Biblical festivals like the Feast of Tabernacles may seem exotic and mysterious to gentiles (and to non-religious Jews), but those who choose to participate in the yearly celebrations can draw pleasure, joy, and even mystical lessons from the proceedings.
“Tabernacle” is a grand word that seems inappropriate when describing the makeshift huts in which we eat all our meals during the seven day holiday period, which began last Friday night at sunset. This harvest festival (known as “Sukkcot” – “huts” or “booths” in Hebrew) features these temporary structures in every observant Jewish home, topped by tree-branches that provide you with shade during the day but otherwise leave you exposed to the elements. That’s the whole point of the holiday, actually, which recalls our temporary residence in the desert after the exodus from Egypt, when God sheltered the Jewish people intimately and directly. In any event, the description of the holiday in the liturgy is “Z’man Simchasaynu” or “Season of Our Rejoicing,” because dependence on the Almighty is seen as reason for celebration.
With this emphasis on joy and gratitude, there’s a surprise in some of the prophetic readings selected for the synagogue services during the Sukkot holiday. On the first day we read aloud from the book of Zechariah and the intermediate Sabbath features the book of Ezekiel (38:18-39:16) ---and both passages make reference to the devastating, terrifying, prophesied war between Gog and Magog. The obvious question is why the one holiday of the year identified as “a season of rejoicing” would make reference to a war between two cruel and brutal powers with Israel caught haplessly in between.
The most obvious answer is that this world-destroying battle immediately precedes the ultimate cause for celebration—the coming of the Messiah (or, in Christian terms, the return of Messiah). In fact, many elements of the Feast of Tabernacles involve Messianic overtones and associations.
But beyond the connection that ties the climactic war to the world-unifying, Messianic arrival that follows (according to prophecy), there’s a hint of deeper meaning in the names of Gog and Magog themselves. Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch, the great German 19th Century sage who’s identified as the founder of Modern Orthodoxy, points out that the name “Gog” is nearly identical to the common Hebrew word “gahg” – or roof. The very idea of a roof – a man-made ceiling designed to protect inhabitants from nature and the elements – runs counter to the theme of Sukkot and its emphasis on vulnerability. In Hebrew, when you add the prefix “M’” or “Ma” to any word (as in MaGog) it expresses the idea of projection of that concept into the wider world. Therefore “MaGog” signifies the promulgation of the idea of “roof” or “ceiling” – of human dependence on our own strength and cunning to shelter us and make us safe. Wisdom suggests, however, that even the most sturdy roofs can’t reliably defend against hurricanes, earthquakes, floods or bombs (North Korean and otherwise). In any event, Rabbi Hirsch argues that each year at the Sukkot holiday we see the shattering war of Gog and MaGog – both representing the reliance on materialism and human power – in conflict with the principal idea of Succot – the flimsy booths we use for seven days with tree-branch ceilings, pointedly exposed to change and rain and wind. The materialists try to protect themselves from God (like the generation of the Tower of Babel who wanted to triumph over the Almighty with its own building program). The faithful, on the other hand, accept our vulnerability and our exposure, trusting in God as the basis for all confidence, rejoicing and merriment.
This year, with cooperative, brisk, clear weather in the Great Northwest, we’ve been sitting in our own Sukkah with friends and family, grateful for our many blessings, cherishing the fact that our two college- student daughters are both home for the week, and trying our best to incorporate and affirm the messages of the holiday.