The Joy Within

It’s a powerful—and seemingly jarring—movement from the uncertainty of Yom Kippur, suspended between blessing and curse, life and death, to the joy of Sukkot.

The Book of Deuteronomy describes it in an extraordinary way:

“After the ingathering from your threshing floor and your vat, you shall hold the Feast of Booths for seven days. You shall rejoice in your festival, with your son and daughter, your male and female slave, the Levite, the stranger, the fatherless, and the widow in your communities.

“You shall hold a festival for the ETERNAL your God seven days, in the place that GOD will choose; for the ETERNAL your God will bless all your crops and all your undertakings, and you shall have nothing but joy.”

—Deuteronomy 16:13–15

The agricultural setting of Sukkot lines up beautifully with our climate here in Southern California, which in many ways mirrors that of the Land of Israel. In the fall, the grape harvest comes in, along with olives, pomegranates and figs. The grains reaped in the spring and early summer were dried, and then the threshing began—a labor-intensive process our ancestors understood well.

Before wheat and barley can be ground into flour and baked into bread, the edible grain must be separated from the stalks and chaff. Moisture interferes with the process, so threshing and winnowing were done during the dry summer months, when rain was unlikely.

By the time Sukkot arrives, the threshing floor is finally empty. The grapes, too, have been harvested and pressed, and fermentation has begun.

I find these ancient agricultural practices fascinating. Even though I grew up in Nebraska, we were not farmers, and I had no firsthand experience harvesting wheat or barley. Later, I lived in the Bay Area for eleven years and visited Napa and Sonoma many times—but I never actually harvested or crushed grapes!

Much has changed in the thousands of years since the Torah was written, but the basic rhythms remain remarkably familiar. The crop has to be harvested. The grain has to be separated from the chaff. The grapes have to be picked and pressed.

And here is the part that feels especially relevant, whether or not we have ever participated in a harvest ourselves:

We never really know what we’ll get until the harvest comes in.

Along the way, so much can happen—for good or for bad. Too much rain or too little. Too hot or too cold. Timing matters tremendously: when the rain comes, when it stops, whether the fields will be dry enough to harvest at just the right moment.

We do the work. We tend the fields. We hope. We pray.

But so much is beyond our control.

And however it turns out—whether the harvest is abundant or disappointing—the Torah commands us:

“Rejoice in your festival … and have nothing but joy.”

That is what strikes me most.

Joy here is not simply an emotion. It is an act of will.

The harvest has come in. The work is done. There is no changing the season that has passed. Whatever the yield, the Torah tells us that the time has come to recognize our bounty, to give thanks for what we have, and to rejoice.

Maybe that is precisely why Sukkot comes when it does.

We have just emerged from the Day of Judgment. We made it to the other side.

But there are no guarantees. We don’t know what this year will bring. We don’t even know what tomorrow will bring.

And yet here we are, sitting in a deliberately fragile sukkah, its roof open to the elements, celebrating the season of our joy.

Perhaps that is the point.

Joy does not require certainty. Gratitude does not require that everything turn out as we hoped. Sukkot asks us to receive the harvest that has actually come in—not the one we imagined or wished for.

The time has come to rejoice. Whatever our bounty, let us find the joy within.