Going Home to the Sukkah

 Going Home to the Sukkah

By: Rabbi Ari Kahn

 

In seeking the spiritual roots of Sukkot, we embark on a journey to uncover its origin story—not merely in historical terms, but in metaphysical essence. The first mention of a cloudlike phenomenon in the Torah appears in Bereishit (Genesis) 2:6:

וְאֵד יַעֲלֶה מִן-הָאָרֶץ, וְהִשְׁקָה אֶת-כָּל-פְּנֵי הָאֲדָמָה"

“A mist ascended from the earth and watered the entire surface of the ground.”

This verse, deceptively simple, contains the seeds of profound mystery. The mist—or cloud—rises from below, yet its purpose is to bring water, the very substance that descends from above. This inversion hints at a deeper truth: the boundaries between heaven and earth are porous, and creation itself is a dialogue between the terrestrial and the celestial.

Water, of course, is a central theme of Sukkot. We pray for rain, yet we fear it in the sukkah. The sukkah is both sanctuary and vulnerability—a place where we confront the elements and embrace divine providence.

Rashi, ever attuned to nuance, offers two profound insights into this verse. First, he explains that the earth had not yet produced vegetation because rain had not fallen, and there was no man to work the soil. The mist arose to prepare the ground for human cultivation—teaching us that creation is incomplete without human partnership.

Second, Rashi sees this verse as a prelude to the creation of man in the next verse (Bereishit 2:7):

“Then God formed man from the dust of the earth and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life, and man became a living soul.”

The mist waters the earth, softening it, preparing it to be shaped. Rashi likens this to kneading dough: just as flour must be mixed with water to become pliable, so too the dust of the earth must be moistened before it can be formed into man. This imagery is rich with symbolism—man is not merely formed from raw material, but from a fusion of heaven and earth, of divine breath and softened clay.

This sets the stage for understanding man as a hybrid being, and it also frames the sukkah as a structure that mirrors this duality: built from earthly materials yet suffused with divine presence.

Rashi further teaches that the dust used to form man was gathered from the four corners of the earth, so that upon death, man could return to any part of the earth. He then cites a second opinion: that the dust was taken from the site of the earthen altar. This suggests that even man’s physicality is not merely terrestrial—it is sanctified, rooted in the sacred geography of divine service.

The Targum Yonatan deepens this mystical reading. On the verse about the mist, he writes that it was not merely a cloud—it was the Anan Kavod, the Cloud of Glory. He describes it as descending from beneath the Kisei HaKavod, the Throne of Glory, drawing water from the celestial oceans to nourish the earth.

This is staggering: the very first cloud in creation is not meteorological—it is theological. It is the same cloud that will later envelop the Mishkan, guide the Israelites in the desert, and hover over the sukkah. The Ananei HaKavod are not a post-Exodus phenomenon; they are woven into the fabric of creation itself.

In the next verse, the Targum describes man as being formed with two inclinations—good and evil—and again locates the dust’s origin in the Beit HaMikdash and the four winds of the earth. This evokes the ritual of the Sotah, where dust from the Temple floor is used to reveal hidden truths. Man, too, is a vessel of hidden truths—his body formed from sacred soil, his soul a breath of the Divine.

Thus, the sukkah becomes a return—not merely to a historical moment, but to the primordial act of creation. It is a homecoming to the place where heaven and earth first kissed, where mist rose and breath descended, where man was formed in the image of paradox.

We now arrive at a striking realization: the physical composition of man is not merely mundane. It is formed from two sacred elements—water drawn from the Ananei HaKavod, the Clouds of Glory, and earth gathered from the Beit HaMikdash, the Temple Mount. These are not neutral materials; they are infused with holiness. And into this sanctified matter, God breathes the soul—the spiritual essence of man.

Thus, man is not simply a hybrid of body and soul. His very body is constructed from spiritual components. The physical is not a foil to the spiritual—it is its vessel, its echo, its partner.

Let us pause and consider the appearances of the cloud in sacred moments. At Sinai, the mountain was enveloped in a cloud. When Avraham approached Har HaMoriah for the Akeidah, the Midrash tells us the mountain was shrouded in a cloud—anan kashur lahar. These clouds are not incidental; they are markers of divine presence, veils of revelation.

The Ramban teaches that the experience at Sinai metamorphosed into the Mishkan—the Tabernacle. The cloud that hovered over Sinai now hovers over the Mishkan, and ultimately returns to its rightful place: Har HaMoriah, the site of the Beit HaMikdash. The cloud is the thread that stitches together revelation, sanctuary, and sacrifice.

In our liturgy, we speak of Sukkat David HaNofelet—the fallen Sukkah of David. This is not merely poetic; it is a reference to the Beit HaMikdash. The Sukkah, the Mishkan, the cloud—they are all facets of the same reality: the dwelling of the Divine among men.

The Vilna Gaon and others note that the Sukkah is one of the few mitzvot into which one enters with their entire being. The only other such experiences are a Mikvah Eretz Yisrael and the Beit HaMikdash. These three— Mikvah, land, and sanctuary—are realms of purity. They do not merely symbolize holiness; they generate it.

Rabbi Nachman of Breslov taught that entering the Sukkah is akin to entering the Kodesh HaKodashim, the Holy of Holies. After Yom Kippur, when the Kohen Gadol alone enters that sacred space, every Jew is invited into their own Holy of Holies—the Sukkah.

Let us reflect once more. The spiritual DNA of man is the breath of God. But the physical DNA—as revealed by the Targum Yonatan—is composed of the Ananei HaKavod and the earth of the Beit HaMikdash. Even our physicality is steeped in sanctity. The angels, perhaps, should protest: the deck is stacked. We are not merely physical beings—we are physical beings made of spiritual matter.

And now, the most wondrous insight: when we enter the Sukkah, we are not stepping into something foreign. We are returning to our source. The Sukkah, composed of the same elements as man—cloud and sacred earth—is not exile. It is homecoming.

Though we speak of leaving our permanent homes to dwell in a dirat ara’i, a temporary abode, the Sukkah is in fact the most natural place for us. It is built from the same sacred materials that formed us. It is not a departure—it is a return.

The Sukkah is the ultimate experience of going home.