September 29, 2026|י"ח תשרי ה' אלפים תשפ"ז What Kind of Place Are We Creating?
Print ArticleThere are different kinds of vacations.
For some people, a vacation is about what you do.
You hike. You explore. You see new places. You wake up early, spend the day exhausted, and come back to the hotel feeling like you accomplished something.
For others, a vacation is about not doing anything at all.
You sleep late. You sit by the pool. You read a book. You have a leisurely meal.
No schedule. No agenda.
And for parents of young children, there is an even more advanced form of vacation:
You give your children to someone else for the night, sleep until 9:00 a.m., and call it a getaway.
A few summers ago, Yael and I were scholars in residence in Seattle. While we were there, we decided to go hiking with our sons, Daniel and Netanel.
I was thrilled.
We were going to hike Mount Rainier, Mount Olympus, and the Cascades. I was already imagining the beautiful scenery, the pictures, the memories we would make together.
My sons had a different vision.
They were imagining the part where we stopped hiking.
We started the hike, and pretty quickly it became clear that we had very different ideas about what a vacation should be.
Yael and I thought we were on vacation because we were hiking through the mountains.
Daniel and Netanel did not think we were on vacation at all.
We were looking for two very different experiences.
And that is part of what makes vacations interesting. People look for different things. Some want adventure. Some want relaxation. Some want to explore. Others just want to get away from their normal routine.
But whatever kind of vacation we prefer, there is something most vacations have in common:
We want to experience life differently for a little while.
We step away from our ordinary routines and enter a different kind of environment.
And that is exactly what happens on Sukkot.
For seven days, we leave our ordinary homes and enter a different kind of space.
The Torah says:
“Ba-sukkot teshvu shiv'at yamim.”
For seven days, dwell in the sukkah.
And Chazal explain:
“Teshvu ke'ein taduru.”
Live in the sukkah the way you live in your home.
Most mitzvot involve something we do.
We put on tefillin. We take a lulav. We hear the shofar. We eat matzah.
But Sukkot is different.
For seven days, we don’t simply perform a mitzvah.
We live inside one.
The Torah is asking us not merely to do something differently, but to live differently, even if only for seven days.
And that becomes especially meaningful when we remember where we have just come from.
Yom Kippur.
On Yom Kippur, we spend an entire day trying to change ourselves.
We confess.
We ask forgiveness.
We make commitments.
We do teshuvah.
We leave Yom Kippur hoping that we are not the same people who entered it.
And then, just a few days later, we are told:
Go outside.
Leave your house.
Build a sukkah.
And dwell there.
Why?
The Sefat Emet, in his commentary on Sukkot, gives us a remarkable answer.
He writes:
“Ba-rishonah dibarnu ta'am sukkot achar Rosh Hashanah ve-Yom Kippur. Ki ha-ba'alei teshuvah ein lahem makom, ve-ha-Kadosh Baruch Hu noten lo makom, ve-hu ha-sukkah.”
“We previously explained the reason for Sukkot after Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. The ba'alei teshuvah have no place, and Hashem gives them a place, and that is the sukkah.”
And then he writes:
“U-kefi mah she-yode'a ha-adam she-ein lo makom mi-tzmo, noten lo ha-Kadosh Baruch Hu makom. U-makom zeh gavoha mi-mah she-zocheh be-ma'asav.”
“To the extent that a person recognizes that he has no place of his own, Hashem gives him a place. And this place is higher than what he can attain through his own actions.”
What does the Sefat Emet mean when he says that a ba'al teshuvah has no place?
Perhaps he means that after Yom Kippur, we are in an unusual position.
We have tried to become different people.
But where does that new person live?
We return to the same routines.
The same pressures.
The same habits.
The same environment.
And sometimes the environment around us pulls us back toward the person we were trying to leave behind.
So the Sefat Emet tells us that after Yom Kippur, Hashem gives the ba'al teshuvah a makom, a place.
Yom Kippur changes us. Sukkot gives that change a place to live.
On Yom Kippur, we work on the person.
On Sukkot, we work on the place.
And that is why the sukkah is such an unusual mitzvah.
We spend tremendous effort making sure our sukkah is constructed properly.
Is the schach kosher?
Are there enough walls?
Are they high enough?
We measure. We check. We ask shailot.
But perhaps Sukkot asks us to think about another kind of construction.
What kind of environment are we creating?
And nowhere is that question more important than in our homes.
Because our homes don’t just shelter us.
They shape us.
Our children see what we make time for.
They see how we speak to one another.
They see whether there is room for guests.
They see whether Torah is part of the rhythm of everyday life.
They see whether Judaism is something we merely teach, or something we actually live.
Because our children don’t just hear what we tell them Judaism is.
They experience what Judaism feels like.
And perhaps this also helps explain why Sukkot is called:
Zman Simchateinu, the time of our joy.
The sukkah is smaller than our house.
It is less comfortable.
It is temporary.
And yet, this is the holiday of simcha.
Why?
Because the sukkah changes what we notice.
Inside that small space, we focus on what we already have:
Family. Friends. Torah. Guests. Time together.
Sometimes joy doesn’t require having more.
It requires experiencing what we already have differently.
And perhaps that is also true of Jewish life.
Sometimes the most powerful way to give someone a Jewish identity is not to give them another lesson.
It is to give them a place where Judaism is lived.
There is a remarkable story that illustrates this.
Moshe Adinov grew up in Kazan, Russia, during the Soviet era.
His father, Rabbi Nachum Eliyahu Adinov, was a sofer. The family practiced Judaism quietly, at a time when they had to be extremely careful about doing so openly.
Every Sukkot, the family would celebrate in their small wooden house. In the back was a porch, and Moshe’s father would cover its roof with leaves and foliage.
They would invite Jewish friends over.
His father would make Kiddush.
He would tell stories.
He would speak gently to the family about Judaism.
Moshe remembered that theirs was the only sukkah in town.
His father died in 1965, and Moshe inherited the house. He wanted to continue the Sukkot tradition for his own children.
But Moshe assumed that his father had used leaves and foliage simply because he could not afford anything better.
So he decided to improve it.
With the help of friends in the steel industry, he put a sturdy aluminum roof over the porch.
For thirty years, Moshe thought he had improved his father’s sukkah.
Then, in 1998, Chabad arrived in Kazan.
Rabbi Yitzchok Garelik invited Moshe to the community sukkah.
Moshe walked inside.
He saw the candles.
He saw the wine.
He saw a Jewish family gathered around the table.
And above them, he saw leaves, branches, and foliage.
And he began to cry.
He suddenly realized:
That was the sukkah.
For thirty years, Moshe had thought he was improving his father’s tradition.
Now he understood what his father had given him.
Not a lecture.
Not a textbook.
Not a list of rules.
A place.
A place where there was Kiddush.
A place where there were Jewish guests.
A place where there were stories.
A place where Judaism was simply part of life.
And decades later, when Moshe walked into another sukkah, he remembered.
That is the power of a Jewish home.
Our children may not remember every lesson we teach them.
They may not remember every dvar Torah we give.
They may not remember every rule we tell them to follow.
But they remember places.
They remember the feeling of Shabbat.
They remember the people who sat around the table.
They remember the sound of Kiddush.
They remember the guests who came through the door.
They remember what it felt like to be part of something.
And that is the gift of Sukkot.
Yom Kippur changes us. Sukkot asks us to create a place where that change can live.
So when we go back inside our homes, perhaps we should ask ourselves three questions.
What will our children see?
What do we make time for?
What will they hear?
How do we speak to one another?
And most importantly:
What will they feel?
What does Judaism feel like in our home?
Because one day, our children will build homes of their own.
And they will carry something of ours with them.