Sure, the first day is kind of exciting. We get to build and decorate the whole thing with fresh green palm branches, gourds, and fruit. If we're lucky, there's a gentle Santa Ana breeze to keep us warm while we dine with our family and then drift gently off to steep. But what about those Jews in Minnesota, Toronto, and Odessa freezing their behinds off just to observe the mitzvah of dwelling in the sukkah?

Sukkot can get a little rough even for those of us lucky enough to live in warm places like Southern California. After about three days, that balmy weather starts to rot the fruit and gourds. We curse the thought of trying to get a good night's sleep on one of those stupid inflatable mattresses. Then, just when our aching backs can take no more, we get soaked, either by rain or, if you're like me, by the automatic sprinklers you forgot to turn off. Some holiday, huh?

There's actually a fair amount of thought given by the rabbis to the hardships of Sukkot, especially the eventuality of rain. According to the Talmud, if it's raining so hard that it spoils your porridge, it's permissible to leave the sukkah and finish your meal in the house. The same is true for sleeping. If it's raining too hard, you can snuggle up in your real bed until morning. These seem like reasonable enough accommodations to Mother Nature. But, for me, the real question isn't when we can leave the sukkah if it's raining, but why it sometimes rains at all. If we think about it, the idea of rain during Sukkot makes no sense. Why would God command us to eat and sleep in the sukkah and at the same time make that commandment impossible to fulfill by causing it to rain?

There are a lot of possible answers to this dilemma. Maybe God doesn't control when it rains in the first place. Maybe God does control the rainfall, and a downpour during Sukkot is a sign of God's displeasure with the Jewish people. Maybe there is no God, Sukkot was invented by human beings, and rain during the holiday means nothing at all. Any of these are possible, but I prefer the Talmud's own explanation. "To what can rain during Sukkot be compared?" the sages ask. "To a servant [a righteous person] who comes to fill his master's [Gods] cup, and the master throws the water back into his face."

For the ancient rabbis, rain during Sukkot was a reminder that we can do everything right and still suffer tragedy. Like the rabbi I knew who worked out, lifted weights, and ran on the treadmill almost every day but still had a heart attack in his mid-forties--he died at the gym. What about Eric, my religiously devout gardener, who works in the hot sun more hours a week and harder than a professional athlete but makes less than one-thousandth the money? What about Syd, the seventy-one-year-old philanthropist and mensch who gave time and Money to Los Angeles and its Jewish community--stricken with leukemia and gone within a month?

Rain on Sukkot, my rabbi friend, my gardener, and Syd, are all a lesson about goodness. If you think being good prevents anything bad from ever happening to you, wise up. Serving God and humanity guarantees meaning and purpose, not the lack of sorrow. No matter how good we are, sooner or later rain comes to our Sukkah; no matter how well we serve God, once in a while we get hit in the face with cold water... and it all adds up to a pretty good lesson in humility.