There is a particular sound to the world when heard from inside a sukkah. The solid walls of our homes are designed to keep the world out; the thin walls of the sukkah invite it in. The rustle of the wind through the s’chach, the distant sound of traffic, the neighbour’s conversation—all of it becomes part of the fragile, temporary space we inhabit. We are exposed, and in that exposure, we become more attentive.
It is a fitting backdrop for the Torah portion we read this Shabbat, Ha’azinu. The very name is a command: “Listen!” or “Give ear!” It is the opening of Moses’ final poem, a great song of witness offered as his legacy to the people. He does not begin with law or history, but with an appeal for deep listening, calling on the heavens and the earth as his audience:
“Give ear, O heavens, let me speak; Let the earth hear the words I utter! May my discourse come down as the rain, My speech distil as the dew.”
In the sukkah, this is not a metaphor; it is a possibility. A passing shower might literally send us running for cover. We sit in a dwelling that reminds us how much we depend on the dew and the rain, on the rhythms of a world beyond our control. Moses’ poem uses the language of nature to describe the essence of Torah. This week, we are invited to sit within nature to hear it.
The poem continues with one of our tradition’s most tender images of God’s care, comparing it to an eagle tending its young: “Like an eagle that stirs up its nest, that hovers over its young, so did God spread wings and take them, bear them on pinions.” We build our solid homes to convince ourselves that we are self-sufficient, that we have no need of such hovering protection. But for one week, the sukkah dismantles that illusion. Its flimsy structure reminds us of our vulnerability, of our reliance on a strength greater than our own. We sit in our temporary nest, looking up at the sky, and remember that we are, in some profound way, still fledglings.
Moses summons heaven and earth to act as eternal witnesses to his song. In the sukkah, we are literally sitting between the two. Through the latticed roof, we see the heavens; beneath our feet is the earth. We become participants in the listening Moses demands.
Perhaps this is the deepest connection between the temporary hut and the eternal song. Our homes, for all their comfort, can create an illusion of permanence and control, insulating us not just from the weather but from a sense of wonder and dependence. The sukkah and the poem of Ha’azinu are a necessary disruption. They call us back to a state of attentive listening, to a recognition of the fragility of our existence, and to the faithful presence that holds us, like an eagle, even when we feel most exposed.
As we celebrate z’man simchateinu, our season of joy, may it be a joy deepened by this quiet attentiveness.
Chag Sameach and Shabbat Shalom.
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