Also available on Times of Israel blog.
By Shlomo M. Hamburger
October 15, 2024
In every tradition that contemplates the mysteries of existence, there is a tension between what is manifest and what is concealed, between what can be known and what remains elusive. Jewish thought wrestles with this tension, especially in the Book of Psalms. Over the years, as I have read through Psalms, I have been struck by how often the text struggles with the concept of hiddenness. We plead with G-d not to hide from us; we seek shelter in His hiddenness, yet we fear the absence of His presence.
This dichotomy—between fear and protection in the hidden—deeply resonates with me, particularly during Sukkot, when the themes of divine shelter and fragility are most profound. Like many, with the anniversary of October 7 fresh on our minds, I struggle with the balance between G-d’s hiddenness and Divine presence.
Psalm 27:5 declares, “For He will hide me in His sukkah on the day of evil; He will conceal me in the shelter of His tent.” This verse suggests not an escape from danger, but a deeper, unseen protection. The sukkah, a temporary structure of wood and branches, symbolizes divine shelter—hidden but present. Similarly, Psalm 91:1 speaks of abiding “under the shadow of the Almighty,” a shadow that, though hidden, offers protection. In verse 15, G-d’s promise to respond to those who call out to Him reminds us that even in times of distress, His essence remains with us. G-d’s hiddenness is not abandonment; it is shared presence in our suffering.
As we mark the anniversary of October 7, a day when Simchat Torah’s joy was overshadowed by tragedy, the fragility of life becomes more poignant. In the aftermath, the question arises: Where was G-d’s shelter? It is tempting to retreat into doctrine, but those who grieve find little comfort in abstract mysteries. Jewish tradition does not demand passive acceptance of suffering. Instead, it invites us to dwell in the tension between G-d’s hiddenness and presence, encouraging us to keep searching for G-d, even in the darkest moments.
Sukkot offers a framework for this engagement. The sukkah, fragile and exposed, embodies divine shelter drawn from the deepest wells of understanding. Its roof, the s’chach, represents G‑d’s protective light—often imperceptible, but always present. The sukkah teaches us that fragility and protection coexist, though not always in ways we can immediately comprehend.
On Sukkot, the four species are often said to represent different types of Jews, each with their own strengths, coming together in unity. This symbolizes not only the unity within the Jewish people but also the unity between different spiritual forces—the hidden and the revealed, the giving and the receiving. By binding the lulav and etrog together, we unite diverse elements of creation, fostering harmony in the world. This unity reflects the balance required for spiritual wholeness, allowing divine energy to flow through the world, sustaining it.
Psalm 27:5’s reference to G-d hiding us in His sukkah “on the day of evil” reinforces this idea. It offers not shelter from the storm itself, but from the despair that follows. The sukkah’s fragility reminds us of life’s vulnerability, yet it also stands as a testament to the enduring presence of G‑d’s concealed protection.
Indeed, the sukkah is a living example, speaking with greater force than abstract teachings. It reminds us that even the most fragile shelter can offer respite, and that G-d’s protection endures within hiddenness. As we reflect on the tragedy of October 7, we confront the stark reality of human suffering and the overwhelming sense of divine hiddenness. The sukkah does not provide answers, but it offers a space where we can dwell—within the tension between hiddenness and presence, between loss and the hope of shelter.
Sukkot teaches that the search for G-d’s presence does not end with tragedy. Though we may never fully understand the reasons behind such loss, the sukkah invites us to continue seeking moments of connection with the Divine, however fleeting they may be. In this way, the sukkah stands amidst the storm, reminding us that even in our vulnerability, there is shelter to be found—not the shelter we expect, but one that holds space for both the reality of loss and the enduring hope of renewal.
