Maybe it’s because I come from a family of three boys. Or maybe it’s because I’m the father of three boys. Or perhaps it’s because I spent so much time in the Boy Scouts as a kid, or that I went to an Orthodox rabbinical school whose students were all young men. Whatever the reasons, I’ve long cared about masculinity and the experience of men.

I can remember already as a college student noticing that feminism seemed to have given many women I knew a more robust vocabulary for articulating what it meant to be a woman—and that a lot of men seemed to struggle in comparison. And though gender conversations have only gotten richer and more complex in the ensuing decades, the situation when it comes to masculinity doesn’t feel like it has gotten much better. If anything, it may have gotten worse.

From the Access Hollywood tape to “Quiet, Piggy,” the most powerful man in the world (one of them, anyway) has subjected the culture to a decade of shallow, toxic and violent masculinity. And the culture has followed suit: Humility and open hearts have been out, arrogance and closed fists have been in. As a father, I have worried about raising young men in such a culture.

This week I felt some more jolts. First I read about the latest outrageous attack on Palestinians by about 100 young Jewish men in the West Bank, which included the torching of homes. And then I read about violent, abusive hazing of pledges by the AEPi chapter at the University of Wisconsin-Madison. (AEPi is a Jewish fraternity; my son is a member of the University of Illinois chapter.)

There are undoubtedly other elements to both these stories, but I can’t help but wonder about how the young men involved in them imagine what it is to be a man—and whether a different conception might have a healthy effect. Because both of these stories have come to light during Sukkot, I’ve been thinking about them in the context of the sukkah and home.

We can trace the origins of a good chunk of our ideas—and even our laws—about home to ancient Rome. Central to the Roman concept of the domus was the notion of the paterfamilias, the male head of household—who could exercise virtually unchecked power within his property. Hence the phrase: “A man’s home is his castle”—emphasis on man. All of which is to say that gender roles and ideas of home are deeply interwoven.

Sukkot, of course, comes to upend our idea of home: Our home is not, in fact, our castle. It is not a place to be closed off and seemingly protected from the rest of the world. Farkert, just the opposite: Home is a place, a state of being, in which we are existentially, spiritually secure enough to open up—to guests, to the precariousness of nature, to the unknown, to the stranger. A man who is animated by deep fear of protecting his home from threats is, more often than not, a man who isn’t at home with himself. As Rabbi Jonathan Sacks wrote in his classic, The Dignity of Difference: “Those who are confident in their faith are not threatened but enlarged by the different faith of others. In the midst of our multiple insecurities, we need that confidence now.”

This Shabbat marks Shemini Atzeret, the final holiday in our fall cycle. Outside of Israel, it is also the Shabbat on which we traditionally read Kohelet (Ecclesiastes). So, two teachings.

The first is a commentary on a midrash about a verse from Kohelet: “Better is a poor and wise child than an old and foolish king…” (4:13) The Midrash offers: “‘A poor and wise child’—this is the Good Inclination (Yetzer Hatov); ‘an old and foolish king’—this is the Evil Inclination (Yetzer Hara).” Rabbi Simcha Bunim of Peshischa adds: “The Evil Inclination is called an ‘old king’ because it ages and renders everything stale. The Good Inclination is called a ‘child’ (yeled) because it continuously renews and refreshes everything; and it is called ‘poor’ (misken) because it is humble. Since it is humble, it is always happy, for the source of joy is found in humility (hachna’ah).”

I don’t think the humility Reb Simcha Bunim is talking about is meekness. I think it’s self-awareness, which is the foundation of being able to make space for others in the world. Such humility is the touchstone of a kind of at-homeness—and masculinity—that is not about shutting out or dominating others, but the spacious generosity that gives rise to genuine joy.

Thus the second teaching, which comes from Rabbi Menachem Mendel of Vitebsk (1730–1788). Like many others, he notes that Shemini Atzeret is unusual: “It has no matzah, no shofar, no Four Species.” There is no symbol on this holiday. Why? “On Shemini Atzeret, we reach the level of supreme joy, which does not require any external symbol—this is the joy within one’s essential self. One is full of sadness and worry only when one is far from oneself. However, when one becomes close to oneself, joy overflows. Shemini Atzeret is a holiday unto itself (b’atzmo): a holiday of the joy of full selfhood (atzmiut).”

This, of course, does not only apply to men, it applies to all human beings of all genders. All of us are on our own version of the collective journey towards what we hope can be healthy, secure, open and generous human lives. Having dwelled in the spiritual safety of the sukkah, may we step back into our homes with a renewed faith in ourselves, in our Torah, in the Divine, and in one another—and may we live with the courage to make our homes and the world a sukkat shalom.