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Each Sukkot, Jews around the world gather their arba minim – the Four Species – to fulfill the Torah’s commandment to rejoice with them before G-d. One of these species, the humble aravah (willow branch), often gets overshadowed by the photogenic etrog (citron) or the stately lulav (palm frond). But peel back the layers (or should we say, leaves), and the aravah is brimming with symbolism, mystery, and even controversy.
Let’s dive into the surprisingly rich – and occasionally blackened – world of the Sukkot willow.
The Heavenly Highway: aravot in the Sky
Sukkot isn’t just about waving plants – it’s also about tuning in to divine frequencies. One of the more ethereal mentions of aravot shows up not in the produce market but in Tehillim (Psalms 68:5):
"Sing to G-d... extol Him who rides upon the aravot..."
Wait, what?
This verse describes G-d as "riding on the aravot", which sounds less like botanical poetry and more like spiritual sci-fi. But as it turns out, "aravot" here refers not to willows, but to the seventh level of Heaven. According to the Talmud in Chagigah 12b, there are seven layers of Heaven, and the top tier – the penthouse suite – is called aravot.
So, what’s the connection between the willow branches we beat on Hoshanah Rabbah and this celestial penthouse?
Some suggest it’s just a fun coincidence. But others, like Rabbeinu Bachaye, saw a deeper link. In his work Kad HaKemach, he writes that taking the willow on the seventh day of Sukkot (Hoshanah Rabbah) symbolizes G-d’s dominion over the seventh Heaven – that same aravot where the Divine rides, so to speak. The willow, in this view, isn’t just a twig – it’s a theological statement. (Chagigah 12b; Kad HaKemach, §ערבה)
Seventy Shades of Willow: Why Some Went Big
In most synagogues, people carry two or three aravot bound together with their lulav. But what if someone walked in carrying seventy of them?
No, it’s not a new CrossFit ritual. There’s actually a custom – albeit obscure – to take seventy aravot on Sukkot, based on a connection to the seventy bulls offered in the Beit HaMikdash (Holy Temple) over the course of the holiday. The bulls symbolized the seventy nations of the world, and some Jewish communities mirrored that idea by bundling together seventy willow branches. (Sukkah 52b; Shaarei Teshuvah §312; Tur OC 651)
And if seventy isn’t quite extra enough for you, the Ohr Zarua mentions a custom of taking seventy-one willow branches – the same number as the members of the Sanhedrin, the ancient Supreme Court of Israel. It’s numerology meets horticulture.
Before you rush off to the florist, though, know that these customs are not halachic requirements, just expressions of spiritual creativity.
The Curious Case of the Blackened Willow
Now let’s talk aesthetics. Ever noticed how your lovely green aravot sometimes turn a gloomy shade of black by the end of Yom Tov?
Don’t panic – not every color change is a death knell. While dried-out willows are invalid for use in the mitzvah (Mishnah Sukkah 33b), there’s disagreement among halachic authorities on how dry is too dry.
Some, like the Bikkurei Yaakov, hold that once the aravah loses all its green, it’s disqualified. Others, like Chacham Ovadia Yosef, say that it’s only invalid when it turns white, the universal sign of full dryness. So what about black?
Black isn’t dry, necessarily – and some argue that if the leaves are still supple, the color change might be kosher enough. Still, it's a gray (or black) area, and best to consult your local rabbi if your willow turns goth overnight. (Shulchan Aruch OC 647:2; Mishna Berurah 647:7; Chazon Ovadia, p. 317)
Smooth Operators: Serrations Under the Microscope
If you’ve ever inspected an aravah leaf up close, you might have noticed tiny serrations along the edge. And if you’re the type who’s read Shulchan Aruch OC 647:1, that might raise an eyebrow.
The halacha describes the aravah as having “smooth lips” – meaning smooth-edged leaves. So what gives?
Turns out, not all serrations are created equal. Most halachic authorities agree that tiny, upward-facing serrations – the kind you find on most commercially available aravot – don’t disqualify the willow. It’s only when the leaves start looking like steak knives that you have to worry.
And, according to tradition, the aravot that grow along the Jordan River are considered the archetype – meaning if they’re kosher, so are their leafy lookalikes. (Shulchan Aruch OC 647:1; Mishna Berurah)
Binding Questions: What Ties it All Together?
On Hoshanah Rabbah, the willow finally gets its moment of fame. Worshippers gather five (or more) aravot, beat them on the ground, and fulfill an ancient tradition tied to the prophets.
But before the beating begins, there’s the question of binding. Do the branches need to be tied together? And if so, with what?
The Mishna Berurah (OC 664:17) notes that the custom is to bind them, though some authorities argue against it altogether. As for what material to use: ideally, you’d bind willow with willow – no identity crisis there. But others permit tying with lulav leaves, since that’s still within the “species family” and therefore not a halachic chatzitzah (barrier).
Rubber bands, though? That’s where things get dicey. Some argue they’re not decorative, and therefore might count as a chatzitzah. Others counter that if they help beautify the bundle – or at least don’t offend the eye – they’re acceptable. (Magen Avraham OC 664:8)
In a Nutshell: Why Aravot Are More Than Just Filler
At first glance, the aravah seems like the wallflower of the Four Species – no smell, no taste, and always wilting by Day 3. But dig a little deeper, and it turns out the aravah is the existential underdog of Sukkot.
It represents the Jew without Torah or good deeds, but still cherished by G-d. It’s the symbol of humility, potential, and a spiritual thirst for growth – not because of past accomplishments, but because of future longing. No wonder some sources describe the aravah as dwelling beneath the Heavenly Throne, close to G-d Himself.
So the next time you unwrap your willow bundle, give it a little extra respect. Behind those fragile leaves lies a powerful reminder: even the simplest of souls can ascend to the highest heavens – sometimes literally.
