July 3, 2026 Categories: In Print / Featured / Parsha
Beginning Again: Transmission Through Fracture
We are living in a wilderness. Not the kind mapped by GPS, but the kind marked by grief, fear, and fracture. Antisemitism rises, civic trust erodes, and families splinter. We are mourning in this world. Mourning losses that are personal and communal, visible and unnamed. And still, the Torah commands us: V’samachta b’chagecha – you shall rejoice in your festival (Devarim 16:14).
We’ve just emerged from Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. The days of judgment, repentance, and raw introspection. We stood exposed before Hashem, naming our failures and pleading for renewal and refusing to break. And now, we’re told to build a sukkah. To dwell in vulnerability, while rejoicing.
Sukkos does not offer escape. It offers rehearsal for going out into the world after a month of chagim. It teaches us to lead from exposure, not insulation. To gather, not retreat. To author holiness in a broken world.
Sukkos as Communal Architecture
Sukkos is a holiday of paradox. Its fragile walls offer Divine protection. We dwell in impermanence, yet root ourselves in our covenant. Ba-sukkot teishvu shiv’at yamim – You shall dwell in booths for seven days (Vayikra 23:42). It teaches us to lead from the midst, not apart. Not from palaces, but from huts. The Talmud says, Ra’ui kol Yisrael leisheiv b’sukkah acha – it is fitting that all Israel should sit in one sukkah (Sukkah 27b). That’s not logistics, that is moral architecture. Each night, we invite ushpizin, our ancestral guests, into our sukkah. Avraham, Yitzchak, Yaakov, Moshe, Aharon, Yosef, and Dovid HaMelech. The Zohar teaches that when one sits in the tzeil haEmunah, the shadow of faith, the shechina’s “wings” are spread above them, and the righteous ones dwell with us. But the invitation is not symbolic alone. Rambam warns: Mi she’ochel v’shoteh im b’nei beito v’eino notein le’ani’im u’le’evyonim…ein zo simchat mitzvah, ela simchat kreso – one who eats and drinks with family but does not feed the poor and embittered soul… this is not the joy of a mitzvah, but the joy of his belly (Hilchot Yom Tov 6:18). The sukkah is not a private sanctuary, rather it is a public ethic. To dwell in its shade is to commit to communal nourishment, not just familial comfort. Leadership in the shadow of faith demands more than ritual. It demands redistribution, presence, and refusal to feast while others hunger. The sukkah teaches us: holiness is not inherited, it is authored, through who we invite, who we feed, and how we lead.A Light Among Nations
In a world fractured by fear, antisemitism, and isolation, Sukkos reminds us that holiness is not a status, it’s a practice. V’samachta b’chagecha…ata, u’vincha, u’vitecha, v’ha-ger, v’ha-yatom, v’ha-almanah – You shall rejoice on your festival…you, your son, your daughter, the stranger, the orphan, and the widow (Devarim 16:14). This is not just a list, it’s a blueprint. We are not chosen because we are holy; we are chosen because we can bring holiness. That charge is not inward-facing. It demands that we rise above fear and become a light among nations. It’s not by retreating, but by inviting. Not by guarding, but by gathering. The prophet Zechariah envisioned a time when V’alu kol haGoyim midei shana b’shana l’hishtachavot… v’lachog et chag haSukkot – All the nations shall go up year by year to worship the King, the L-rd of Hosts, and to keep the festival of Sukkos (Zechariah 14:16). That’s not fantasy, it’s a call to action. It’s a reminder that our rituals are not just for us. They are for the world. To be a light among nations is not just metaphor; it is our mandate.Shemini Atzeres and the Prayer for Rain: Leadership in the Pause and Exposure
Then comes Shemini Atzeres, the pause, the intimate “extra” day. The moment when Hashem says, Kasheh alai preidatchem – stay with Me one more day (Rashi on Bamidbar 29:35). It’s not a festival of ritual, but a festival of relationship. It’s the Divine whisper that says: before you go back into the world, linger... breathe… take a few more moments and let the ache settle, let the joy root. Shemini Atzeres is not about building. It’s about being. It’s the moment after the gathering, after the rain, after the dancing and the dwelling. It’s the stillness that allows integration. The pause that honors exhaustion. The intimacy that precedes return. For our communal leaders, it is the charge to rest without retreat. To listen without performance. To remember that leadership is not only public architecture, but also private anchoring. Shemini Atzeres reminds us that before we re-enter the wilderness of fractured trust and rising fear, we must first be held. Not by structures, but by presence. Not by strategy, but by relationship. So, we linger a little longer. We let the Torah rest on our hearts before it returns to our lips. We let the rain soften the soil before we plant again. We let the ache of the season become the root of our renewal. And then, only then, do we rise, not to resume, but to restore. Then as Shemini Atzeres closes, we turn toward the rain. Mashiv ha-ruach u’morid ha-geshem We ask for sustenance, knowing we cannot control it. That is the posture of communal leadership. It’s bold, exposed and prayerful. We step into the wilderness not to be safe, but to be sent. We ask for rain but not just to nourish the land, but to soften our hearts. Rain is both a blessing and a risk. It reminds us that growth requires exposure.Let the Rain Fall
When we open our sukkahs to the community and to those not like us, we are building a bridge between faith and action. We are proclaiming: this fragile shelter can hold us all. That holiness is not confined to scrolls and sanctuaries, it lives in civic gatherings, shared meals, and interfaith partnerships. That Torah is not just read, it is lived. So let the rain fall. Let the Torah begin again. Let the children gather. Let the ancestors dwell. And let us, the inheritors and authors of communal care, rise, not to retreat, but to rebuild.The Torah Cycle and Communal Charge
We do not end, rather we begin again, rain-soaked and ready. Vezos HaBeracha ends, and Bereishis begins. There is no buffer, no pause. Just transition. That rhythm is intentional. It teaches us that leadership is iterative. That endings are beginnings. That we must carry the ache and the joy, the loss and the legacy, into the next chapter. This is the rhythm I strive to live. I know that the sukkah is not just a ritual for me but rather it reminds me that my faith is my framework. It teaches us to build systems that shelter without silencing. That invites without diluting. That transmit without erasing.Transmission and Ache: Simchat Torah and Family Legacy
On Simchat Torah, we have Kol Na’arim. We gather the children under a tallis to hear the first words of Bereishis. It’s one of the most tender moments in our communal rhythm. It’s pure joy, continuity embodied. I didn’t get to see my stepchildren under the canopy, but I am grateful that their mother did. This knowledge carries its own weight. I rejoice that my husband was able to experience that moment with his children, yet at the same time, I grieve that he will never hold one of ours there. That ache doesn’t cancel the joy, rather it deepens it. It reminds me that Torah is not just inherited, it’s authored. That leadership is not just biological, it’s communal. I take solace in being able to witness my nieces, nephews, great-nieces, and great-nephews grow in Torah. This year, two of my nephews become bnei mitzvah, one just before Rosh Hashanah, the other closing out Sukkos. They are the bookends during a season of return. Their voices rise in Torah, their hands hold scrolls, as they step into their own acceptance of our community, not just as individuals, but as inheritors of our communal charge. G-d willing, I will one day merit to witness my step-grandchildren do the same.Blessing for the Next Generation
Their bar mitzvahs mark the thresholds of this season. They are not just reading Torah; they are becoming part of its architecture. Their voices rise in the cadence of our nation. Their hands hold the scrolls we once held. Their steps echo in the frameworks we’ve built. As a family, we witness this sacred continuity unfolding. Our presence lives in the rituals we’ve adapted, the systems we’ve refused to abandon, the truths we’ve insisted on transmitting. And while I may not stand beside them on the bimah, I will stand behind them and with them, in memory, in charge, in prayer. Not only as a member of the family, but as a member of Klal Yisrael. My prayer for them, and all those who step into the ol malchut Shamayim, the yoke of Heaven’s sovereignty, is not for certainty but for rootedness. That they may dwell in the shelter of Torah, even when it leaks. That they may lead with open hands and steady hearts. That they may know leadership is not inherited, it is chosen, again and again, in the rain, in the ache, in the charge. We carry what was lost. We build what must be. We lead not from ease, but from emunah. Not alone, but in covenant. Like Moshe, we raise heavy arms with help. Like Miriam, we sing from survival. Like Avraham, we open our tents wide. This season does not end with comfort, it ends with kabbalat ol, the acceptance of responsibility. To rise again. To begin again. To author holiness through fracture. That is nosei b’ol im chaveiro – bearing the burden with our people. That is the Torah we transmit. That is the leadership we refuse to abandon. So let the Torah begin again. Let the children gather. Let the ancestors dwell. Let the rain soften what must be planted. And let us rise. Rain soaked, rooted and ready to begin again. Ready to plant holiness in fractured soil.
