Written by Lisa Bennett, High School Talmud and Tanakh Teacher and Akiva Coordinator
On one of the many sleepless nights of March 2020, I found refuge in the pages of Angels in America. As someone whose life was touched by the AIDS epidemic, I found comfort in words that only a survivor of those times could have penned. In the early days of this pandemic, I was very focused on what I needed—I wanted words that would bring me back to the New York I knew and loved, and so I read Rachel Wetzsteon’s Sakura Park and reread Angels in America. I knew I wanted to encounter these words, these authors; but the spiritual wisdom of our tradition is that we read and reread our sacred canon—even when we don’t feel called to do so and perhaps most importantly when we least feel called to do so. And so I began to read the Book of Ruth and journey with Moshe. It was hard to remember who I was when I last read these texts and that is part of what makes Torah study a spiritual practice. It is a sacred experience to make room for how we have changed since we last read the words. We revisit the words of Torah to both meet the characters and to meet ourselves on the page. There were details in these stories that I once glanced over, that now stood out in sharp relief. The words have stayed the same for thousands of years, but we have not. We see the stories differently at every reading because we are different people each time we pick these stories up.
I want to share one text that took me by surprise this past year. This text earned a special place in my heart as we tried to teach through our masks and through our fears of an airborne illness. The Gemara in Sukkah 11b debates the underlying reasons for the practices of Sukkot. Are the sukkot we build meant to remind us of the Clouds of Glory and the ways in which God protected B'nai Yisrael on their journey as Rabbi Eliezer claims? Or as Rabbi Akiva claims, are our sukkot supposed to bring to mind the fragile, temporary structures of the unhoused, the shelters we build when all we have are the materials around us?
The debate between Rabbi Eliezer and Rabbi Akiva asks us to explore the emotional experience a sukkah is meant to engender. On Sukkot, Rabbi Akiva asks us to remember the deep moments of fear along the journey—those moments when we were vulnerable and exposed. The architecture and design of a sukkah is meant to be temporary and fragile; it is meant to remind us that things can and do fall apart. For Rabbi Eliezer, the shade provided by skach during the day and the glimpses of the stars through the branches at night are meant to bring us back to those moments when we felt most loved and protected along the journey. For Rabbi Eliezer, a sukkah is designed to remind us that what truly shelters us is not the roof over our heads; rather, it is love and generosity that protect our hearts. In true Talmudic fashion, Rabbi Eliezer and Rabbi Akiva are both right. A sukkah is meant to give architectural expression to both the hardship and joys of our lived experiences. The debate between Rabbi Eliezer and Rabbi Akiva challenges us to make room for the whole of our experiences over this past year and a half, because life can be both good and hard; both heartbreaking and heartwarming.
While the holiday of Sukkot is a once a year event, the image of the sukkah is there every evening as the words of Hashkiveinu are recited during maariv and again when Hashkiveinu is recited before going to sleep. The Hashkiveinu asks God to “spread a sukkah of peace over us.” Through the past many months of upheaval, this image has taken on new meaning for me; perhaps the sukkah that we are praying for is the ability to be at peace with the fact that our lives are both good and hard. May you find quiet moments in your evenings to commemorate and celebrate all steps in the journey that have brought you to this moment.