This week, I read a Dvar Torah by Rabbi Efrem Goldberg with a unique perspective on Sukkot and I knew I had to share it with you today.
Imagine your heart stops. No pulse. No breath. Rabbi Goldberg writes about a woman in his shul who experienced exactly that. She was out celebrating a birthday dinner when she collapsed. Her heart stopped. An ambulance was called—and before help even arrived, her heart miraculously began beating again.
At the hospital, she flatlined again. Her husband stood beside her, helpless. Nothing left to do. No procedure to perform. So, he did what a Jew does in that moment. He davened.
He had said the Bracha 3 times a day in the Amida: Baruch Ata Hashem, Mechayey HaMeytim (Blessed are you Hashem, Who gives life to the dead). But never like this. This time it was a plea for the one he loved. And Baruch Hashem, her heart began beating again. Today she’s alive and well—and knows differently what it means to be alive.
People who go through this speak differently afterward. Life becomes before and after. Before the collapse, after the heartbeat returned. They do not simply recover. In some way, they are reborn. And perhaps that’s exactly what Sukkot is all about.
The Torah tells us that on Sukkot: U’lekachtem lachem bayom harishon… “You shall take the lulav and etrog on the 1st day,” and wave them forward and backward, upward and downward. There’s motion, energy, and celebration built into the mitzvah itself. Why?
The Midrash (Vayikra Rabbah 30:2-3) explains that on Rosh Hashanah we stand in judgment without knowing the outcome. By the time Sukkot arrives, we emerge holding our lulav like someone leaving a courtroom after receiving a favorable verdict.
It’s a beautiful image, but I struggled with it. Is that really how we’re supposed to emerge from Yom Kippur? Did we spend Rosh Hashanah trembling before the King of Kings and Yom Kippur pleading for mercy only to come out celebrating that we won?
So, the Midrash offers another perspective. Commenting on a verse in Psalm 102—V’am nivra yehallel Kah (A people that has been created shall praise Gd)—the Midrash explains: These are people who were destined for death, but on Yom Kippur Hashem creates them anew. And what do they do after receiving this new life? They take a lulav and an etrog and praise Hashem.
According to this Midrash, the lulav is not a victory flag. It’s what you hold when you realize you’ve been given your life back. Yom Kippur is, in many ways, a dress rehearsal for death. We wear white, or a white kittel like burial shrouds. We recite the vidui confessional like the deathbed confessional. We stand exposed before Hashem—without excuses, without distractions, without hiding. We abstain from food and drink… We set aside physical comforts. For one day we try to transcend our physical existence and live almost entirely as souls.
It’s not because Judaism is obsessed with death. Just the opposite. It’s because Judaism is obsessed with life. Sometimes the only way to appreciate life is to confront its mortality.
Then Yom Kippur ends. We eat. We drink. We build a Sukkah. We pick up the 4 species. We sing. We dance. Why? Because, as Rabbi Goldberg writes: The heartbeat has returned. Hashem has handed ordinary life back to us—and suddenly ordinary life is not ordinary at all.
Sukkot is the celebration of another chance. Another year. Another morning. Another person to forgive. Another opportunity to become who we still can become. The joy of Sukkot is not only that we were inscribed for life. It’s that life has been handed back to us!
There’s a remarkable expression of this in the Talmud (Berachot 58b): If you have not seen a friend for 30 days, you recite Shehecheyanu—“Blessed are You Hashem… Who has kept us in life, sustained us in health, and enabled us to reach this moment.”
But if you have not seen someone for 12 months, you recite Baruch Ata Hashem, Mechayeh HaMeitim—Blessed are you Hashem, Who gives life to the dead. Why? The Maharsha comments: During those 12 months, that person passed through another Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur—another season of Mi yichyeh u’mi yamut (Who will live and who will die). So now you’re seeing someone who has been given life again. Perhaps this is how we should look at one another after Yom Kippur. Perhaps that is how we should look at ourselves.
On Oct 7, IDF soldier Itai Sagi was fighting near the Gaza border when his unit was attacked. Gunfire, grenades all around them. Several soldiers were critically wounded. Then a grenade exploded near him. Later he said: It felt as if his soul had left his body. I began seeing flashes of a future I had not yet lived: a home, a family, his niece’s face, a life that might never happen. And something inside me cried out: “Not yet. I still have people to love. I still have a mission in this world.”
His friends rescued him. Surgeons saved him. He survived. But what changed him was not simply that he escaped death. He understood he had been given more life. Not just extra time to waste, but sacred time—borrowed time—entrusted time. And once life is handed back to you, my friends, the question becomes unavoidable: What will you do with it?
This is the real question of Sukkot. The Torah calls the 1st day of Sukkot yom harishon (The 1st day). Some Sages object because the 1st day of Sukkot is actually the 15th day of the month. Passover (Num. 28:16) is referred to as “the 15th day” of the month. So they propose that after Yom Kippur, the 1st day of Sukkot truly is the 1st day: The 1st day of the rest of our lives!
Hashem says of the 4 species: Ul’kachtem lachem (take it for yourselves). Take hold of it. Maybe Hashem is saying the same thing about this year. Take hold of your relationship with Hashem. Take hold of your life. Take hold of the people you love. Make the call. Repair the relationship. Start the learning. Pray with more focus. Let go of the grudge. Tell the people you love what they mean to you. For 10 days we reflected from Rosh Hashanah through Yom Kippur. We davened. Now we have to live it.
Now that we’ve been given life again. The challenge is not merely to be alive. The challenge is to truly live—with intention, gratitude, courage, and love with Hashem at the center.
And then we sit in the Sukkah—a fragile structure with a roof through which we can glimpse the heavens. It reminds us that very little in this world is permanent. Not our homes, not our possessions, nor our bodies. We are not permanent.
And it’s when we’re surrounded by fragility, that the Torah commands us: V’samachta b’chagecha. Be joyful on your Festival—not despite life’s fragility, but because of it. Because we realize how precious life is.
We sometimes think that being inscribed for life means we avoided death. Perhaps being inscribed for life means something far greater—that Hashem has entrusted us with life. Another year. Another chance. And He asks: “What will you do with it?” That woman whose heart stopped understands that. Itai Sagi understands that. Sukkot asks the rest of us to understand it too—without waiting for an ambulance, without needing a hospital room, without coming that close to losing everything.
So, when we shake the lulav tomorrow, let’s not wave it as a victory flag. Wave it as a thank-you. Thank You, Hashem, for another heartbeat. Another breath. Another sunrise. Another Yom Tov. Another chance to say, “I’m sorry” or “I love you.” Another chance to come home to You Hashem.
This is why Sukkot is described as yom harishon (the 1st day). Because after Yom Kippur, it truly is the 1st day—the 1st day of the rest of our lives. So, let’s not only be alive this year. Let’s truly live. Amen!
