And the holiday of Sukkot, the Feast of Tabernacles, gives us a powerful example.
We're commanded to build a succah, a temporary dwelling, a booth, to remember how our ancestors lived in the desert after the Exodus from Egypt. A flimsy little structure, open to the elements. But why? What's the point?
Sifrei Devarim, a book of legal interpretations on the Book of Deuteronomy, asks a fascinating question. It quotes the verse regarding constructing the succah and then asks, "What is the intent of 'for the Most High'?" It seems to be looking for a deeper understanding.
The answer it provides is beautiful: "When you make a succah for yourself, I will reckon it to you as if you made it for the Most High." You're building this little shelter for yourself. You're thinking about your own comfort, your own connection to tradition. But God says, "I see that. And I consider it as if you were building it for Me." It elevates the act, imbuing it with profound significance. It suggests that our seemingly mundane actions can have spiritual resonance, that there's a partnership between us and the Divine.
But there's a catch. The text goes on to clarify the specific way the succah needs to be constructed. It uses the phrase "shall you make." This means that the materials used for the roof-covering, the sechach, can't be something that was already "made," already growing. , because it has practical implications and a deeper meaning. The text explains this with a ruling: "If one inclined over the succah, grape-vine, gourd, or thorn (while they were still rooted in the ground) to serve as its roof-covering (sechach), the succah is invalid." Even if you later cut those things down, it doesn't count. Why? Because, "at the time of the inclining the roof was already 'made.'"
So, what does this tell us? It isn't enough just to use natural materials. We have to actively make something new with them for the purpose of the succah. It’s about intention and action. It's about taking something from the world and transforming it through our effort into something holy, something connected to the mitzvah.
The succah, then, becomes more than just a temporary dwelling. It's a symbol of our active participation in the world, our ability to elevate the ordinary into the extraordinary, to connect with the Divine through our actions. It's a reminder that even the simplest things we do, when done with intention and awareness, can be considered as if they were done "for the Most High."
So, as you sit in your succah, perhaps gazing up at the stars through the loosely woven sechach, remember that you're not just fulfilling a commandment. You're engaging in a dialogue with the Divine, transforming the mundane into the sacred. You are, in a sense, building something not just for yourself, but for something far greater.