Just a Nail

My friend Rabbi Shlomo Levin, now famous as rabbi of the South Hampstead Synagogue but then a co-worshipper in the little Chabad minyan in Hampstead Garden, had a large estate car, so I joined him to buy wood.

Shlomo showed me his sukkah plans, an elegant and gracious summer house without a roof. I hadn't realized that architecture and woodwork were among his many talents, but it was out of my league. I placed 32nd in a woodwork class of 31 students. Hitting a nail was the limit of my capacity, and even then, I often scored a direct hit on my thumb. So I said nothing and just followed the master’s footsteps.

At the timber yard, Shlomo had a long list of two-by-fours, four-by-eights, and other gizmos. I hadn't a clue, so, following the classic Jewish recipe, I just ordered a little of this and a little of that. My bill came to less than ten pounds.

Shlomo dropped me off with my random harvest, and I began constructing. I managed to produce an awkward box, and then went round to see Shlomo's Taj Mahal sukkah, too grand to be temporary. Had our structures been side by side, mine would die of shame.

Fate, though, or Providence, had a surprise. There was a tremendous storm on the second night. The wind howled. Trees bent. Leaves scattered like snowflakes. The next morning in shul, Shlomo was crestfallen. 'My sukkah is down,' he said, 'How is yours?' 'It's still there,' I said with restrained schadenfreude.

'Can’t be,' said Shlomo. He couldn't work out how my shack survived while his was demolished, and neither could I. Off we went to the back garden to fathom the mystery.

Shlomo shook my sukkah; it was rock solid, and he immediately saw why. His was a free standing structure, while I had fixed one of the uprights to the wall of the house by a single nail.
Shlomo smiled. “One nail made the difference. Mine was not anchored to something stable. That nail represents Faith. If we're connected to something solid, we can stand firm against the wind. But if we’re just free standing - our most carefully laid out plans get blown away when the storm comes.”

People think that faith is about certainty. It isn't. It's the courage to live with uncertainty, as did our ancestors when they set out on what Nelson Mandela calls 'the long walk to freedom.' The Israelites had only fragile dwellings for forty years.

Exposed to the wind and rain, the sukkah is a vivid reminder of the vulnerability our ancestors experienced throughout the dispersion, never knowing whether they were safe or if they would have to wander again.

They were not naïve that they would always lead a charmed life. We don’t see the world through rose-tinted glasses. Their faith meant that they were not alone, that G-d was with them, that our Torah heritage is worth the sacrifice, and that we will eventually reach the Promised Land. The Jewish journey turned out to be the longest in history, but in the end we are getting there - to Israel, Jerusalem and freedom, even if not yet to peace.

The connection to something eternal and immovable makes all the difference. I saw a nail. He saw faith. Thank you, Shlomo, for teaching me the strength of a humble shack.