If you’ve ever traveled through the countryside in the UK or across Europe, you’ve probably come across the hauntingly beautiful ruins of medieval castles. These ancient strongholds, with impressive moats and thick walls, were once the homes of powerful kings and aristocrats. They now stand in varying states of decay.

Take, for example, Corfe Castle in Dorset, England. I’ve been there. It was originally built by William the Conqueror and remained in the English royal family until Elizabeth I sold it to Sir Christopher Hatton in 1572.

Sixty years later, the Hatton family sold the sprawling 20,000-square-foot palace to Sir John Bankes, a loyal royalist during the English Civil War. Bankes’ allegiance to the monarchy led to the castle being targeted and eventually destroyed by parliamentary forces in 1645.

Corfe Castle was once a formidable fortress, the seat of kings, and a symbol of immense power. Today, its crumbling walls are a picturesque reminder of its former glory, a shadow of what it once was.

Then there’s Château de Chinon in France, where Henry II of England once held court. Much of its medieval grandeur still lingers despite the obvious signs of decay. Initially built in the 10th century, this expansive fortress became a critical political hub during the 12th century under Henry II, whose influence stretched across England and vast territories in France.

At its height, the château was a center of political intrigue and royal might, even playing host to Joan of Arc in 1429, when she convinced Charles VII to claim the French throne. But now, much of it lies in ruins, a sad, empty shell with towers and walls weathered by centuries of neglect. Despite restoration efforts, large sections of the château remain crumbling ruins, reminding visitors of the passage of time and the impermanence of power.

Schloss Heidelberg in Germany is another similar example. Once the majestic seat of the Electors Palatine, it was a symbol of wealth and influence in the region. Perched high above the Neckar River, the castle was originally constructed in the 13th century. Its architecture, a mix of Gothic and Renaissance styles, was expanded and extended over the centuries, reflecting the grandeur and opulence of the notables who resided there in different eras.

But the castle’s fate took a tragic turn in the late 1600s when it was repeatedly damaged during the Nine Years’ War and the War of the Palatine Succession. After being heavily damaged by French troops, most of Schloss Heidelberg was left in ruins, and it has never been fully restored.

Today, the castle remains a pale shadow of its former glory, with grand façades that lead to empty spaces and stairways that lead to nowhere — a reminder of the fleeting nature of human achievement and the virtual impossibility of restoring the past to its idealized perfection.

These castles were all once symbols of strength and permanence, but they now lie in ruins. Ironically, the very fortifications built to last forever couldn’t withstand the ravages of time and history.

In the lead-up to Sukkot, I found myself reflecting on these castle ruins and others I’ve visited over the years, in connection with the special addition we include in Birkat Hamazon during the festival: הָרַחֲמָן הוּא יָקִים לָנוּ אֶת סֻכַּת דָּוִד הַנּוֹפֶלֶת — “May the Merciful One restore for us the fallen Sukkah of David.”

The phrase “Sukkah of David” has always intrigued me. After all, King David’s dynasty is usually called the “House of David,” which suggests something solid and permanent. So how do we understand the reference to this glorious royal dynasty as a “Sukkah” — a structure that is temporary and fragile by its very nature?

The reference in Birkat Hamazon is based on a verse in Amos (9:11): בַּיּוֹם הַהוּא אָקִים אֶת סֻכַּת דָּוִיד הַנֹּפֶלֶת—“On that day I will restore the fallen Sukkah of David.” Amos was prophesying during the First Temple period, when the House of David was on the verge of collapse. The use of the word Sukkah in this context is significant. Why not call it a house, which signifies strength and permanence, particularly when discussing the fallen monarchy’s reestablishment?

The Maharal of Prague offers a fascinating explanation. The Davidic dynasty is deliberately referred to both as a “sukkah” and as a “house.” A house is a structure that has a powerful, material existence—because it is meant to last. Which is why royal dynasties are often referred to as a “house – a word that connotes permanence and stability.

But here’s the thing: is a house truly permanent? When a house falls, it doesn’t just crumble — it loses its essence. Even if you rebuild it, it’s not the same house — it’s something new. The original house is gone, negated by its destruction. What you’ve built is a new creation, not a restoration of the old. And the larger and grander the house — like a castle, for example — the less likely it is that it will ever be reconstructed at all.

But a sukkah is different. It’s not permanent to begin with. When it falls, it can easily be reconstructed. Its whole purpose is to be reconstructed when it falls. And what’s more — when you rebuild it, it’s not considered something new — it’s still the original sukkah, regenerated in its full essence. It retains its identity, no matter how often it has to be put back up.

Which is why the Kingdom of David is called a “sukkah.” As a royal dynasty, it may be fragile, but it is always ready to rise again. It doesn’t need to be replaced or reinvented—it can simply be reestablished and it will be as if it was never gone.

This idea of the sukkah as a symbol of reestablishment is also a perfect metaphor for the Jewish people. Like a sukkah, we may be vulnerable, exposed to the winds of history, but each time we fall, we rise again. And we rebuild, not as something new, but as a continuation of who we have always been. We are not like a castle that, once ruined, can never reclaim its former glory. Instead, we are like a sukkah — temporary yet eternal, fragile yet enduring.

That’s why, during Sukkot, we invoke the image of the fallen “Sukkah of David” — a reminder that, like the sukkah, the Jewish people and the Davidic dynasty may fall, but they will always rise again, renewed and reestablished, as they have throughout history, and as we will again in the Messianic age that is unfolding before our eyes.

The author is a rabbi in Beverly Hills, California. 

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