“One who did not see the Simchas Beis Hashoeivah never saw true simchah in his life.” (Succah 51a)
During the time of the Beis Hamikdash, every night of Succos was celebrated with a Simchas Beis Hashoeivah. The singing, music, and dancing would go on until daybreak, when a procession would make its way to the Shiloach spring to “draw water with joy.”
There was one aspect of the celebration that the Mishnah and Gemara make special mention of: the torch-juggling sages.
Juggling seems like a fun, charming spectacle, but doesn’t seem appropriate as a highlight of such a spiritual celebration. And to be performed by the gedolei hador? Wasn’t this beneath the dignity of the occasion and the sages themselves? (Rabbi YY Jacobson, TheYeshiva.net)
My succah is one of my favorite parts of my house. Our apartment building is terraced, with the lower levels built into the mountainside. My succah patio is wedged between the back wall of my house and the wall of the mountain, with a year-round pergola on top. It’s secluded and shady, a slice of space separated from the rest of the world. When we sit there as a family, there’s a palpable sense of serenity; it’s easy to imagine the cushioning from the outside world that the Ananei Hakavod provided our ancestors long ago.
The Lubavitcher Rebbe presented an exquisite explanation. Juggling, the Rebbe suggested, captures in a very physical and tangible way the meaning of life — and the path toward genuine joy.
Often, we hear people lament: “I’ve got too many balls in the air!” Life in our time is rushed, stressful, busy. Our chaotic world has become a juggling act, both at work and at home.
Yet in Judaism, we take this one step deeper. We’re not only juggling duties; we’re juggling torches of fire. We each carry a blazing torch within ourselves; our soul is afire with intense passion, light, and the incredible possibility to cast light and warmth on the world around us.
In life, you must juggle, toss up your “torch,” as high as you can. Allow your flaming soul to lift itself up and detach from all the pressures, stresses, burdens, and anxiety of your earthly existence.
In modern slang, they call it “downtime.” In Judaism, we call it “uptime.” We all deserve a few moments of intimacy with ourselves, with our G-d, with our truth.
Yet our torch shouldn’t stay up there forever. Descend it must, returning back to reality, to the daily grind. We cannot live in heaven; we must bring it down to earth.
The juggler is the person who has that unique ability to continuously operate on two levels, living simultaneously in two states of consciousness. One torch goes up, while the other comes down.
This year, though, the outside world threatened to intrude on our sanctuary. An upstairs neighbor was renovating, expanding their home by adding another room, creating the space by carving into the mountainside. For months, the area above and behind our succah patio was filled with tractors and jackhammers, the noise, dust and occasional rock filling the space below.
While I was happy for my neighbor to have this opportunity to expand, I was very apprehensive as the days ticked by and Tishrei was approaching.
Would our patio be intact for Succos? Would it be clean? Would the neighbors be able to stop construction for the week-plus, while we sat below?
