Hiking through the mountains and valleys near Jerusalem, I’m struck by the agricultural bounty hidden in the golden grass terrain of early fall. Fig trees line the trail, their branches laden with ripe purple fruit. Their sweet and delicious scent fills the air.
There are vineyards as far as the eye can see, vibrant and lush, with ripening grapes hanging in bunches in shades of red and green. Wild almond trees catch my attention here and there: Those branches that boasted winter’s first showy white clusters of flowers are now full of delicate almonds, encased in velvety shells.
And the olives. These trademark fruits of the land of Israel are hanging from gnarly branches, waiting to be picked and pressed into fragrant, green oil.
The Sukkot season
Walking these paths, I can see why the Sukkot season was depicted as one of plenty in biblical times. With grain safely stored, farmers could gather grapes and olives for the year’s stock of wine and oil. Pomegranates ripened, and dates hung from southern palms. Jewish farmers could reasonably have felt proud of their own agricultural accomplishments.
For thousands of years, Jews have celebrated Sukkot by building temporary huts and sitting outdoors, although the experience varies dramatically depending on where you live.
Growing up in the Diaspora, I heard various explanations for sitting in the sukkah. In New Jersey as an adult, I encountered bitterly cold Sukkot evenings, requiring outdoor heaters, blankets, and for some, fur coats.
One evening, while we were gathered around my in-laws’ Sukkot table, someone suggested that the cold itself was the point – we weren’t outside to enjoy the weather, but rather to demonstrate commitment to God.
In Israel years later, Sukkot looks entirely different. The scorching summer has passed, and winter rains haven’t yet arrived. It’s the perfect season for sitting outdoors.
When we head out to our sukkah on a mountaintop near Jerusalem, we enjoy pleasant breezes. Date palms adorn our hut, along with freshly picked samples of each of Israel’s seven species. There’s no bitter cold, no rain, and certainly no fur coats. Yet we still uncover deeper significance in heading outdoors to acknowledge God’s protection.
Some in Israel call Sukkot the nature lover’s holiday. When we pack up for overnight trips or camping excursions during the festival, we carry with us the four species: lulav (palm branch), etrog (citron), hadassim (myrtle) and aravot (willow).
This collection of natural elements is assembled into something resembling a sword and shield, which we shake in every direction during the daily Hallel prayer, a song of praise to God. The symbolism is striking. Just as a warrior might brandish weapons to assert control, we wave agricultural symbols to acknowledge that we control nothing.
BUT THERE’S another layer to Sukkot’s timing that becomes clear when you’re hiking through Israel in early fall.
Standing among those laden fig trees and ripening vineyards, surrounded by the agricultural abundance that defines this season, I’m reminded of what’s missing: rain.
The last rainfall was months ago. Those olive groves and grape vines are surviving on stored winter moisture, but the earth is parched beneath the golden grass. Within weeks, if the rains don’t come, this landscape of plenty will begin to wither. All that agricultural success – the grain safely stored, the wine pressed, the oil bottled – means little if next year’s crop fails.
This is why the ancient Temple service during Sukkot included the Simchat Beit Hashoevah (water libation ceremony), a ritual unique to this holiday. In ancient times, water was drawn from the Pool of Siloam and poured on the altar, accompanied by great celebration, as the Mishna says: “One who has not seen the rejoicing at the water-drawing has never seen rejoicing in his life.”
The Jews of that time were celebrating something that hadn’t yet arrived. They were praying for the rains that would determine whether the next year would have continued bounty or famine.
Sukkot falls precisely at the moment when the land’s productivity peaks and its vulnerability becomes most apparent. The holiday asks us to step outside our permanent homes – symbols of human achievement and security – just as we’re most tempted to feel self-sufficient.
We acknowledge that all this abundance depends on something beyond our control: rain from heaven.
Walking the country’s trails in early October, passing from bright sunlight into the shade of ancient olive trees, I understand why this timing matters in a way I never did before I moved to Israel.
The sukkah isn’t about enduring hardship or proving devotion through discomfort. It’s about recognizing dependence at the very moment of greatest success. The bounty is real, the accomplishment genuine – and all of it utterly contingent on divine blessing.
That’s the message hidden in the golden autumn landscape: gratitude and humility, celebrated outdoors under an open sky, just as the season turns and we begin watching for clouds.
Susannah Schild is the author of From Southerner to Settler: Unexpected Lessons from the Land of Israel and the founder of Hiking the Holyland.