Few Torah commandments have the same double-take effect as the mitzvah of shaking the lulav and etrog. On all the seven days of Sukkot, save Shabbos, we hold one citron (etrog) fruit in our left hand and combination of a single lulav (branch of a date palm), two aravas (willow branches) and three hadasim (myrtle branches) in our right; we bring our two hands together; make a blessing and shake the coalition of all four species in six directions – straight ahead, to the right, left, behind us, up and down. Seems bizarre indeed. Uninitiated onlookers will certainly do a double-take.

The Torah does not ask for our complete attention needlessly. When it gives us a double-take mitzvah, it’s clearly trying to convey an important message. What lesson can possibly be taken from this perplexing commandment?

As you might expect, our Sages present us with multiple explanations for this ritual. According to the Midrash, the four species are representative of the four kinds of Jews, and the uniting of the four is indicative of the imperative of Jewish harmony, unity and peace. The etrog has both a pleasant smell and taste, and symbolizes Jews who are both Torah scholars and people of impeccable character. The inedible and fragrance-free aravah represents Jews who have neither quality – are ignorant in matters of wisdom and display unremarkable character. The lulav branch of a date tree and the myrtle hadas branch each have one of the qualities and not the other, and they represent Jews who demonstrate either great scholarship or great character, but not the entire package. These four species corresponding to four very different Jews are united as one in the lulav shaking ceremony.

This imparts a critical lesson. We do not live in a world where all Jews maintain the same level of observance or dedication to Jewish living and learning. Irrespective of practice, we are, regrettably, not even united on philosophical or ideological principles. The unfortunate reality is that there have been major schisms that fractured the Jewish people. The mitzvah of lulav reminds us that despite the bitter infighting, partisanship and disunity that plague our people, we are still a single indivisible unit. Shaking one of the species without the others is meaningless. For better or for worse, the Jewish people are viewed as a single entity. The lulav procedure is thus a sign of Jewish unity.

Alternatively, lulav can viewed as a symbol of the miracle of Jewish continuity. Statistically, we should have disappeared a long time ago. A small itinerant nation bereft of a homeland and not bound by common language or culture should never have survived 2000 years of relentless economic, physical and spiritual marginalization. We should have retired to the annals of history like the many great civilization of the past. The fact that we are still here is nothing short of a miracle.

In Jewish philosophy, we attribute our survival to the annual personal and communal atonement we undergo on Yom Kippur. Every year we are granted a total spiritual cleansing and our sins are forgiven and never accumulate enough in quantity or severity to justify our extinction. During the holiday of Sukkot, on the heels of Yom Kippur, we shake the lulav high, like a victorious warrior returning from battle triumphantly brandishing his sword. We have, once again, survived Judgment unscathed. Accordingly, the lulav ceremony is demonstrative of Jewish continuity.

Perhaps it is no coincidence that the ritual of lulav and etrog can be linked to both Jewish unity and Jewish survival. Perhaps we can also learn a synthesis of these two ideas: Jewish survival hinges on Jewish unity. The survival and success of the Jewish national mission depends on us being able to unite as one man with one purpose. If history is of any indication, our greatest national contributions occurred when we were united, mobilized as one to achieve our destiny; and our collective failures and downfalls are conversely marked by internal conflict and strife. If we truly want to fulfill our national destiny of tikkun olam – of being the world’s spiritual guides and moral guardians – we must rid ourselves of any traces of sectarianism, factionalism, division or discord.

This Sukkot, when we do our lulav double-take, let’s remember and internalize the messages of the four species. Contemplate the importance of Jewish unity and the miracle of Jewish survival, and remember that they are interlocked: We will survive and thrive if we are united.

The feeling of loneliness experienced when someone you love is distant from you occurs in two varieties. The person you love can be materially distant from you; on a remote island off the coast of Timbuktu without Wi-Fi, running water, or access to modern forms of communication, or better yet, on a rocket ship hurling through the Milky Way an unfathomable, steadily increasing, distance from Earth and a sad, hollow void fills your heart. A nearly identical feeling can be experienced when the person you love is ten feet away; a barrier of reinforced steel or the Berlin Wall separating you two.

The Torahs depiction of the relationship between man and God is complex and confusing. The concept of an invisible, omnipotent God, not bound to time or space nor defined by any physical relatable qualities is very distant from our conscious, yet we see indications that we are extremely close, perhaps even similar to God. For one, the Torah[1] describes man as being created in the image of God. Additionally, we are taught[2] that the etymology of the Hebrew word for man – אדם – is a play on the word –אדמה לעליון – similar to God. Furthermore, the Talmud[3] delineates three entities that are “pure”: God, His angels, and the soul of man. The Zohar[4] proclaims with finality: Nothing and no one is closer to God than the heart of man. In some dimension, man is really close to God. How is it that we feel so distant, so removed from Him?

The answer lies in the physiological development of the body and soul. The Talmud[5] describes a child in utero as having an unsullied soul that “gazes from one end of the world to the other end;” a soul innately knowledgeable of the entire Torah[6]; a soul not under the influence of, and untethered, immune and inaccessible to the three headed[7] monster of evil, the yetzer ra (evil inclination), the satan (prosecuting angel) and the malach hamaves (angel of death). Man’s unadulterated soul is extremely pure; to some degree similar to God. That is the soul of man in its original state. As a child is being born, the three sister forces of evil are draped over him and this reality is totally changed. Henceforth, the power of the soul is muffled by the physical body and the powers of the yetzer ra. A seemingly impenetrable barrier has been erected between man and God; between man and his roots. God is not far away in the cosmos; God is really close, but a massive barrier separates us from Him, and our life-responsibility is to puncture holes and eventually breach that fence.

On Yom Kippur, something magical happens. “For on [Yom Kippur] He will atone you to purify you from all your sins, close to God become pure[8].” The verse indicates that aside from atonement, Yom Kippur is a day where we are close to God. This sentiment is echoed elsewhere[9] when is said in reference to the High Holidays: “Call out to Him when he is close.” The structure of this phenomenon is somewhat unclear. What happens on Yom Kippur that changes the status quo and creates a situation where God is close to us?

To unravel this mystery we must examine another confounding statement in the Talmud[10]: “The gematria[11] of השטן (the satan) is 364, for he has power on 364 days a year; on Yom Kippur he has no power”. On Yom Kippur we are uninfluenced by the three headed monster that created the blockade between us and God. For one day a year the barrier is lifted. We are returned de facto to our original state of being close to God. Yom Kippur is a magical day, indeed.

Our closeness to God on this day is reflected by many of its practices and laws. Unlike other Jewish fast days, fasting on Yom Kippur is not a form of mourning or sadness, rather an expression of our state of angel-like closeness to God. Angels do not need to eat, and neither do we on Yom Kippur. We also pray like angels[12] and dress in white as a testament of our state of purity.

This reality presents us with the tremendous opportunity called teshuva, loosely translated as “repentance”, more correctly as returning. Repentance entails returning. Returning to your roots; returning to God. The rest of the year one can and must seek to return to God, but he must encounter the tremendous obstacle that stands before him. Repentance during the year is akin to Andy Dufresne chipping laboriously at the seemingly impregnable wall; On Yom Kippur the doors of the prison are temporarily opened. The path to God is clear. A small effort is all that is needed on Yom Kippur.

Personal growth has been compared to climbing a ladder; you may only ascend one rung at a time. Chipping away, slowly, methodically, at the imposing barrier. On Yom Kippur those rules are scrapped. On this day we are close to God. The doors are wide open. Do not be the only inmate who stays in his cell.