The Talmud teaches that those who don’t mourn ancient Jerusalem’s destruction will not merit rejoicing with her at her redemption. I have always understood this statement to mean that we can only truly appreciate the greatest joys in our lives if we have truly engaged with the sorrows in our lives. As the two extremes seemingly travel together within us, our saddest moments are buoyed by the knowledge that we have known—and will know again—pure joy. Similarly, our happiest moments are tinged with the knowledge that such joy can’t last forever, and that we will no doubt come to know sadness again.
One of the ancient rituals of the holiday of Sukkot is the celebration of water drawing and libations that took place in the time of the Holy Temple. The Talmud describes this ceremony as the epitome of joy, as water would be drawn from a well and poured over the sacrificial altar. As the rains fall today, on this third day of the holiday, we have the luxury of moving indoors; but our prayers for rain at this time despite wanting to be outside in the sukkah underline this sense of anxiety with which we live. We don’t control the weather—no matter what Rabbi Drill tells you about her powers—and we are dependent on a force beyond our control to bring just enough rain to be a blessing, a source of sustenance and joy. The same source of that joy, however, can also be a source of destruction and sadness. When it is time to draw from the well, there is no guarantee the well will be filled. We want to find the well filled when we need it, but not at the expense of the joy that is meant to accompany this holiday.
I liken this well to a well that exists within each of us. That well holds all our love. It is filled by how much love we give, and by how much we allow ourselves to be loved. In our times of greatest celebration, that love is easily drawn and poured out atop our offerings of joy. And in times of our greatest sadness, that love is similarly drawn up from the well, to be poured atop our altar of tears. Only those of us who have drawn from the well in sadness can truly understand what it means to draw from the well in joy. And only those of us who have known such complete joy as to cry in happiness can fully appreciate the profound nature of our loss.
To paraphrase a line from the movie Parenthood (the original with Steve Martin, not the TV series), we must choose whether we want our lives to run like a rollercoaster, with all its exhilarating highs and frightening lows, or like a merry-go-round, never really getting anywhere. Jewish living invites us to ride the rollercoaster–to be exhilarated and frightened, joyful and sorrowful, in the same breath.
May we be comforted in knowing that the feeling in the pit of our stomach is simply a wellspring of love.
In gratitude for your friendship,
Rabbi Craig Scheff