Bound Together

Sukkos, shlichus, and the loneliness we do not always recognize

There is a famous teaching that the Four Species we take on Sukkos represent the entirety of the Jewish people.

The esrog has both taste and fragrance. The lulav comes from a tree whose fruit has taste but no fragrance. The hadassim have fragrance but no taste. The aravos have neither.

The Midrash explains that taste represents Torah learning and fragrance represents good deeds. Each species corresponds to a different kind of Jew. Some possess both qualities, some excel in one or the other, and some may appear to possess neither.

Yesterday morning, sitting in shul during a musical Hallel, I found myself thinking about this teaching and about what I have been most grateful for lately.

The night before, my family and I went to a Simchas Beis Hashoeva at the local Chabad House. It was filled with music, dancing, and genuine joy. Throughout the evening, we kept bumping into friends and acquaintances, including some I had not seen in years. There were hugs, warm greetings, and real conversations.

On the way home, I suggested that we stop at the shul where I regularly daven. I thought they were also having an event that night.

I had gotten the date wrong. Their event was the following evening.

But while we were standing in the shul’s sukkah, a man who davens there and lives in the building invited my family into his own sukkah. What began as a brief stop turned into several hours of conversation, Torah thoughts, guitar playing, and beautiful singing.

Then, the next morning, there were more hugs at shul. After davening, an impromptu farbrengen formed in the sukkah.

None of these moments was dramatic. There was no major program, carefully planned gathering, or profound announcement. People were simply together, enjoying one another’s company.

And I realized how much I had missed that.

For years, I lived on shlichus in a remote college town. I loved our students, and I cherish the relationships I developed with students, professors, alumni, and members of the wider community. That work was extraordinarily fulfilling and those relationships remain deeply meaningful to me.

But I have come to recognize that one of the things that affected me most during those years was loneliness.

The strange part is that I did not fully know I was lonely.

I was constantly surrounded by people. Our home was busy. There were students at our Shabbos table, people stopping by, programs to organize, classes to teach, and countless conversations. I was rarely alone.

But being surrounded by people and having peers are not the same thing.

The students and professors around me were people I cared about deeply, but most of them could not be friends in the fullest sense. I was their rabbi, teacher, host, counselor, or communal leader. Even the warmest relationships carried a certain responsibility. I was there to listen, support, guide, and create space for others.

A therapist I speak with once said something that stayed with me. He admitted that even he sometimes forgets that rabbis and shluchim are ordinary people. We are not supermen. We have emotional needs too.

Sometimes, I think we forget that ourselves.

Ironically, years ago I created a program for students based on the Mishnah in Pirkei Avos: “Aseh lecha rav, u’kneh lecha chaver.” Make for yourself a teacher and acquire for yourself a friend.

I saw clearly that young people needed mentors and genuine friendships. I taught them that neither could be left to chance. Yet I did not recognize the same need in myself.

Of course, I had friends who were always a phone call, Zoom, or WhatsApp message away. Those friendships mattered enormously, and they helped sustain me. But distance places limits on even the strongest relationship.

A phone call cannot replace sitting together late into the night. A WhatsApp message cannot reproduce the feeling of someone placing an arm around your shoulder. A Zoom screen cannot fully provide the comfort of being in a sukkah with people who allow you to be present without performing a role.

There is something the soul receives from friendship in person. There is a level of understanding, grounding, and emotional nourishment that comes simply from being physically present with people who know you and care about you.

That brings me back to the Arba Minim.

Each species matters in its own right. Each must meet its own halachic requirements. The lulav does not need to become an esrog, and the aravah does not need to become a hadas.

But no single species can fulfill the mitzvah alone.

The lulav, hadassim, and aravos are bound together, while the esrog is held alongside them. Each remains itself, yet the mitzvah requires all four.

Perhaps people are the same.

We each have our own purpose, personality, gifts, and responsibilities. Some of us spend our lives teaching, leading, hosting, or caring for others. But none of that removes our need to belong. A person can be strong, capable, and constantly giving while still needing friends who ask nothing of them.

The lesson of the Arba Minim is not simply that every kind of Jew has value. It is that we need one another. Even the esrog cannot perform the mitzvah by itself.

Mental health is often discussed in terms of therapy, self-awareness, coping tools, and personal resilience. All of those things matter. But sometimes what a person needs is much simpler: a sukkah, a guitar, a few hours of conversation, and friends who are genuinely happy to see them.

This Sukkos, I am grateful for the music, the farbrengens, and the unexpected invitations. I am grateful for the hugs. I am grateful to be living in a place where friendship can happen without being scheduled weeks in advance.

Most of all, I am grateful to be reminded that the person who brings people together also needs to be gathered in.

We all need to be held among the Arba Minim.