to a child.

The Piaseczner Rebbe, writing in Aish Kodesh (Sukkot 5700), revealed that the aravah’s lack itself is sacred. Those who seem empty are precisely those we must hold closest, for it is through them that compassion becomes real. The Sfas Emes adds that when all are bound together, the Shechinah rests among them — because divine presence lives not in sameness, but in wholeness.

Rabbi Twerski wrote of what he called “the illusion of worthlessness.” Teens who feel they have nothing to offer often act out or retreat, convinced that their emptiness disqualifies them from belonging. But like the aravah, their worth is hidden, not absent. Their pain is often the deepest plea for inclusion.

For parents, this becomes sacred work. The task is not to prune the aravah out, but to bind it tighter — to communicate through presence, not words alone: You still belong in this bundle. You are part of the mitzvah. You complete the whole.

The Four Sons and the Four Species form one continuous teaching. Pesach called us to hear every child; Sukkot calls us to hold them. Hearing without holding is incomplete; empathy must become embrace. Remove the plain willow and the blessing itself falls silent. Without the silent child, there is no story. When we bind them all together — the wise, the simple, the rebellious, the quiet — we recreate the very act of creation itself: many parts becoming one wholeness in which the Shechinah can dwell.

The Shechinah in the Sukkah – God’s Presence in Vulnerability

The Gemara (Sukkah 5b) teaches that the Shechinah dwells within the sukkah. The Zohar calls it tzila d’mehemenuta — the “shade of faith.” The Slonimer Rebbe (Nesivos Shalom, Sukkot) writes that the sukkah embodies the Ananei HaKavod, the Clouds of Glory that surrounded Israel in the wilderness — not as barriers, but as a tender, enveloping embrace. The people were not guarded by stone, but wrapped in light.

The Ramban teaches that leaving our sturdy homes reveals that safety rests on trust. The Baal Shem Tov adds: a roof that lets the stars through reminds us protection isn’t control — it’s welcome, the courage to let God in.

The Chiddushei HaRim offered a beautiful insight: the sukkah’s open roof allows both sunlight and rain to enter, teaching that the Shechinah is present not only in light but also in shadow. God’s embrace is large enough to contain both joy and struggle.

For parents, this is the sacred mirror. Our children do not need us to be unbreakable fortresses; they need us to be steady, breathable shelters. The home is not meant to be a sealed structure of rules, but a living sukkah — permeable, honest, filled with air and light.

When a child feels held — not managed, not constantly corrected, but contained in love — that is when the Shechinah rests in the home. The Slonimer Rebbe teaches that the tzila d’mehemenuta symbolizes the trust that dwells between parent and child: faith that even in weakness, love does not collapse.

In truth, parenting itself is an act of dwelling beneath thin branches — choosing presence over perfection, tenderness over triumph. We cannot block every storm. But when we sit beside our children in the rain, instead of trying to build higher walls, we reveal the same secret the sukkah reveals: that holiness is not the absence of vulnerability, but the courage to remain within it together.

If the Shechinah dwells where we make room, then the next question is: for whom are we making room?

Ushpizin – Welcoming Every Part of the Child

Each night of Sukkot we open our sukkah to the ushpizin — Avraham, Yitzchak, Yaakov, Moshe, Aharon, Yosef, and David — each embodying a distinct middah, a unique way that Divine love manifests in the world. The Arizal taught that when we invite these guests, we are not only recalling the patriarchs but awakening their qualities within ourselves — kindness, awe, truth, humility, connection, resilience, and sovereignty.

The Baal Shem Tov added that the truest ushpizin are not only the guests we call by name, but the inner guests of the soul: the neglected, uncertain, and forgotten parts of who we are. Each year, Sukkot calls us to open the door a little wider — to make space not only for what is polished, but for what is raw and still becoming.

For parents, this is a tender and transformative metaphor. Our children carry many inner guests — the confident, the fearful, the questioning, the wounded. Some are easy to welcome; others test our patience and faith. But Sukkot reminds us that a home becomes holy only when it is open enough to hold them all.

Rav Kook wrote that holiness does not come from perfection, but from integration — from gathering every spark of the soul into harmony. What remains uninvited remains unhealed. When we exile the parts of our children that confuse or disappoint us, we risk exiling their very hearts.

To parent in the spirit of Sukkot is to say to a child: All of you belongs here. The laughing you, the doubting you, the hurting you — there is room for each within this shelter. The ushpizin of the home are not only our ancestors; they are the faces of our children’s unfolding selves.

The Sfas Emes (Sukkot 5643) teaches that the sukkah is a dwelling for the ruach — the breath of the soul — and that joy comes when every inner guest finds a place within it.

When we make room for all that our children are becoming — not by condoning every choice, but by refusing to close the door — the home becomes a sanctuary of belonging.

Once we have welcomed every part, we must decide where those parts will live: inside a sanctuary that can hold them.

Fragility as Holiness – The Sukkah as Sanctuary

The sukkah is intentionally vulnerable. Its walls are thin, its roof lets the rain through, and yet the Gemara (Sukkah 9a) insists: this dirat ara’i — this temporary hut — is your home. Not because it is sturdy, but because you choose to dwell in it with faith.

The Aish Kodesh, written from the ruins of the Warsaw Ghetto, deepens that truth: “The greatness of the sukkah is not its strength, but that it can hold trembling people within it.” Even in the most shattered moments, holiness can take form within tenderness.

The Sfas Emes (Sukkot 5631) teaches that stepping into the sukkah means trusting that God’s presence rests precisely in what is unstable. To live in the sukkah is not an act of retreat but of courage — surrendering the illusion of control and discovering that the Divine does not dwell in permanence, but in presence.

The Zohar calls the sukkah “the embrace of faith,” a space where heaven and earth meet not at their edges of perfection, but at their seams of compassion. Every gust of wind through its walls reminds us that what holds us together is not the strength of our materials, but the depth of our trust.

For parents, this truth is life-giving. We often fear that if our own walls are unsteady — if we lose patience, falter, or make mistakes — then we have failed. But Sukkot teaches the opposite: holiness lives in the courage to dwell together even when the structure feels shaky. It isn’t the beams’ firmness that sanctifies the home, but the willingness to stay inside.

The Slonimer Rebbe adds that tzila d’mehemenuta — the shade of faith — is also the shade of love: the way God shelters His children without removing the sun. Parenting mirrors this shade. Our task is not to build fortresses around our children but to create a shelter open enough for light, gentle enough for rain.

Adolescence is “identity versus role confusion” — dismantling and rebuilding. Their inner walls will shake; our task is not to stop the tremor but to refuse to leave. Our role is not to cement them in, but to sit beside them while they build — to be the steady roof when their own walls sway, the faithful presence that teaches: Even when your structure feels uncertain, you are still home.

And perhaps this is the greatest gift Sukkot gives us: to learn that fragility is not a failure to be overcome, but a holiness to be inhabited. And out of a shelter like that, a quieter kind of joy begins to flow.

Simchat Beit HaSho’eva – Joy That Flows from Simplicity

The Simchat Beit HaSho’eva in the Beit HaMikdash was unlike any other celebration. Each night, water — plain, clear, tasteless — was drawn from the Shiloach spring and poured onto the altar amid song, dancing, and light that illuminated all of Jerusalem. The Gemara (Sukkah 51a) declares: “Whoever has not seen the joy of the Beit HaSho’eva has never seen true joy.”

Why water? Because, say Chazal (Sukkah 50b), through the nisuch hamayim, the drawing of water, “ruach ha’kodesh was drawn down.” The joy of Sukkot was not the intoxication of abundance, but the quiet miracle of presence.

Water, unlike wine, has no color or fragrance. It cannot intoxicate or dazzle. It flows where it is received and takes the shape of its vessel. The Sfas Emes explains that this is why the Beit HaSho’eva was the holiest joy of all — because it came from humility, from the soul’s readiness to be a vessel for God’s flow.

Rabbi Twerski called this “joy that comes from being, not doing.” The Simchat Beit HaSho’eva teaches that joy does not depend on excitement, success, or applause. It arises when we allow something greater than ourselves to flow through us.

For parents, this is the deepest simchah: the joy that comes not from achievement, but from connection. Not the wine of milestones—grades, accomplishments, praise—but the water of quiet presence. A shared meal. A soft word. A walk in the cool evening air. These are our water libations, poured daily upon the altar of relationship.

The Baal Shem Tov taught that simchah expands the soul, allowing God’s light to enter places where despair once lived. When we rejoice simply in being with our children — not fixing them, not measuring them, just being with them — we draw down the same ruach ha’kodesh that filled the Temple courtyards.

Joy, then, is not the end of struggle but its transformation. It is what remains when all the noise fades and what flows when the heart, like water, surrenders to its source. This is why Sukkot’s joy can live alongside uncertainty; it draws from a spring, not a finish line.

Joy Amid Imperfection – Zman Simchateinu

Sukkot’s joy is unlike any other. It comes not at the beginning of the journey but after the Days of Awe — after confession, trembling, and surrender. It is joy through vulnerability, not beyond it. The Sfas Emes (Sukkot 5637) teaches that true simchah arises when we realize that God is with us even in impermanence. The sukkah itself — fragile, swaying, incomplete — becomes the dwelling place of joy precisely because it reminds us that divine presence does not wait for stability. It dwells wherever we invite it.

The Sefer HaChinuch (Mitzvah 324) writes that simchah is not a spontaneous feeling but an act of service — a mitzvah of the heart cultivated through gratitude and trust. Joy, then, is not the absence of pain; it is the presence of faith.

Rabbi Nachman of Breslov taught: “Mitzvah gedolah lihyot b’simcha tamid” — it is a great mitzvah to be in joy always. Not as pain vanishes, but as Presence is discovered within it. When we uncover that truth, joy becomes a form of redemption — a quiet affirmation that nothing is beyond reach and no soul beyond return.

Rav Soloveitchik hints at this when he reads the water-offering as the soul that does not perform to be worthy; it rests in worth and becomes a channel.

The Zohar calls Sukkot “the time of joy for the heart of the King,” teaching that God’s own simchah comes when His children find joy even in imperfection. When we celebrate while the walls still shake and the rain still falls, we mirror divine compassion — the willingness to rejoice in an unfinished world.

For parents of struggling teens, this joy is not naïve optimism; it is holy realism. It means we do not wait for everything to be fixed before we celebrate. We mark small mercies — a soft word, a shared meal, a night beside us. We notice the light coming through the cracks. We dance not because the story is resolved, but because relationship itself has survived.

This kind of joy is redemptive. It does not deny brokenness — it sanctifies it. It whispers to the child: Even in your struggle, you are worthy of delight. And it whispers to the parent: Even in your uncertainty, you are held.

Sukkot teaches us that zman simchateinu is not about perfection but about presence — the steady faith that joy can dwell in the temporary, and that love can live in the unfinished. When we learn to rejoice there, we bring the Shechinah home.

Exile and Return – Meeting Our Children Outside

The Ramban writes that dwelling in the sukkah reenacts our exile from the security of our homes, reminding us that true safety does not come from walls, but from trust. Each year, when we step outside our door, we reenter the wilderness with faith — not because it is comfortable, but because it is sacred.

The Zohar adds that when we leave our solid homes for the sukkah, the Shechinah leaves the heavens to dwell with us there. God meets us in our exile. Divine closeness is not found in the palace, but under the thin roof that lets the stars through.

So too, our children sometimes step outside emotionally — exiling themselves from the safety of our embrace. They withdraw, question, and wander, seeking a space that feels more their own. It is painful to watch, but holy if we understand what it asks of us. The call is not to drag them back into the house of certainty, but to walk with them into the field, to the wilderness edge, and whisper: I am still here with you.

The sukkah sanctifies displacement. It turns “outside” into a place of belonging. Hashivenu Hashem eilecha v’nashuvah — “Return us to You, Hashem, and we will return” (Eicha 5:21). Return begins not from within walls, but from the courage to meet in the open.

The Piaseczner Rebbe wrote that when the world grows dark, the parent’s task is to become a small light that doesn’t erase darkness but shows a path home. That light cannot chase away every shadow; it can only say, You are not alone in the dark.

For parents of struggling teens, this is what exile and return look like. It means leaving our certainties — our expectations, our timelines, our need for control — and choosing presence over power. It means walking out under the stars, into the same uncertain night where our child stands, and trusting that the Shechinah is there too.

That willingness to leave our walls — to love from the wilderness — becomes the truest expression of faith. It is what transforms exile into encounter, and distance into the beginning of return. And when we meet them there and walk them home, we learn what it means to become a shelter ourselves.

The Parent as Sukkah – The Embrace of the King

The three pilgrimage festivals form not only the story of our people but the inner map of parenting itself. Pesach teaches us to hear the cry — that no child should ever be left behind in silence or pain. Shavuot teaches us to speak the voice — to meet each soul according to its own strength, to listen deeply enough that our words reach the heart. And Sukkot teaches us to build the shelter — to offer a space where every child belongs, even in imperfection.

Together, these days trace a movement from rescue to revelation to relationship. They teach that love is not only what saves or teaches, but what stays — what remains when certainty is gone, when all we can offer is presence.

And just as on Shavuot we said that a parent becomes a new Har Sinai, on Sukkot we might say that a parent becomes a living sukkah. Not perfect walls, but a steady shelter. A roof porous to heaven’s light, yet still offering shade. A fragile, faithful embrace that whispers: You belong here. You are safe here. I will sit with you, even in the rain.

The Zohar calls Sukkot “the embrace of the King.” The Shechinah, says the Midrash, spreads Her wings over those who dwell beneath the s’chach. When we sit with our children in their own moments of uncertainty — when we bring them into a space that may be fragile but filled with faith — we are echoing that same divine embrace. We are teaching them, not through lectures or rules, but through presence: You are still held. You still belong.

The Slonimer Rebbe writes that the sukkah is the meeting place between human fragility and divine compassion — where love becomes stronger than fear, and presence deeper than control. Parenting in that spirit means becoming that kind of shelter ourselves: open enough for light to enter, steady enough for love to dwell.

When a child knows they are not left behind, when they hear that their voice still matters, when they feel that they belong even in imperfection — then the journey of the chaggim is complete. The cry of Pesach becomes the freedom to be seen. The voice of Shavuot becomes the revelation of relationship. And the shelter of Sukkot becomes the joy of belonging — the simple, sacred happiness of being together under a roof that sways yet holds.

Perhaps this is the festivals’ last lesson—and parenting’s: not only to dwell in God’s shelter, but to become it.

Chag Sameach!!!

Yaakov Lazar