Under an Open Sky

I am writing these words during Chol HaMoed the intermediate days of Sukkot. Normally, we do not write during these days unless there is a halachically permitted need to do so. But I feel there is something here that should not be allowed to pass without reflection. It is not a material loss. It is the loss of a message, if we move on from what happened yesterday without stopping to think about it.

A flight from Dubai to Tel Aviv, carrying 174 passengers and crew members, suddenly became a life-threatening emergency. According to reports, a violent incident took place in the cockpit, the aircraft lost a significant amount of altitude, and passengers and crew members helped restrain the attacker. The aircraft was diverted and eventually made an emergency landing in Tabuk, in northwestern Saudi Arabia. An investigation is underway.

For the people on board, an ordinary flight changed within minutes.

Since September 11, 2001, when terrorists took control of passenger aircraft and nearly 3,000 people were killed, any serious incident in a cockpit has reminded us how quickly an ordinary journey can turn into something completely different. That awareness feels especially real today, when Israel continues to face threats from across the Middle East and antisemitism is spreading throughout the world.

Tehillim describes such a moment:

“They rise up to the heavens, they descend to the depths; their soul melts away in trouble… Then they cry out to the L-rd in their distress, and He brings them out of their troubles.”

And then comes the response:

“Let them give thanks to the L-rd for His kindness and His wonders for mankind.”
(Tehillim 107)

The Talmud teaches that there are four categories of people who are required to give thanks to G-d after being saved from danger (Berachot 54b). It is hard not to think of that teaching when we consider what happened on this flight.

The danger was not only to the 174 people on board. Had the aircraft been destroyed, the consequences could have gone far beyond those directly involved, with repercussions around the world. At a time when Israel is facing threats from across the Middle East and antisemitism is once again rampant in many parts of the world, an incident involving a passenger aircraft could have had consequences far beyond the immediate tragedy.

We do not know what was prevented. We know only what happened. But when we see how close an ordinary journey can come to disaster, there is reason to stop and give thanks to G-d.

And this brings us to Sukkot.

The Torah tells us why we leave our homes and enter the sukkah:

“So that your generations will know that I caused the Children of Israel to dwell in sukkot when I brought them out of the land of Egypt.”
(Vayikra 23:43)

The sukkah is deliberately temporary. The Talmud tells us, “Leave your permanent dwelling and live in a temporary dwelling” (Sukkah 2b).

There is a powerful idea here. We spend much of our lives trying to create security. We build strong homes, maintain armies, install safety systems, inspect aircraft and train people to respond when something goes wrong. We are certainly required to make every reasonable effort to protect ourselves and others.

But that effort should not be confused with the source of our ultimate security.

The Talmud records a famous disagreement between Rabbi Akiva and Rabbi Eliezer about what the Torah means by “sukkot.” Rabbi Akiva understood the verse as referring to the actual booths in which the Jewish people lived. Rabbi Eliezer understood it as referring to the Clouds of Glory that surrounded and protected them in the wilderness (Sukkah 11b).

Both understandings speak to the same reality. We build the booth and do what we can. But we also know that there is a protection that no human being can provide.

This is part of the connection between Yom Kippur and Sukkot. On Yom Kippur, we stand before G-d and acknowledge how little of the future is really in our hands. A few days later, we leave our permanent homes and sit beneath a temporary roof, with the sky visible above us.

The sukkah does not tell us that life is safe. It teaches us how to live with the knowledge that it is not.

David HaMelech says in Tehillim:

“For He will hide me in His sukkah on the day of trouble; He will conceal me under the shelter of His tent.”
(Tehillim 27:5)

It is striking that David HaMelech speaks of the sukkah specifically in connection with “the day of trouble.” The sukkah is not a fortress. It reminds us that security does not come from knowing what tomorrow will bring.

It comes from knowing in whose hands tomorrow is.

What happened on that flight makes this more than an idea. One hundred and seventy-four people were in the air when an unexpected danger arose. The crew acted. Passengers helped. The aircraft was diverted. In the end, they landed safely.

For that, we should give thanks.

And perhaps that is the message with which we should enter our sukkah.

We sit beneath a temporary roof. We can see the sky above us. We know that we cannot control everything that may happen tomorrow, but we also know that we are not alone in facing it. We make our plans, we do what is required of us, and then we place our trust in G-d.

The security we have does not come from knowing what tomorrow will bring. It comes from knowing in whose hands tomorrow is.

Sometimes the greatest reason to give thanks is not for what we saw happen, but for what, by the kindness of G-d, never happened.