Erev Sukkot: The Three Jewish Pigs
(Delivered by Student Rabbi Maayan Lev on October 9, 2022)
Chag Samei-ach! It’s a great joy to be together tonight in the sukkah, a sukkah whose invisible branches criss-cross for miles around, creating a web-based canopy above our heads.
But is this just a joke? Does an online sukkah count? What actually qualifies as a good sukkah? Upon hearing this question, some Jews would consult the Mishnah, the writings of our Sages. I, however, choose to refer to a less kosher source. Tonight, I will try to derive our tradition through the story of the “Three Little Pigs.”
People who know this story may feel as though I’ve changed the ending, but in my defense, I had a short attention span as a child, so I let my imagination fill in some of my blank spots.
There were once three Jewish pigs. They lived together in ancient Israel, and they loved to celebrate Sukkot together. They all took turns hosting each other in their respective sukkahs, each priding themselves on being a good host. One pig would make a sukkah out of straw, one would make a sukkah out of sticks, and one would make a sukkah out of bricks.
For a few years, nothing significant happened. It would seem that all three building materials were able to get the job done. But then, a wolf moved into their neighborhood. By the end of the holiday, only one pig remained alive. The one who had made a sukkah out of sticks.
The wolf easily blew down the sukkah made of straw, and devoured the pig inside. The wolf also blew down the sukkah made of sticks, but by the time it toppled, the pig inside was long gone. She had snuck out the back door, and soon escaped to another land, to start a new life for herself.
What happened to the pig who made his sukkah out of brick? When the wolf came, it huffed, and it puffed, but it seemed he was unable to blow the sukkah down. The pig inside thought to himself, “I was very wise to make my sukkah out of bricks. I have everything I need here, and I’m very protected, so I’m not going to come out until the end of the holiday. By then, the coast will be clear.” The wolf, however, waited. It knew the pig had nowhere else to go, and when Sukkot was over, the pig was eaten.
Why all this talk of building materials? Because a sukkah made out of sticks is a metaphor for the evolution of Judaism.
Today, we think of Sukkot as the holiday during which we gather in little booths or huts, and wave around a lulav and etrog. But did we really dwell in booths during our 40 years in the desert? Rabbi Eliezer didn’t take it so literally. He said that the booths were actually a reference to “עַנְנֵי כָבוֹד, G!’d’s clouds of glory,” which may have been the real structure for our protection.[1] As for the etrog, it is mentioned in the Torah, but not specifically by name. It was called “פְּרִי עֵץ הָדָר,” or “the fruit of majestic trees.”[2] The citron species was not actually available in Israel until the time of Alexander the Great.[3]
In Temple times, the most significant marker of Sukkot was actually sacrifices.
Over the course of seven days, the priests at the Holy Temple in Jerusalem would sacrifice 98 lambs, 70 bulls, 14 rams, and 7 goats.[4] This was more animals than any other festival or holiday on the calendar.
If animal sacrifices used to be the most important thing about Sukkot, then the traditional holiday as our ancestors knew it no longer exists. It’s ironic that a holiday that many now say is about impermanence, has commandments that rely so heavily on the existence of the immovable structure that was the Holy Temple.
When the Temple was no longer standing, we decided sacrifices were not truly the heart of Judaism. Maybe they used to be, but they could be replaced. Sukkot, more-so than any other holiday, asks us to examine what is most important to us in life, and see what it would be like to live a life dedicated to only those things, at least for a week. Since we realized it was possible to be Jewish even without sacrifices, we now understand that we don’t need to go back to them.
The pig who built his sukkah out of bricks would have been so permanently stuck in our old customs, such as sacrifices, that he would stubbornly refuse to adapt to the times. He would insist on passing on customs that his descendants no longer found practical, or even moral. They would ask him, “Is there another way to observe this holiday?” And he would respond to his children and grandchildren, “If you can’t celebrate Sukkot the way I did in my youth, then you shouldn’t celebrate it at all!”
Metaphorically speaking, a sukkah of bricks might have functioned quite well in the old days, but it did not stand the real test: the test of time.
Pigs who build their sukkah out of straw would have the opposite problem with their Judaism. Judaism made out of straw lacks a significant backbone. Pigs who build their sukkahs this way may claim to be practicing Jews, but their practice is not based in anything that ties them to our ancestors. And so, over time, they become assimilated.
Some self-aware individuals may realize this about themselves, and shrug. From a life choices perspective, there is nothing wrong with being an assimilated Jew. It’s their choice to make, and they may actually be happier that way. But if Judaism is not taught to our children, then our children lose access to all of the treasures of our heritage without even knowing what they’re missing out on.
In summary, if you build your sukkah out of straw, your Judaism falls apart today. If you build it from bricks, it may well fall apart tomorrow. We function as a people because we built our Judaism from sticks.
Over time, Judaism has bent, but it hasn’t broken. We have things that unite us as a people. A shared language, a rich textual heritage, holidays, commandments, traditions, a belief in a singular G!d, a connection to the land of Israel, and so much more.
Now to be clear, not all of these pillars of Judaism are near and dear to all Jews. That’s fine! You could even say that’s good engineering design! If one or more pillars don’t speak to you, your sukkah can be supported through the other pillars, and you’d still be connected to other Jews! And if different Jews view some of those pillars in different ways, that, too, is for the best. As long as they have pillars to stand on, they are preserving Judaism in one way or another, even if we don’t always agree with the way they’re doing it.
When Covid started, many congregations scrambled to provide services online. You could say we were uprooted. That is perfectly compatible with the spirit of Sukkot. When our people first started fleeing from Egypt, the text of Exodus states: “וַיִּסְעוּ בְנֵי־יִשְׂרָאֵל מֵרַעְמְסֵס סֻכֹּתָה, the Israelites journeyed from Raamses to Sukkot.”[5] In Exodus, Sukkot was not a holiday, but a location, the first of many stops on what turned out to be a very long road trip. The word “וַיִּסְעוּ” literally means “pulled out.” In Everett Fox’s commentary on this verse, he states the Israelites “pulled out their tent pegs.” Their tents were uprooted on the way to Sukkot. That’s what happened to us during the early pandemic. The community was uprooted.
Two verses later, it states that we only had time to bake matzah.[6] Like a sukkah itself, it was what we needed, nothing more. We brought matzah with us to the site of Sukkot. Perhaps matzah should be eaten on Sukkot as well as Passover, but given the lack of tradition, some people might say that’s taking it a bit too far.
In our own time, many people in synagogues across the globe were unhappy that we were not meeting in person during the pandemic. I imagine that in some places, unhappy congregants were reassured, “It’s only for now. As soon as it becomes safe again, we’ll stop gathering online.” But we haven’t. Here we are tonight: online. And you know what? It works!
Jews don’t all need to gather in one physical place! As a people who were scattered across the globe, and were constantly expelled and persecuted, you could argue that if Zoom had existed hundreds of years ago, we should have used it to remain united from the beginning.
What makes something Jewish isn’t the space you do it in. It’s the things you do together in that space. Though many of our ancestors probably loved it, we didn’t need the Holy Temple in Jerusalem. It turns out that all they needed were smaller synagogues, or even just some branches to build a sukkah. And though we love our physical building, and many of us are happy to be back, it turned out that our building, too, was less essential than we thought it was.
Some people might question if it’s truly appropriate for a congregation to gather on Sukkot without being able to step into a physical sukkah together. To them I say, let’s not get so attached to something that is only supposed to be a temporary structure. We appreciate the sukkah, and it’s a mitzvah to sit in one during the festival. If we can fulfill this mitzvah, then we should! But if for whatever reason, you know you can’t do that this year, and have to find a way to live without one for eight days, all the while retaining your sense of Judaism, then in a unique way, I’d say your holiday is a complete success. To invoke the Rolling Stones, “Sometimes we can’t always get what we want.” What we need is enough. And sometimes we don’t understand the difference between the two, until we’re forced to experience that difference.
Chag samei-ach!
[1] BT Sukkah 11b.
[2] Leviticus 23:40.
[3] Water T. Swingle and Phillip C. Reese in “The Botany of Citrus and Its Wild Relatives,” in The Citrus Industry, Volume 1, Chapter 3, p. 372, quoted in ”Etrog Citron.” UC Riverside, College of Natural and Agricultural Sciences, https://citrusvariety.ucr.edu/crc3891.
[4] Numbers 29:12-34.
[5] Exodus 12:37.
[6] Exodus 12:39.