October 12, 2025|כ' תשרי ה' אלפים תשפ"ו When Everything Is Fragile: Faith and the Release of the Hostages By Rabbi Jonathan Muskat

I want to share with you all what am I feeling right now — at this moment, at the cusp of what could be the release of the hostages.

I think I’m understanding Kohelet on a whole new level.

Because Kohelet isn’t just a sefer about ideas — it’s a book that captures the emotional and spiritual complexity of life. And right now, we are living that complexity in real time.

This morning, we read one of the most unusual books in all of Tanakh. Most of Tanakh is about God speaking to man — the Torah tells us how to live, the prophets call us back when we stray. But Kohelet is different. Kohelet is about man speaking to himself — wrestling with life, meaning, and his expectations of God and the world.

So different, in fact, that Chazal even debated whether it should be included in Tanakh at all — mipnei she-devarav sotrin zeh et zeh — because it seems to contradict itself. Is pleasure good or bad? Is wisdom noble or foolish? Is joy holy or empty? And above all — what does Shlomo HaMelech mean when he declares, Hevel havalim, hakol hevel — vanity of vanities, all is futile?

At first glance, Kohelet sounds pessimistic, almost nihilistic. But it ends with hope:

סוף דבר הכל נשמע, את האלוקים ירא ואת מצוותיו שמור —

We may not understand everything, but a life of mitzvah, a life of faith, is a life well spent.

The Targum explains that Shlomo foresaw the destruction of the Beit HaMikdash, the exile of his people — and cried out, Hevel havalim! Everything he built would vanish. Yet even then he concluded: Et HaElokim yira — faith endures, even when everything else fades.

But perhaps we can go deeper.

A scholar named Ethan Dor-Shav pointed out that we’ve misunderstood the word hevel. It doesn’t mean “vanity” or “futility.” It literally means “breath” — something fleeting, here for a moment and gone.

Who was Hevel in the Torah? The first person to die. His life was short, but the Torah tells us, Vayisha Hashem el Hevel v’el minchato — God accepted his offering. His life was brief — but meaningful. Hevel teaches us that value is not measured by duration or success, but by devotion. So when Shlomo says hakol hevel, he isn’t saying life is pointless — he’s saying life is precious, because it passes.

And that’s why we read Kohelet on Sukkot. Sukkot is z’man simchateinu — the festival of joy. The harvest is in, the year’s work is done, Yom Kippur has cleansed us — life couldn’t be better. And just then, we step into a fragile sukkah and read Hevel havalim, hakol hevel. Not to darken our joy, but to deepen it. To remind us that joy is fragile — and that’s what makes it holy. Because everything is temporary, every moment infinitely valuable.

At first, Kohelet grieves that reality — that all achievements fade. But by the end, he embraces it:

לך אכול בשמחה לחמך — “Go, eat your bread with joy.” Once we accept that everything is fleeting, we can finally live fully.

And maybe that’s what we’re feeling now — the fragility, the complexity, the contradictions of Kohelet playing out before our eyes.

It looks like, at long last, the hostages may finally be freed. After two unbearable years, we may see images of mothers embracing their children again. Just thinking about it fills us with tears of gratitude, of relief, of awe.

And yet — it’s not simple. Because along with the joy comes unease. Have we defeated Hamas? That was the dream — to destroy evil, to make sure this could never happen again.

But Hamas is still alive. Still armed. Still threatening. Will they truly commit to disarm and how will we truly monitor whether or not they will disarm. Additionally, we will likely release scores of bloodstained terrorists.

Will one of them be the next Sinwar, God forbid? Will we be back fighting again in ten or fifteen years? Or maybe in five years or even two? 

So many contradictions. Joy and dread. Relief and worry. Triumph and uncertainty. Nothing is neat. Nothing is clean. Hevel havalim — everything is fragile, fleeting, mixed.

And yet — סוף דבר, הכל נשמע; את האלוקים ירא ואת מצוותיו שמור.

With all the uncertainty, with all the contradictions, we find our anchor in God.

That’s also the message of the sukkah.

The sukkah is fragile, temporary, incomplete. Yet in that very impermanence, we discover joy.

We learn that holiness doesn’t come from permanence — from stone walls or perfect answers — but from presence.

From being fully alive in this moment — under this sky, surrounded by the fragility of life.

And maybe this year, that message feels even more real. Because even our sukkot may be fragile in a literal way — as we brace for a storm Sunday night. The storm, like Kohelet, reminds us: everything in life is temporary, unpredictable, uncertain — and that is exactly where faith is born.

The Netziv teaches that Shlomo recited Kohelet on Sukkot before the wise men of all nations, because its message is universal. It speaks to every human being who has ever wrestled with the fleetingness of life.

And it speaks to us — as we wrestle with faith, fear, and hope. We yearn for clarity, but often we find only tension — Beit Hillel and Beit Shammai, both divrei Elokim chayim.

Kohelet teaches that this uncertainty is not a flaw in religious life — it is religious life. To search, to question, to hold paradox with humility — that is the essence of faith.

So as we sit in our sukkot — open to the wind, the rain, the stars — and as we await, with trembling hearts, the reunion of families torn apart — may we remember: Hevel havalim does not mean “nothing matters.” It means “everything matters — because it doesn’t last.”

When we can find joy not despite life’s fragility, but because of it —
when we can give thanks even in a world of contradiction —
then we have truly understood both Sukkot and Kohelet.

סוף דבר, הכל נשמע; את האלוקים ירא ואת מצוותיו שמור