Yom Kippur Time and Sukkot Time

When asked what my favorite Jewish holiday is, I always reply with an answer that may be surprising. Without question, Yom Kippur is my favorite. In no particular order, I love the intensity of prayer, the structure for deep personal introspection, the liturgy’s profound focus on human mortality and the deep focus of a large congregation of people.

At the synagogue where I belong, I have the privilege of serving as shlichat tsibur (prayer leader) for Ne’ilah, the service at the very end of the fast day. During that service, I get to stand facing the ark, with the congregation singing with fervor behind me, and with people filing in front of me and the open ark, offering their private prayers. The liturgy is full of pathos and urgency. We cry out for help, as if it is our last chance to turn our lives around, to grow into the people we want to be. I leave feeling inspired, elevated and palpably cleansed.

But then again, who could not love Sukkot? The delicious opportunity to eat and sing with friends and family outside, under the stars, semi-protected and surrounded by the bounty of the harvest in the sukkah. The delight of enriching our prayers with the ritual of the lulav and etrog, taking in the beautiful sights and scents of nature.

Of course, Sukkot has its sober undercurrent as well. We leave the comfort and supposed stability of our homes and spend the week in the flimsy, vulnerable structure of the sukkah. It is as if the ritual cautions us, “Don’t think your ordinary home is as secure as it seems. Life actually is as flimsy and fragile as a sukkah.” As climate change makes our “ordinary” lives more precarious, we know that houses can be destroyed and the possessions we treasure swept away.

The message of dwelling in the sukkah all week, whether for sleeping or eating meals there, is that it is best not to deny the fragility of life but to immerse ourselves in it and savor the beauty and pleasures that are ours to enjoy in this moment. In the sukkah, we are in the present moment, under the sky, the rustling schach (sukkah covering), images of the fall harvest decorating the sukkah, wonderful food, good friends. In our moments in the sukkah, everything in the moment is perfect.

Here we are on Shabbat Ha’azinu, suspended between the deep introspection and spiritual urgency of Yom Kippur and the gratitude of Sukkot. Some say that Sukkot is the Torah’s reward to us for making it through the rigors of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. Sukkot is when we get to relax and enjoy the bounty of our lives.

This year, another connection between Yom Kippur and Sukkot suggests itself to me. In these terrible times in the U.S. and in Israel and Gaza, it can seem like every day is Yom Kippur. The daily litany of bad news is agonizing. As on Yom Kippur, we can feel powerless to make real change, but without the comfort of large numbers of people doing the work with us. We may wonder how much worse things will get. It can feel like the gates are closing on a vibrant American democracy and on an Israel that exemplifies Jewish and humanitarian values.

People lately have been asking me how I navigate these times, how I stay balanced and clear, with open eyes but also with my capacity for joy intact.

I realize that my practice is an oscillation between Yom Kippur-time and Sukkot-time: between times of deep thinking, fear and anxiety on the one hand, and times for joy, gratitude and love on the other.

I cannot choose one or the other. In times of such moral challenge, I know that I must consume news, connect with people and groups I trust to interpret the challenges of the day, and rush to act when I have the opportunity. I could not do otherwise. For me, it would be an abdication of responsibility to shut my eyes to what is happening — both in the U.S. and in Gaza — because I may be needed to respond and to encourage others. I must pay very close attention and feel the pain if I am to make good choices about what I can do to help.

But it would be exhausting and unhealthy to be in Yom Kippur-like consciousness all the time. We humans are not built for such unrelenting intensity. I can almost feel the stress hormones coursing through my body, and I definitely experience times of exhaustion. Sometimes I want to cry and rage.

Then I need to intentionally step out of Yom Kippur-gear to step into Sukkot-gear — into appreciation of beauty, the natural world, my loved ones and rituals I love. In this gear, I am nourished, soothed and revived, even as I know that such pleasures are temporary.

Then the urgency of events calls me back again. I will have to continue to alternate between these ways of living until the dangers subside.

I wish for all of us a year of good health, sweetness and blessing. And for the world, I wish for a year of justice and peace.