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When we sit in our primitive week-house, we come to know that the accumulation of stuff we consider important is not essential.
The defining element of the succa - the temporary dwelling in which Jews are commanded to spend a week each autumn, beginning five days after Yom Kippur - is the once-growing but now detached material that must comprise the structure's roof.
Some use untreated bamboo canes; others, mats woven for the purpose from slivers of the same material; others still, branches or leaves or thin, unfinished wooden slats. Whatever its particular identity, the stuff is called s'chach, from a Hebrew word meaning to "cover" or "hover"; the word succa itself refers to the same.
But there is another Hebrew word that Jewish tradition associates with the word succa - socheh - and its meaning is "to see" or "to perceive." That association would seem to imply that a succa somehow provides some perspective. Which, in fact, it does.
That is surely true on a mystical plane, but there is prosaic vision to be gained no less. It doesn't take inordinate sensitivity to see things a bit differently while spending a week in a small rudimentary hut, within sight of, yet apart from, one's more comfortable, more spacious home.
One realizes quickly, for example, how dependent one is on "the elements" - which, in Judaism's teaching, means how dependent on God's mercy. The house is nearby, and if it rains hard enough one can - indeed should - return to surer shelter. But the lesson remains, because homes aren't impervious to disruptions either, as we have witnessed all too often of late. Nature is a humbling force, or should be; that is certainly part of the perspective granted the succa-dweller.
But there is more. What the succa allows those within it to perceive, if they try, is that our homes and possessions are not what really matter. That ultimately, it is not, as the crass bumper sticker has it, "the one who dies with the most toys" who "wins." When we sit in our primitive week-house, we come to know that the accumulation of stuff we consider important is not essential. We can exist without it. It does not define us. We will not take it with us.
IT MAY seem paradoxical, but that thought is a joyous one.
The holiday of Succot has happiness as its theme. In the holiday addition to the week's "silent prayer," we reference not "freedom" as on Pessah, nor "the giving of our Torah" as on Shavuot, but, simply, "happiness." One might assume at first thought that depriving oneself of the comforts of home is anything but a road to joy. But one would be wrong.
For true happiness begins with the realization of what doesn't really make us happy. Possessions may provide a rush of sorts when first acquired, but that soon enough wears off, like any drug. The soul is not satiated, which is why - again, like a drug - possessions beget the desire, even the need, for yet more of the same. In the words of the talmudic rabbis, "he who has a hundred wants two hundred." And, in another place but the same vein, "No man dies with half his desires in hand." Need we look further than the possession-endowed of whom we all know - the movie stars, sports figures, best-selling authors, the old-moneyed and lottery-winners alike? They may zip around in Lamborghinis but their happiness quotient is no greater than that of those who take the bus. Their grand estates are no more of a home (and all too often considerably less than one) than the simplest, cozy cottage.
In the end, dependency on having as the means to fulfillment dashes all hope of truly attaining the goal.
Because true joy comes from things more rarified than what we can buy. It comes from our relationships not with things, but with other people - parents, spouses, children, friends, neighbors - our relationships with our community, and with our Creator.
And so, a deeper perspective afforded us by the succa may lie in the realization that, ultimately, what we really have is not what we own, but what we are - to other people and to God.
Which is why countless Jewish eyes are gazing up at bamboo slats, leaves and branches, but they see far beyond.
The writer is director of public affairs for Agudath Israel of America.
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