Succois 2026: Give Me Four and Shoin
by devadmin | September 24, 2026 9:10 pm
Raboyseyee and Ladies,
GIVE ME FOUR AND SHOIN
I had one of those moments last week that made me stop and think: something is not right here. There I was in the shul lobby, and there was a father and son. The father has been selling esrogim and all its accoutrements for over 40 years. The table was full. Each item was neatly boxed or otherwise ready to go in its proper packaging. Most of the Yiddin were there to pick up their pre-orders and taka there were many, but of course every smart vendor brings along a few extras for the last-minute shopper. Sukkis is coming, and there is always that somebody who waited until the last possible minute to decide whether or not he wants to go shopping for a sale and hondel (negotiate) with the young kids manning tables along the avenue of every major Jewish community, or to throw in the towel and pay full price, might show up. That would be me!
I was standing near the table watching the usual annual ritual unfold. Except this wasn’t the typical Sukkis scene I witness in most years. Nobody was standing there examining esrogim as if they were evaluating diamonds. Nobody was turning an esrog over and checking the pitum for its proper attachment. Nobody pulled out a magnifying glass. Nobody asked to see another one, and then another one, and perhaps one more that was a little more mehudar (more beautiful, more refined, more carefully selected, of superior quality, or more appealing). Nobody was asking whether the lulav was kosher, straight, too straight, whether the top was closed, or whether it was fresh. Nobody was checking whether the leaves were properly aligned. Nobody seemed particularly concerned about the yichus (pedigree) of the esrog: Who grew it? Where did it come from? From which country was it imported? Which rabbi blessed and stamped it kosher? And of course, how much? The scene was more reminiscent of the grab-and-go boxed lunches we pick up while away for Pesach or Sukkis for the Chol Hamoed day trips. And then came the coup-de-grace.
I was mamish an eye witness as the rabbi of this particular congregation walked up to the seller and ordered four complete sets. Four esrogim, four lulavim, four sets of hadasim, and four sets of arovos. He didn’t pick up an esrog. He didn’t inspect the pitum. He didn’t pull out a magnifying glass. He didn’t hold the lulav up and stare at it from three different angles. He didn’t ask for a more mehudar one. He didn’t even seem particularly interested in seeing what he was getting. Not one box was opened. He simply said, “Give me four.” Four. Shoin. The vendor put them into a bag and off the rabbi went, but not before a bewildered Ois got to comment. Of course, with my big mouth I couldn’t help myself and made some comment about how quickly he had made his selections. He didn’t look or check; gornisht! He looked at me as if I was mamish an oisvorf and explained that that’s how it is this year when the first day of Sukkis is Shabbis. We don’t use our lulavim and esrogim on Shabbis. And I stood there thinking: OMG, what the hell? Not because he was wrong. Farkert, quite the opposite. He was completely right about the basic halacha. But suddenly a whole world of questions opened up.
What do Yiddin who normally spend hours inspecting their potential esrogim do when the first day of Sukkis falls on Shabbis? What happens to the annual Sukkis shopping Olympics? What happens to the magnifying glasses? What happens to the people who examine every tiny mark on an esrog as if they are dermatologist and or plastic surgeons? What happens to those who need three hours to decide which lulav is the straightest? Which is the most masculine? Which will shokel (shake) best? They are a minority for sure, at least in this particular shul, but do they just walk away and go home? Do they have nothing to argue about? What do the shokel-lovers do for fun? Ok, that for another day. And taka, why don’t we use the lulav on Shabbis?
And this brought me back to something I have written about many times over the years: The Toirah-inspired entrepreneur. Raboyseyee, give people a mitzvah, a halacha, a chumra, a hiddur, or even something they can be made to believe they absolutely cannot live without, and somebody will eventually figure out how to turn it into a business opportunity. The heylige Toirah may tell us to take a lulav and esrog, but the marketplace has figured out how to sell us the lulav, the esrog, the case for the esrog, the case for the lulav, the bag for the case, the silver or velvet holder, the special water container, the accessories, and of course the esrog that is so incredibly mehudar that you might need a second mortgage to bring it home. And taka, I’m not complaining. I have been known to participate in this economy myself. There are mamish countless examples of Toirah-inspired entrepreneurs finding ways to build businesses around mitzvis and halachos. We see it with Pesach, with Sukkis, with tefillin, with mezuzos, with shuls, with seforim, with kosher food, and with just about every other area of frum life. Sometimes the product is genuinely useful. Sometimes it makes a mitzvah easier. Sometimes it adds hiddur. And sometimes, if we’re being honest, somebody simply figured out that Yiddin are willing to spend money to feel that they are doing a mitzvah a little better. And of course, there are those that must simply have the biggest, the nicest and the most expensive one being offered.
The daled minim business is a perfect example. Every year many dozens of dealers spend months preparing. They source esrogim, lulavim, hadasim and arovos. They sort them into categories. They create packages. They offer mehudar, more mehudar, and presumably so mehudar that Moishe Rabbeinu would have blushed at their chtutzpah. They know that when Sukkis approaches, the fineshmekkers will arrive. They will bring their loops. They will inspect. They will compare. They will ask questions. They will look at the pitum. They will look at the color, the shape, the yichus, the provenance, the machshir, and to see if the esrog has what they call a gartel (a natural built-in ribbon). And of course, the price. And somebody will eventually say, “I’ll take this one.”
But this year, something happened that no marketing department could fix: The first day of Sukkis falls on Shabbis. And when the first day falls on Shabbis, the fineshmekkers don’t have their usual first-day mitzvah to perform. The guys who normally arrive with their magnifying glasses and their loops don’t have the same urgency. The people who normally spend an hour deciding between two esrogim don’t have the same reason to agonize over the decision. You still need daled minim for the mitzvah, but the first day is Shabbis, so the great annual Sukkis shopping extravaganza loses some of its excitement. In fact, when I went to pick up my own esrogim today, I mentioned this very factoid to the dealer. I expected him to say, “Yes, this year is a little different.” Instead, he looked at me with the expression of a man who had just been handed another bill and told me it was even worse than I thought. I asked him, “What could possibly be worse?” He answered: “Next Sukkis the first day of Sukkis also falls on Shabbis.” Oy vey and yikes!
Apparently, the RBSO has decided that the daled minim dealers need a two-year breather and a lesson in patience. And taka, I thought about that. We often talk about the RBSO giving people parnoso (a livelihood). We talk about Toirah inspired opportunities. We talk about the businesses that exist because of the way we observe the heylige Toirah. But every once in a while, the RBSO rotates the people to whom He gives those particular opportunities. One year it may be the esrog dealer. One year He brings strong winds and it’s the turn of the sukkah sellers and builders. The Ois has lost at least two sukkahs in the past 10 years due to high winds; I kid you not. One year it may be the guy selling the hottest new image of some rebbe with a mouse, and other decorations. One year it may be the guy selling the most portable rollaway beds. Ober, this year, the esrog dealer looks at his inventory and says, “Oy vey.” Because when the first day of Sukkis coincides with Shabbis, the big first-day rush is not quite the same. By day two, the thrill is gone. And that’s taka the part the dealer was lamenting. The heylige Toirah hasn’t changed. The mitzvah hasn’t changed. The daled minim haven’t changed. But the calendar changed. And sometimes a tiny change in the calendar can change an entire business model.
Raboyseyee, this is where Sukkis gets mamish interesting, because the answer isn’t that the RBSO suddenly decided that on Shabbis the daled minim are no longer kosher. The mitzvah is still the mitzvah. The lulav didn’t lose its kedusha (holiness). The esrog didn’t become a lemon. The hadasim didn’t suddenly become ordinary bushes. What changed is the day. So, what’s pshat? If the RBSO didn’t change the laws because of shabbis, who did? Says the heylige Gemora (Sukkah 42b–43a) that the mitzvah of taking the lulav on the first day is mamish a Toirah-commanded mitzvah. The Gemora addresses the unusual situation of the first day falling on Shabbis. In fact, the Gemora asks this very question: If the mitzvah applies on the first day, why shouldn’t we take the lulav even when that day happens to be Shabbis? The answer takes us into one of those classic pieces of Chazal that initially sounds almost counterintuitive. Our wise Sages were concerned that somebody who wasn’t sufficiently knowledgeable about the mitzvah might take his lulav to someone who could teach him how to perform it properly. In the process, he might carry the lulav through a public domain and violate Shabbis. Say it’s not so! So, our Chachomim essentially said: better that we don’t take the lulav on Shabbis than that the attempt to perform one mitzvah should lead somebody to violate Shabbis. Believe it or not, that is the operative halacha we live with today. When the first day of Sukkis falls on Shabbis, we do not take the lulav and esrog. Case closed! The mitzvah hasn’t disappeared. It hasn’t been cancelled. It simply waits until the next day.
And now comes another kasha: What about muktzeh? Is fruit muktzeh? Are plants muktzeh? Is an esrog suddenly radioactive because Shabbis came in? Not exactly. The sages declared that the lulav has a special muktzeh issue because on Shabbis there is no mitzvah to take it, while an esrog has other potential permitted uses, including smelling it. So, the halocho isn’t simply “it’s a plant, therefore it’s muktzeh” or “it’s fruit, therefore it’s not.” As usual, we have to look at what the object is and what it can legitimately be used for. And then another kasha hit me: but, what about the eruv? Almost every frum community today has an eruv. We rely on it every Shabbis. We walk to shul carrying our siddurim, talaisim, keys, baby bottles, diapers, snacks, toys. Most women are carrying their dress shoes. If we have an eruv that allows us to carry on Shabbis, why can’t we carry our lulovim and esrogim to shul? Why doesn’t the eruv solve the problem? Why can’t we say that where there is a kosher eruv, a person can take his lulav and esrog to shul and perform the mitzvah on the first day of Sukkis when it falls on Shabbis? And taka, if the whole concern was that someone might carry his lulav through a public domain while looking for somebody to teach him how to perform the mitzvah, what happens in 2026? Let’s get real: We have eruvin all over the place. We have communities where people routinely carry on Shabbis. We have people scootering to shul. So why not the lulav? Why wasn’t this rabbinic enactment (takono) changed or updated? Why didn’t the Sages say, “If there’s an eruv, you’re good to go”? Is the lulav somehow the one item that the eruv doesn’t recognize?
And this, raboyseyee, is where I started going down the rabbit hole. Because the answer is not simply, “You can’t carry.” If that were the whole story, the kasha would be mamish shtark (strong). We have an eruv. So what taka is going on here? Well, taka, the eruv solves the carrying problem within the area covered by a valid eruv, but it doesn’t erase the separate halachic rule established by Chazal. An eruv is not a magic eraser that allows us to go back and change every rabbinic decree whose original concern involved carrying. If only it were that easy. The Sages established a uniform rule regarding lulav on shabbis, and we follow that rule even where carrying itself may not be the problem. The Shulchan Aruch therefore states plainly that the lulav is not taken on Shabbis, even when Shabbis is the first day of Sukkis. The bottom line: what the Sages declared back then -for a valid reason- is operative today even when the reason behind their enactment has seemingly been replaced with new ideas, technology and other work-arounds. Case closed, and my brilliant 2026 solution of, “but we have an eruv!” doesn’t get me very far.
But let’s read this bombshell: The heylige Gemora itself takes us into an even more interesting direction. There was a time when the first day of Sukkis fell on Shabbis and the people actually did bring their lulavim. Not to the local shul lobby. Not to some guy selling Moroccan esrogim out of the back of his minivan. Not to a folding table with plastic bags, velvet cases and a handwritten sign saying, “Premium Mehudar — $225.” They brought them to the Beis Hamikdash. Mamish! Is that so? The heylige Mishneh (Sukkah 4:4) describes how, when the first day of Sukkis fell on Shabbis, the Yiddin brought their lulavim to the Har HaBayis before Shabbis, where the attendants took them and arranged them for the next morning. Yes, the attendants received them and arranged them, while the people were instructed to make sure that each person would ultimately have his own lulav. The next morning, they would come back and take them. There was even a point when people became so aggressive grabbing their lulavim that people were actually hurting one another, and the Beis Din ultimately instituted that each person should take his lulav at home. Well, blow me down! Let’s digest that for a second. When the Beis Hamikdash was standing, the first day of Sukkis had a very different halachic status? The Toirah mitzvah of lulav applied on that day, and the concern about Shabbis did not eliminate the mitzvah in the Temple? Then the Beis Hamikdash was destroyed, and everything changed? Exactly! Today, when the first day of Sukkis falls on Shabbis, we sit there with our brand-new sets and do absolutely nothing with them?! Mamish fascinating!
You may taka have spent days looking for the right esrog. You may have driven from one seller to another. You may have compared five, ten, fifteen esrogim. You may have examined the pitum like you were buying a diamond. You may have paid extra because somebody told you this particular esrog came from some famous grower in Israel or Morrocco or wherever they grow these days. Grada, I saw a nice esrog tree in Beverly-Wood, CA a few months ago. You bring it home. You put it somewhere safe. You tell the kids, “Don’t touch it.” You tell your wife, “Don’t put anything near it.” You probably have a special box for it. And then Shabbis comes. And the whole beautiful package sits there. Untouched. The lulav isn’t being shaken. The hadasim aren’t being held. The arovos aren’t being inspected. And the esrog that you spent an hour choosing is basically sitting there looking at you and saying, “Nu? You paid how much for me and now you’re ignoring me?” Shoin. Not today.
And taka, there is something almost comical about the contrast. Before Sukkis, we’re obsessed with the daled minim. During the week, we’re looking at them from every angle. On Shabbis, we’re sitting in the sukkah, eating our meals, drinking, singing zemiros, having guests, enjoying the Yom Tov, and the daled minim are sitting quietly on the side. The bottom line: The mitzvah hasn’t disappeared. The objects haven’t become worthless. The esrog didn’t suddenly become a lemon. We’re simply waiting. And maybe that’s the part that bothered me most about what I saw in that shul lobby. I had assumed the rabbi was rushing. I thought, “Come on, Rabbi. You’re buying four sets of daled minim and you don’t even want to look at them?” Farkert. Maybe he was the only person in the room who actually understood the calendar. He knew that the first day was Shabbis. He knew that the lulav wasn’t going to be used that day. He knew that there would be plenty of time on Sunday. So he looked at the seller and said: “Give me four.” Four. Shoin.
And maybe that is the real kasha I should have been asking myself. Why do we assume that every mitzvah has to happen immediately? Why are we so uncomfortable with waiting? Is it because we’re living in a world where everything is instant? Instant messages. Instant delivery. Same-day shipping. You order something in the morning and you’re annoyed if Amazon doesn’t bring it before lunch. We have become so accustomed to immediate gratification that waiting itself feels like a problem. And then Sukkis comes along and says: Not yet. Wait. The mitzvah is coming. But not today. Today is Shabbis. And maybe that is not an inconvenience. Maybe that’s the lesson. Maybe we must also be well versed in knowing when not to do certain things. The RBSO gave us the mitzvah of lulav. Our wise Sages gave us the halachic framework for when and how we perform it. And when Shabbis comes, Shabbis comes first. So the esrog waits. The lulav waits. The Ois waits. And apparently, even the guy who spent three hours deciding which lulav is the straightest has to wait. For once, there is nothing to inspect. Nothing to compare. Nothing to argue about. Nothing to ask the rabbi. Nothing to measure. Nothing to photograph. Nothing to send to three friends on WhatsApp asking, “What do you think? Maybe the RBSO is trying to teach us that not every mitzvah needs a forensic investigation, three rabbinic opinions and a WhatsApp committee. Sometimes the answer is simply: “Give me four.” Four. Shoin.
Wishing all my readers a good Shabbis and a Chag Somayach!
Source URL: https://oisvorfer.com/succois-2026-give-me-four-and-shoin/