Some keep the Sabbath going to Church / I keep it staying at Home -
With a bobolink for a Chorister / And an Orchard, for a Dome.
--Emily Dickinson, American poet (1830-1886)

There was a time in American history when a pioneer standing on a hill gazing at the mountains, the pinewood valley below, the boulders and rocks dotting the field, held but one thought in his heart: it’s going to take forever to level that valley and ready it for farming. Nature was not always appreciated for its beauty; it was loathed for its obstacles. Our romance with nature has clearly evolved over the centuries.

Many Jews would identify Sukkot as the festival most appreciative of nature. Decorating our sukkot with sekhakh overhead; corn stalks, pumpkins, gourds, and fruits within, is all connected to our esteem for God’s gifts. Vegetation and fruits are the jewelry of God.

Our philosophical ancestors saw only beauty and justice in nature. William Shakespeare, the pre-eminent English dramatist (1564-1616) wrote, “One touch of nature makes the whole world kin.” Henry David Thoreau, the American philosopher (1817-1862), wrote, “I believe that there is a subtle magnetism in Nature, which, if we unconsciously yield to it, will direct us aright.” Frank Lloyd Wright, the American architect (1867-1959), wrote, “Study nature, love nature, stay close to nature. It will never fail you.”

Perhaps these men never saw the aftermath of a hurricane, or walked a hospital’s pediatric oncology ward, or witnessed the crash of an airliner, all accidents that obey the fundamental laws of nature. Nature has this other side, one blind to compassion and indifferent to human suffering. Thornton Wilder, the American playwright (1897-1975) wrote: “Nature reserves the right to inflict upon her children the most terrifying jests.”

The last day of Sukkot is known as Hoshana Rabba, the Great Hoshana. “Hoshana” is a conflation of two Hebrew words—Hosha meaning “save” and na meaning “please.” We direct this simple prayer to God: “Please save.” Each day of sukkot, we make a single procession around the synagogue and chant this prayer repeatedly, but on that last day of Sukkot, Hoshana Rabbah, we circle the altar seven times! And then a most violent act, uncharacteristic of Judaism, brings the ceremony to a close. A bound bunch of willow branches are smashed five times, as if attempting to beat nature into submission. We may love nature, but we are also in perpetual conflict with it. Our DNA does not always cooperate with our desires.  Tragic accidents are the slavishly obedient consequences of Newton’s laws. The weather brings us some very unpleasant surprises. And so Kurt Vonnegut, the American author (1922-2007), wrote: “If people think that nature is their friend, they certainly don’t need an enemy.”

None of this is to suggest that nature really is the enemy, but only that it is in need of context. Our romanticization of nature distorts the truth, and living with distorted truth is living dangerously, damning us to eventual disappointment. When we participate in Hoshana Rabbah, for all of five seconds we put nature in its pace. As for Emily Dickinson’s poem above, it is a lovely sentiment for those who might place their faith in nature. But better to admire nature from a distance and place our faith in the God who transcends it.