But there’s so much more to it than just a spiritual "reset" button.

You see, on Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year, tradition tells us that God sits in judgment of everyone. Then, on Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, that judgment is sealed. And what if that judgment includes exile? Banishment?

That's where Sukkot comes in, almost immediately after Yom Kippur. Think about it: we build these temporary structures, these sukkot (singular: sukkah), and we literally move into them. We leave the comfort of our homes, our solid walls and sturdy roofs, and dwell in these flimsy booths.

Why?

Well, one beautiful explanation is that God sees this act, this deliberate "banishment" from our homes, as if we are experiencing exile. As Pesikta de-Rav Kahana tells us, God considers this equivalent to dwelling in exile, specifically like the Babylonian exile. And because of that, God continues to shelter and protect Israel.

It’s a powerful idea, isn’t it? We willingly enter a state of impermanence, and in doing so, we evoke God's compassion.

So, during Sukkot, we gather our lulav (palm branch) and etrog (citron fruit), we build our sukkot, and we sing praises to God. We celebrate the atonement we received on Yom Kippur. And according to tradition, on the first day of Sukkot, God proclaims, "Let bygones be bygones. From this moment on commences a new reckoning. Today, the first day of Sukkot, is to be the first day of this new era of reckoning."

Sukkot, along with Passover and Shavuot, is one of the three major pilgrimage festivals. In ancient times, before the destruction of the Temple in Jerusalem, Jews would travel to Jerusalem to bring harvest offerings. And of the three, Sukkot most vividly retains its character as a harvest festival.

During the seven days of Sukkot, many eat and even sleep in these sukkot erected beside their homes, synagogues, or even on apartment building rooftops, with only leafy branches for a roof. This practice, of course, reminds us of the Israelites' 40 years of wandering in the wilderness after the Exodus from Egypt, when they lived in temporary dwellings.

But this myth adds another, equally important layer of meaning. It's not just about remembering the past. It's about actively participating in a ritual that evokes God’s mercy. As we find in Midrash Rabbah, the act of dwelling in the sukkah becomes a symbolic act of experiencing exile, prompting God to extend protection.

The Zohar tells us even more: it’s a role reversal, in a way. Instead of us atoning to God, God atones for us. It highlights God's immense mercy, forgiving our sins and offering us a fresh start. It’s a beautiful cycle of ritual and myth reinforcing each other. We perform the act, and in doing so, we tap into a deeper, more profound understanding of our relationship with the Divine.

So, as you sit in your sukkah, surrounded by the rustling leaves and the scent of the harvest, remember this story. Remember that you are not just commemorating the past, but actively participating in a ritual that evokes God's compassion and offers the promise of a new beginning. What might you do with that fresh start?