After the Joy, the Journey

By Rabbi Pinchos Lipschutz

I would clearly understand if you were sad when Havdolah was recited and Simchas Torah ended.

After a month steeped in kedusha, of being enveloped in sanctity, joy, and deep connection with Hashem, we find ourselves back in the ordinary world. The decorations are carefully peeled off, taken down, folded and boxed away. The sukkah walls and the s’chach, which had lovingly embraced us with the tzila demehemnusa, are disassembled and stored. The esrog, once admired with awe, is set aside as a memory. The lulav, proudly shaken with that special nigun, lies limp in a corner. The melodies fade, the guests depart, and a quiet sense of spiritual displacement sets in.

We emerge from this cocoon of holiness and are suddenly exposed, spiritually and emotionally. We walk back into a world that hasn’t changed, but we have. The question becomes: Can we preserve the elevation? Can we hold onto the clarity, the hope, and the vision?

From the first utterance of “L’Dovid Hashem ori veyishi” during Elul, we were drawn into a sacred rhythm. Elul was the knocking on the door, a subtle, loving call from Above. Then, b’motzoei menucha, the serenity of Shabbos gave way to urgency as Selichos began. The stillness of the night was broken by the ancient cries of compassion, echoing through our shuls and hearts. As the month progressed, the shofar’s haunting blasts shook us awake from spiritual slumber, stirring something deep within.

Then came the Aseres Yemei Teshuvah, ten precious, intense days of closeness, when the gates of Heaven felt within reach. And then, Yom Kippur, the day of purity. Dressed in white, we ascended to angelic heights, crying, singing, pouring ourselves out in tefillah and longing. As the sun set and Ne’ilah concluded, we were transformed. We emerged lighter, hopeful, and spiritually reborn.

But Hashem, in His kindness, didn’t let us fall from that peak. He lifted us again, higher. From the solemnity of teshuvah, we entered the joy of simcha. The sukkah welcomed us like a mother’s embrace. We sat beneath the stars, enveloped in Hashem’s love, celebrating the joy of being close to Him. We danced with the Torah on Simchas Torah, arms locked with fellow Yidden, singing “Yisroel v’Oraisa v’Kudsha Brich Hu chad hu.” We were joyous and fulfilled, removed from the mundane world, as we felt the beauty of the life Hashem chose for us to lead. For a moment, we were one. One people, one heart, one truth.

And then, it ended. The final dance, the final song, the final Havdolah. And we were thrust back into the mundane. No more shofar. No more white garments. No more daled minim. No more sukkah. Just echoes of greatness.

But what now? Were these weeks just a spiritual high? A temporary experience? Or were they a preparation for something deeper, something lasting?

In the zemer of Azamer Bishvochin, written by the Arizal and sung at our Shabbos tables every Friday evening, we say, “Yehei rava kamei d’sishrei al amei.” It is a heartfelt plea: “May it be His will that His Presence rest upon His nation.” Yodei Chein explains that these words reflect our longing for the Divine Presence to remain with us, not only during the holy days, but on the regular days that follow. We ask that the holiness we experienced during Tishrei not evaporate like a passing dream, but stay with us as we re-enter the world of work, responsibility, and routine.

With the kedusha and simcha gained during Tishrei, we start again, much improved.

We open the Chumash and read the first words once again: “Bereishis bara Elokim.” With these words, the Torah beckons us to return to the source, to the beginning, not just of the world, but of ourselves, with a fresh start. We carry everything we’ve acquired into this new beginning.

The first Rashi in Chumash sets the tone for our journey. Quoting Rabi Yitzchok, Rashi asks why the Torah begins with the story of creation instead of the first mitzvah given to the Jewish people, “Hachodesh hazeh lochem.” His answer: So that when the nations of the world question our right to Eretz Yisroel, we can declare, “Hashem created the world, and He gave the land to whom He saw fit.” It was His to give, and He chose us.

But this explanation raises a question. As we know, the world doesn’t care for our biblical right or Divine promise. Why, then, is this message placed at the very start of the Torah?

Because it’s not just about political arguments. It’s about perspective. The Torah begins with creation to remind us that everything in the world is from Hashem, and everything that happens is part of His design. Eretz Yisroel belongs to us not because of political power or historical continuity, but because Hashem willed it so. The foundation of our emunah is that nothing is random.

The world wasn’t created for chaos. It was created with purpose, and that purpose is Torah and Klal Yisroel, as Rashi tells us in his second piece on the first posuk. He quotes the Chazal that the Torah begins with the word bereishis to teach us a lesson about creation. They explain: “Bereishis—the world was created for Am Yisroel and for Torah, bishvil Yisroel shenikre’u reishis, ubishvil haTorah shenikreis reishis.”

With this foundational truth, we step into the new year. Our lives matter. Our actions matter. Every word, every thought, every mitzvah is part of the divine choreography of creation.

But almost immediately, we are reminded that mankind often forgets that purpose. By the end of Parshas Bereishis, we read how humanity spiraled into darkness. Corruption spread, morality eroded, and Hashem, so to speak, “regretted” creating man. Yet, in this sea of failure, one man stood out: Noach.

The posuk tells us, “V’Noach motzah chein b’einei Hashem.” Noach found favor in the eyes of Hashem.

What was that chein? What made Noach different?

Noach, in a world consumed by sin, remained untouched. He lived with clarity. He understood that the world is not ownerless, that actions have consequences, and that there is a Creator to whom we are accountable. He studied the world and saw Hashem in it. He was not swayed by the crowd, not drawn into the cultural current. He walked his own path, a path of righteousness, honesty, and truth.

The Torah says: “Es haElokim hishalech Noach.” Noach walked with Hashem.

He walked only with Hashem and with no one else. He was alone. In a society that had completely lost its moral compass, he was a solitary voice of conscience. For 120 years, he built the teivah and pleaded with his generation to change. Not a single soul listened. Yet, he kept building. Kept warning. Kept believing.

Noach’s greatness lies not only in his integrity, but in his endurance. He didn’t give up when no one believed in him. He didn’t fold when he was ridiculed. He didn’t quit when he was alone. He remained loyal to his mission and, in doing so, he saved the world.

We must all be like Noach.

We live in a world filled with confusion. Morality is blurred. Truth is mocked. Torah values are called “intolerant.” The very existence of Eretz Yisroel is questioned, and in the face of terror and murder, the world condemns the victim. In just the past few years, we’ve witnessed a stunning rise in anti-Semitism, open and unapologetic. Prestigious universities host pro-Hamas rallies. Western democracies turn their backs on Israel. Lies are repeated so often that they are accepted as fact.

Amid the flood of falsehood, we must build a teivah. We must proclaim, like Noach did, that we don’t mind being alone, walking with Hashem on the path He laid out for us. We hold onto Torah. We raise our families with the Torah values passed on to us through our parents. We speak truth when it’s unpopular. We stay afloat, not because we are many, but because we are anchored.

The teivah, say the seforim hakedoshim, also represents the words of Torah and tefillah. The translation of teivah is “word.” When the world rages outside, we step into the protective haven of Hashem’s words. Into the rhythm of Shacharis, Mincha and Maariv. The melodies of Shabbos. The tune of a sugya and the hum of the bais medrash. The softness of a bedtime Shema with a child. That is our teivah.

We live in a time of terrible tragedies and see young people being struck down in a manifestation of the middas hadin. Just this past Sunday, four young bochurim were killed, their lives taken away in an instant. At the levayah of Shloimy Cohen, one of those bochurim, Rav Yeruchom Olshin quoted the posuk, “Anshei chesed ne’esofim b’ein meivin—Hashem gathers to Him good people and nobody understands why.”

He said that we must recognize that we are living during the difficult period of ikvesa d’Meshicha, a time when we must strengthen our observance and study of Torah and acts of kindness. There is no better time to start than now. Torah and gemillus chassodim form the teivah that enable us to survive the golus and merit the welcoming of Moshiach. 

Israel was attacked two years ago and the world pitied it and offered expressions of sympathy, but when the small country went to war against the army of murderers who had attacked it, the world slowly drifted away from the Jews. One by one, the countries and their citizens began blasting Israel and accusing it of genocide. In the United States, as well, anti-Semitic demonstrations were held from east to west and college campuses became bases for Jew-hatred. Western countries considered friendly to Israel declared pointless military embargos against the embattled state and then, in perfidious empty moves, recognized the nonexistent state of Palestine.

New York City, home of millions of Jews, is about to elect a pro-Hamas, anti-Semitic, communist mayor. Regardless of how you choose to interpret that, the outcome is unequivocally negative.

And then there are moments—bright, piercing rays of light—that remind us that the world has not entirely forgotten its conscience.

Just recently, the hearts of Klal Yisroel were lifted when twenty Israeli hostages, held for almost two years in unimaginable conditions, were freed. The tears of grief became tears of joy, and for a moment, a deep sigh of relief filled Jewish homes across the globe.

We davened. We hoped. And Hashem answered.

Not all of them, not yet. But some. And we saw that even in the darkest situations, salvation is possible.

The redemption of those hostages is a sign of hope. A reminder that Hashem is with us. We pray that their freedom is a good omen for Israel and for the Jewish people, and that the relentless violence will stop, stability will be achieved, and Hashem will bring shalom al Yisroel.

Last week, I attended the first Presidential Holocaust Commission event since my appointment by President Trump to the commission. It was a commemoration of the tragic events of Shemini Atzeres two years ago in southern Israel.

The event, which was held at the United States Holocaust Museum, featured several speeches, including one from a recovered hostage, Almog Meir Jan. He didn’t look particularly religious, but when he rose to speak, he covered his head with his hand and emotionally recited, “Shehecheyonu vekiyemonu vehigionu lazeman hazeh.”

In speaking with him, he told me that when he was freed, he decided that l’illui nishmas the soldier who died freeing him from captivity, he would distribute pairs of tzitzis. He even brought a bag of tzitzis to the event.

There are so many stories being told about people who survived that calamitous attack and, in its wake, found their way to Hashem. The tragedy inspired them to elevate themselves and ignite a flame within their souls.

Chazal tell us (see Pri Tzaddik) that had Noach’s generation responded to his pleas and done teshuvah, the Torah could have been given in their time. They could have had water, but not as a flood. Instead of mayim of destruction, they could have had mayim chaim, the waters of Torah. Instead of desolation, rebirth. Instead of curse, eternal blessing. All it took was listening. One change. One turn.

And so, we return to our question: After Tishrei, after the aliyah, how do we not drown?

We look to Noach. He reminds us that it is possible to stand tall when the world bows low. That it’s possible to walk with Hashem even if you’re walking alone. That chein is not found in popularity, but in purity.

Let us take the strength of Tishrei and carry it forward. Let us begin again, not with despair, but with hope. Let us walk into the weeks ahead as builders of our own arks, guardians of the sacred, carriers of the light.

Because the world was created for us. And if we walk with Hashem, we, too, will find chein in His eyes and be the ones who rebuild the world.

The world was created for Torah. By learning Torah, we sustain and strengthen both ourselves and the world. We add zechuyos for ourselves and for all of creation. We refine our character and make the world a better place.

By performing mitzvos and refraining from aveiros and actions that degrade and defile us, we fulfill our mission and the purpose for which Hashem placed us in His world.

Every day is a new beginning, an opportunity to fulfill our tasks and live with hope, moral strength, and divine guidance.

May Hashem continue to guide, protect, and bless us with peace, strength, and clarity in these challenging times, and may He bring us Moshiach soon, in our days.

The Deep Joy of Sukkos

By Rabbi Pinchos Lipschutz

Sukkos, the Yom Tov of simcha, comes to us like a sun-drenched mountain after a long and hard climb. After the awesome days of the Yomim Noraim, when our souls were laid bare, our hearts taken over by yearning and tefillah, we emerge into the warm embrace of a Yom Tov whose very essence is joy. As the posuk declares (Devorim 16:14-15), “Vesomachta bechagecha vehoyisa ach someiach — And you shall rejoice in your festival, and you shall be only joyful.”

Only joyful.

How can such a command be fulfilled? Is it possible — after weeks of intense introspection, of confronting mortality, sin, and judgment — to cast the seriousness aside and rejoice, wholly, deeply, uninterruptedly?

The answer is whispered in the leaves of the sukkah, in the rustle of the s’chach above our heads, in the fragile walls that seem to tremble with eternity.

Yes, says the Torah. Yes, says the Zohar. And yes, says the Jewish soul.

Because this joy is not an escape from the seriousness of life. It is its reward.

The Zohar (Parshas Emor) reveals a breathtaking secret. During Sukkos, Hakadosh Boruch Hu comes to dwell with His beloved children in their humble sukkos. He does not demand palaces of marble or ivory. He does not wait for golden thrones or ornamental crowns. No. Hashem comes to the sukkah. The imperfect, breezy little sukkah. And He rejoices there with us.

What greater joy could there be than this? The Creator of the universe, the Master of all worlds, comes to sit beneath our s’chach, to bask in our love, to envelop us in His presence.

The Vilna Gaon, whose insights blaze like lightning across the heavens of Torah, would say that the most difficult mitzvah is not shiluach hakan, nor the depths of korbanos, nor anything that we would imagine.

The hardest mitzvah, said the Gaon, is the one that obligates us to be completely joyous on Sukkos, without any hint of sadness or distraction. Not just happy in theory. Not just smiling on the outside, but fully, truly, spiritually joyous.

Can we do it?

A young man who learned in the famed Volozhiner Yeshiva, the beating heart of Lithuanian Torah life, wrote a diary that was found and printed. His words transported me. I want to share them with you. He wrote:

“The small towns of Lita were solemn a whole year round; there was no income, and poverty was all they knew. But when Yom Tov arrived, old, dark bread was replaced with white bread, and everyone wore freshly cleaned clothing. Yom Tov brought a tremendous change. Everything was different. It felt like going from darkness to great light.”

Just pause for a moment. Imagine it. A shtetel cloaked in the grey of struggle suddenly transformed. The children run through the narrow streets with shining faces. Fathers who’ve worked all year for mere kopeks now wear pressed white shirts. And even if there’s just one chicken for the whole Yom Tov, it’s shared with laughter and song.

He continues: “During the Yom Tov of Sukkos, the town of Volozhin was adorned. All its inhabitants were swept up in celebration. The yeshiva bochurim sang and the cheder children danced around so merrily. From every corner of town, there was heard only much joy and happiness, as the town of Volozhin was overcome with rejoicing and festivity.”

Can you hear it? The singing? The joy? The walls of the sukkos glowing in the candlelight, as old and young sit shoulder to shoulder, sharing divrei Torah and perhaps singing niggunim?

And then, his final lines, bursting with emotion:

“This was true of all the Lithuanian shtetlach, but was most pronounced in Volozhin due to the presence of so many yeshiva bochurim. All year, they were in a different world — the world of learning. But when Sukkos came, their inner happiness burst forth and they added even more to the city’s exultation.”

Because Sukkos isn’t only about outer joy.

It’s about letting the joy that lives deep inside us emerge.

Let us now dive deeper.

The Torah tells us (Vayikra 23:42-43), “You shall dwell in sukkos for seven days…so that your generations will know that I caused the Bnei Yisroel to dwell in sukkos when I took them out of Egypt.”

Something is puzzling here.

The Torah doesn’t say “so that you will remember” as it does by other mitzvos. Regarding tzitzis, it says, “Lema’an tizkeru — so that you will remember.” Regarding Pesach, the same. So why, here, does it say, “Lema’an yeidu — so that they will know?”

Because Sukkos is not only about memory. It’s about knowing. Not history, but presence. Not nostalgia, but experience.

We are not merely commemorating something that once happened. We are stepping into it.

We are reliving the moment Hashem enveloped us in the clouds of His love. Every year, when those hashpa’os are evident, we relive the time of Hashem’s return.

The Tur asks a question that has often been repeated since he posed it: If Sukkos commemorates the Ananei Hakavod, the holy clouds that surrounded the Jewish people when they left Mitzrayim, why don’t we celebrate Sukkos during Nissan, when the Jews left Mitzrayim? Why do we celebrate it during Tishrei?

The Vilna Gaon (Shir Hashirim 1:4) gives a stunning answer. He says that the sukkah we build does not commemorate the original Ananei Hakavod that came after Yetzias Mitzrayim. Instead, it celebrates their return after they were taken away.

When the Bnei Yisroel sinned with the Eigel Hazohov, the clouds, the Shechinah, and the Divine intimacy departed. But then Moshe Rabbeinu ascended Har Sinai again to beg for forgiveness. On Yom Kippur, he descended with that forgiveness in hand.

And then, from the 11^th to the 14^th of Tishrei, the people gathered materials for the Mishkon, demonstrating their renewed commitment. On the 15^th of Tishrei, construction of the Mishkon began.

And the clouds came back.

That is what we celebrate on Sukkos.

Not just the kindness of Hashem in protecting us, but the return of His love after we fell.

This understanding gives new meaning to the calendar.

On Rosh Hashanah, we proclaim Hashem’s kingship. During the Aseres Yemei Teshuvah, we repent and plead for mercy. On Yom Kippur, we are forgiven and cleansed. And then comes Sukkos.

Sukkos is the embrace.

It is Hashem saying, “Come back to Me. You are Mine, and I am yours.”

The Ramchal (Derech Hashem 4:7) writes that the light of the original Anonim reappears during Sukkos. Their power — the safety, the clarity, the closeness — is awakened again in our generation.

That means that when we sit in the sukkah, we are not just in a symbolic booth.

We are sitting in a space that echoes with Divine protection.

Unlike most mitzvos, where performance is the obligation, the sukkah requires not just sitting, but also building.

The Rama (Orach Chaim 624:5) teaches that righteous Jews begin building their sukkah immediately after Yom Kippur.

Why?

Because when a mitzvah comes to your hand, don’t delay it. “Al tachmitzena.”

But there is more.

When we build the sukkah, we are not merely erecting walls.

We are building a dwelling place for the Shechinah. A mikdosh me’at. A sanctuary. A home for Hashem in this world.

That’s why it matters how we build it. With kavonah. With thought. And of course, with joy. With hands that have just been purified in the fires of Yom Kippur.

A sukkah is a statement: “Hashem, I want You in my life.” As we proclaimed on Yom Kippur, “Ki anu bonecha v’Atah Avinu. Anu amecha v’Atah Elokeinu.” We are Yours.

The Be’er Heiteiv (639:1) quotes that building the sukkah is akin to being a partner with Hashem in the act of creation.

How so?

Because just as Hashem created a world in which His presence could dwell, so too do we — the newly cleansed Jewish people — create a small world, a sukkah, where He can reside once again.

The Shechinah, says the Zohar, rests in every sukkah built l’sheim Shomayim.

Even the simplest ones. Even yours.

Even the ones with plastic chairs and worn-out boards. The ones that leak and let in cold winds through the cracks. The ones with the latest decorations, the ones with last year’s signs, as well as the sukkos with no decorations at all.

If it’s built with love, determination and dedication to the mitzvah, Hashem is there.

Chazal use a breathtaking term for the sukkah: “b’tzeila demehemenusa — the shadow of faith.”

What is faith if not trust in what you cannot see, in what transcends your control? The sukkah, by halachic definition, must be a temporary dwelling. It sways in the wind. It leaks in the rain. It’s fragile — on purpose.

And that’s exactly why it becomes a place of deep serenity.

Because it teaches us that real security doesn’t come from brick and mortar.

It comes from emunah.

It comes from knowing that the very same G-d who held our ancestors in His Clouds of Glory in the desert surrounds us now — with no less love, with no less care.

The flimsy walls are stronger than steel when Hashem stands beside you.

The s’chach above your head? It may look like leaves, but spiritually, it’s the canopy of the Divine.

In a world spinning with uncertainty, where we grasp for control, where so much is unpredictable and so many are unfriendly, the sukkah invites us to let go, to lean in, and to know.

To know that He is with us.

And just when the sukkah feels most personal, most intimate, something else happens.

On each night of Sukkos, we welcome seven exalted guests, the Ushpizin, into our sukkah: Avrohom, Yitzchok, Yaakov, Yosef, Moshe, Aharon, and Dovid Hamelech.

Why?

Because their lives were comprised of challenges and trust.

Avrohom left everything behind to follow the voice of Hashem. Yitzchok was forced to leave home. Yaakov slept with his head on stones, running from Eisov. Yosef was sent into golus by his brothers. Moshe lived between palaces and tents, chased by kings and carried by prophecy. Aharon was involved in the Eigel story and lost two of his four sons on the day Klal Yisroel celebrated the consecration of the Mishkon. Dovid Hamelech spent much time not on a throne, but in caves and in exile.

When the Ushpizin come into our sukkah, it’s not as historical guests, but as teachers, as guiding lights with a permanent connection to Hakadosh Boruch Hu.

They sit beside us and remind us that when we are in the sukkah, we are not alone.

Let’s return to the Vilna Gaon’s statement: Sukkos is the most difficult mitzvah because it requires complete joy — and only joy.

Why is that so hard?

Because most of us live with tension, loss, disappointment, and unanswered questions. The world is heavy. Life is complex.

But perhaps Sukkos doesn’t demand that we ignore our struggles.

Perhaps it’s asking something more subtle and more profound: That after we have confronted our darkness during Elul and the Yomim Noraim, after we have faced our failures and cried out to Hashem with broken hearts, we are now invited to rejoice — because of that journey.

Sukkos is the joy that comes after teshuvah, not despite of it.

It is the joy of reconciliation. Of returning. Of being forgiven. Of being loved.

Imagine a child who ran away from home, hurt his parents, and rebelled. Then, one day, he knocks on the door, tears in his eyes. His mother throws her arms around him. His father kisses his forehead.

Now imagine the joy of that first Shabbos back at the table.

That is Sukkos.

In the times of the Bais Hamikdosh, Sukkos brought about the most awe-inspiring celebration ever known: the Simchas Bais Hasho’eivah. Chazal say (Sukkah 51a), “Mi shelo ra’ah simchas Bais Hasho’eivah lo ra’ah simcha miyomov — Whoever did not see the rejoicing at the Bais Hasho’eivah has never seen real joy.”

What made it so joyous?

It wasn’t a sumptuous meal. It wasn’t wine or bourbon. It wasn’t wealth.

It was water.

Simple, pure, tasteless water poured upon the mizbei’ach, elevated to holiness.

Because when you’re connected to Hashem, even water — even the simplest parts of life — is enough to dance over.

This, too, is the message of Sukkos.

You don’t need much to be joyous.

You need meaning.

You need clarity.

You need to know that Hashem is near.

And then, even a sukkah, with its temporary walls and a folding table, becomes the most glorious palace.

That is the arc of Tishrei. Rosh Hashanah awakens us to Hashem’s kingship. We are awed and stirred, fighting for our lives and everything that we need and hold dear.

Yom Kippur breaks us open. We are raw, cleansed, and sincere.

And then Sukkos lifts us. We are held, embraced, and surrounded by joy.

It is the joy that comes after winning a tough case, the embrace after the apology. It is the sunshine after the storm, the dawn after the long night.

This is the joy that broke through the poverty of Lita, that filled the diary of a Volozhiner bochur with wide-eyed awe.

This is the joy that turned wooden huts into spiritual sanctuaries.

The joy of Sukkos.

Sukkos, when we step inside the sukkah with reverence and sit with our families, neighbors and guests. We make Kiddush, recite the Shehecheyonu thanking Hashem for keeping us alive, eat a kezayis of challah, are careful with our speech, and remember that beneath the fragile roof, we are under the wings of Hashem’s protection.

How can we not be filled with simcha? After the Yomim Noraim, we are duty-bound to feel joy, for failing to do so would mean ignoring the immense blessings bestowed upon us with the Yomim Noraim. Nothing should be able to shake us and upset us.

When we are home with Hashem, we are reminded that He causes everything to happen and nothing that we experience happens on its own. Challenges that we face are placed there by Hashem to strengthen and improve us. It is all for the good.

May that knowledge bring us to simcha. Deep and lasting simcha.

May the clouds of Hashem’s Glory return in their fullest form with the coming of Moshiach speedily in our days.

Ah gutten Yom Tov.