Sukkot, also known as the Feast of Tabernacles or Booths, is one of the most ancient and symbolically rich festivals in the Jewish calendar. It is a celebration not only of harvest, but of spiritual shelter, impermanence, and the intimate relationship between the human soul and divine protection. Though deeply rooted in agricultural tradition, Sukkot transcends the field to become a sanctuary in time, a dwelling place of spirit built in the open air.
The festival commemorates the Israelites’ journey through the wilderness after the Exodus from Egypt, during which they dwelled in fragile temporary shelters. To remember this, Jews today construct sukkot — small, temporary booths with roofs made of branches — and dwell in them for seven days. Meals are eaten there, prayers are offered there, and in some traditions, people even sleep there. But this is not merely a reenactment of history; it is a metaphysical reminder that true shelter is not found in permanence, but in presence.
Spiritually, the sukkah is both dwelling and metaphor. Its delicate structure, open to the sky, teaches vulnerability. It invites those who enter to remember that material certainty is illusion, and that divine providence is the true canopy. The act of dwelling in the sukkah is not about discomfort, but about perspective — a shift from ownership to openness, from structure to surrender.
Kabbalistically, the sukkah is seen as a vessel for divine light. Each night of the festival, it is said that a different ushpizin — a spiritual guest, traditionally one of the patriarchs like Abraham, Isaac, or Jacob — enters the sukkah. In some traditions, the matriarchs are also honoured. These guests are not merely symbolic figures; they represent qualities of soul to be welcomed and integrated. Abraham brings kindness, Moses brings truth, David brings divine kingship. The sukkah thus becomes a chamber of spiritual reflection and ascent.
Philosophically, Sukkot challenges the illusion of independence. The fragility of the booth is a lesson in interdependence — between person and nature, between self and community, between earthly life and higher trust. To sit under branches, watching stars between leaves, is to return to something elemental. It is to remember that we are not builders of permanence, but walkers through a sacred wilderness.
Artistically, Sukkot inspires physical creativity and communal beauty. Families and communities decorate their sukkot with hanging fruit, paper lanterns, embroidered cloth, and handwritten blessings. The roof must allow for glimpses of the sky — a visual symbol of the balance between protection and exposure. Music, too, plays a part, with joyous festival songs celebrating not only the harvest but the joy of connection. In liturgy, the waving of the lulav and etrog — palm, myrtle, willow, and citron — creates a visual and tactile prayer, calling in abundance from the four corners of the earth.
Ultimately, Sukkot is a festival of joy, but not superficial joy. It is the joy that comes when one realises that even in transience, there is divine companionship. That what we build in humility, we fill with presence. That the booth we sit in, delicate though it may be, is infused with eternity. It is a reminder that sacred space can be created anywhere — not by walls, but by awareness. Not by permanence, but by peace.
