Beyond Steak and Scotch: What Men Can Find in the Sukkah

I know the call to service all too well. As a father, and especially as a divorced father, my first instinct after the rupture of marriage was to focus on my kids. They were the center. They needed to feel secure, sustained, held. And so I poured myself into making sure they were OK; the natural thing to do.

But somewhere along the way I had to admit: the divorce happened to me, too. I needed someone to focus on me. I needed care. It’s a strange and uncomfortable realization for a man who’s been taught his worth lies in providing, not receiving.

For generations, men have been socialized to find meaning through service. The worker who provides for his family, the soldier who protects the nation, the father who sacrifices for his children — these roles are exalted. They carry honor, loyalty, and selflessness. Service offers clarity in a world that often feels uncertain. A man might not know what his purpose is on the broad stage of life, but he can always know his purpose in the moment: be useful to others.

This is why service is both a gift and anchor. It provides men with direction when other sources of meaning — religion, community, tradition — are eroding or shifting. And it offers men a way to measure their value in visible, concrete terms. The world tells men: you matter because you give, you protect, you provide.

But the very thing that steadies men can also hollow them out. If you are only valuable for what you do, what happens when you can no longer do it? When retirement, illness, job loss, or heartbreak come, many men feel stripped of identity. They become invisible to themselves and to others. Service turns into a trap. It doesn’t allow room for men to imagine themselves as beings who need or deserve care. To be served, in many men’s eyes, is to admit weakness, dependency, even failure. And so they resist it at all costs. They show up with jumper cables at 2 a.m. but resist asking for help in all kinds of situations themselves.. That refusal is not stoicism — it’s self-erasure.

This dynamic shows up not just in families, but in communities as well — especially Jewish communities. Men often take on the labor of service that sustains communal life. They are the ushers, the fundraisers, the presidents of boards and men’s clubs. They chair committees, build sukkot, set up chairs, cook breakfasts, lead services, teach classes, and raise money when the roof leaks or when Israel needs help. Their service is not small. It is essential. Without it, so much of Jewish communal life would simply fall apart.

When I was a pulpit rabbi in Charlotte, we built a massive sukkah every year. To cover it, we held an event humorously dubbed “Jewish Men with Chainsaws.” Before the holiday began, dozens of men came out to cut and collect the branches that became our schach, the natural covering for the sukkah’s roof. It was a sight to behold: camaraderie, sweat, banter, and no shortage of noise. Men with power tools, laughing and working together, making sure the sukkah would stand ready to welcome the community.

But here’s the part that still lingers with me: all that energy went into building. How much energy did we spend actually dwelling in the sukkah together as men? To be sure, there were steak-and-scotch nights under the sukkah, and those were wonderful — men gathered around tables, plates piled high, glasses full, laughter loud. But what if those full bellies and alcohol-lubed brains were also used to nourish each other’s souls? What if those nights didn’t stop at food and drink, but carried forward into conversations about the fragility of our lives, the stresses of being fathers, partners, or sons, and the weight of serving everyone but ourselves?

That’s the paradox. The sukkah itself is a spiritual lesson in impermanence and vulnerability. It invites us to remember that life is fragile, that we are not in control, and that real strength comes not from walls but from faith, honesty, and community. Men need that reminder as much as anyone. They should not only be the ones with chainsaws — building the sukkah — but also the ones who dare to sit beneath its unsteady shelter, baring their own fragility and finding support in one another.

I felt the necessity of this lesson during my divorce. My children’s needs were obvious: stability, reassurance, a sense that their father would hold them even as the family structure changed. What was less obvious was that I needed holding too. For a long time, I ignored that reality. I doubled down on service — made lunches, coordinated schedules, stayed late on bedtime stories. I thought if I could just keep pouring out, the emptiness inside me would go away. But the emptiness didn’t go away. It grew. And I realized I couldn’t pour from an empty vessel.

That was the turning point. I had to ask: how do I serve myself? Not selfishly, but honestly. How do I acknowledge that the rupture wasn’t just theirs, it was mine? What I learned is that service doesn’t have to be one-sided. It can be reciprocal, circular, even restorative. Yes, I served my kids — but I also needed to serve myself through practices that restored me: exercise that gave my body strength, therapy that allowed my grief to be seen, and my men’s group where I was supported instead of always supporting.

Those weren’t indulgences. They were survival. They reminded me that I am more than a provider; I am a person. And when I allowed myself to be cared for, I became better at caring for others. My service deepened not because I sacrificed more, but because I had more to give.

The lesson extends far beyond one family or one man’s story. Communities that rely on men’s service must also be willing to serve those men in return. Not just with thank-yous or plaques, but with opportunities for rest, renewal, and emotional connection. Men need spaces to talk honestly about their struggles, to support each other without shame, and to be reminded that they are not machines built only to provide, but human beings who deserve care.

Looking back, what saved me wasn’t simply that I stayed devoted to my kids. It was that I allowed myself to be devoted to self-care as well. Exercise kept me grounded, therapy gave me language for my pain, and my men’s group held me up when I couldn’t hold myself. Those experiences didn’t take away the difficulty of divorce, but they allowed me to move through it as a whole person, not merely a hollow provider.

The sukkah is a reminder that life is fragile, temporary, and sacred. Men should be invited not only to construct it but to dwell in it — together. To sit in its shade and admit their own vulnerability. To learn that service is not only about building and giving, but also about receiving, resting, and being supported.

Because until men believe that, they will continue to find meaning in service to everything but themselves — never realizing that they, too, are human beings deserving of the very care they so freely give away.