Beit HaMidrash (Jellinek) Reader

Moses spent forty days and nights in this heavenly yeshiva before receiving the Torah. During this time, he learned all 613 commandments and all the secrets of the Torah. However, he was not allowed to eat or drink.

Another tradition relates that when Moses arrived in heaven, the angels were hostile to him. They asked God why a human being should receive the Torah. God told Moses to answer them. Moses then asked the angels if they had to work, if they had evil inclinations, or if they were jealous of one another. The angels admitted that they did not have these human frailties. Moses then argued that the Torah was not for them, but for human beings, who needed it to overcome their earthly struggles.

Another tradition tells that Moses saw God sitting in heaven, writing the Torah. God wrote, "Moses was a sinner." Moses protested, but God insisted that this was the truth. Moses then asked God to write, "Moses was a humble man." God agreed, and Moses was satisfied.

Beit HaMidrash (Jellinek) turns to The Torah Written On The Arm Of God.

After all, the tradition tells us that the Torah was one of the seven things created even before the rest of the world! So where was it written?

The answer, as revealed in texts like Aseret ha-Dibrot in Beit ha-Midrash (rabbinic interpretive commentary) and Merkavah (the Divine Chariot) Rabbah, is both surprising and profound: The Torah was written on the arm of God Himself.

That for a moment. Before creation, there was only God, and upon His arm, the entire Torah was inscribed, "with black fire on white fire." Think of the Zohar’s teachings about black fire and white fire being the very substance of the Torah – a dazzling, divine script etched onto God's very being.

But it doesn't stop there. According to this powerful image, God then took the Torah, placed it before Him, and gazed at it. He read it from beginning to end. And here's the most amazing part: as He read those words, they came to pass.

What does this myth tell us?

Well, it beautifully illustrates the incredibly close relationship between the Torah and God. It wasn't just inspired by God; it was literally a part of Him. It was a divine blueprint that God used to create the universe. It was as if the Torah was not just written by God, but was God in written form, almost like a tattoo, permanently and intimately connected. next time you see a Torah scroll. It’s not just a book; it's a tangible connection to the divine, a reflection of the very essence of God. The words we read are not just stories and laws; they are the very words that brought the world into being. It makes you wonder, doesn't it, about the power that words – especially these words – truly hold.

The story goes that God, in His infinite wisdom, desired to bring Moses up to His Throne of Glory, to show him the very angels of heaven. A breathtaking invitation, to say the least! But there was a slight problem.

God called upon Metatron, the Prince of the Presence – a powerful angel in his own right – and commanded him to bring Moses into heaven. Now, Metatron, whose name some believe means "one who occupies the throne next to God," raised a crucial point. “Master of the Universe,” he said, “Moses cannot ascend to heaven because the angels are made of fire, and he is only flesh and blood!” It’s a pretty valid concern. So, what was God's solution? A divine upgrade, of course!

God instructed Metatron to transform Moses into fire.

Metatron then approached Moses, who, understandably, trembled with fear at the sight of this powerful angelic being. “Who are you?” Moses asked, his voice probably shaking.

Metatron replied, “I am Enoch, son of Jared. God has sent me to bring you to His Throne of Glory.” Now, that's quite the introduction! Enoch, of course, is a figure who, according to tradition, also underwent a profound transformation, becoming the angel Metatron himself.

But Moses, ever humble, protested, “I am only flesh and blood and cannot look upon the angels!”

And here's where the really wild part happens. Metatron then transformed Moses. He changed Moses' tongue into a fiery tongue, made his eyes like the wheels of the Merkavah (Divine Chariot), and gave him the powers of the angels. Only then was Moses able to ascend into heaven.

You can find this incredible tale in Gedulat Moshe, preserved in Beit ha-Midrash (rabbinic interpretive commentary).

What does it all mean? Well, as Howard Schwartz points out in Tree of Souls, this myth is likely connected to views held by some Jews (and Samaritans) who saw Moses as a messianic figure. By transforming Moses into fire, just as Enoch was transformed into Metatron, the story elevates Moses to an almost unparalleled status. It's an “enthronement myth,” placing Moses in a position of immense power and closeness to the Divine, much like similar myths surrounding figures like Adam, Enoch, Jacob, and King David.

Think about the implications. The very human Moses, the leader who guided his people out of slavery, is transformed into something beyond human, capable of standing in the presence of God. It's a powerful image of spiritual ascension and the potential for transformation that lies within us all. Could this be a metaphor for the journey we all take as we strive to get closer to the Divine? A reminder that even the most ordinary among us can be transformed into something extraordinary?

It's wild, and it's connected to none other than King Solomon and the building of the Beit HaMikdash, the Holy Temple in Jerusalem.

The story goes that the demons were, shall we say, not thrilled about Solomon’s plan to build the Temple. After all, the Temple was meant to be a place where God's presence would dwell, a beacon of holiness in the world. And let’s just say demons aren't exactly fans of holiness. But they couldn't directly mess with King Solomon himself, or the chief builder of the Temple – Solomon was too powerful, protected by God. So, what's a demon to do?

Enter Omasis. According to Howard Schwartz in Tree of Souls, Omasis was a vampire demon. And Omasis had a plan. He targeted the chief builder’s son. Can you imagine the fear and dread?

Every day, Omasis would approach the boy and suck blood from his thumb. Not just once, but repeatedly. Until the poor kid was utterly drained, weak as a kitten. King Solomon, ever observant, noticed the boy’s declining health. He asked, “What ails you, my boy?”

The boy, trembling, confessed everything. Solomon, wise and powerful, didn't panic. Instead, he gave the boy his royal ring. This wasn't just any ring; it was engraved with the sacred letters of God’s Name, YHVH, the Tetragrammaton, a name so holy it’s rarely spoken aloud. King Solomon instructed the boy that the next time Omasis approached, he should throw the ring at the demon. Doing so, he said, would make Omasis his prisoner. And once he had the demon captive, he was to bring him straight to the king.

And that’s exactly what happened. The boy, scared but trusting in Solomon’s wisdom and the power of the Divine Name, did as he was told. The ring struck Omasis, and the vampire demon was instantly subdued. The boy, no doubt with a mix of terror and triumph, dragged the demon before King Solomon.

Now, what would you do with a captured vampire demon? King Solomon, ever the strategic genius, saw an opportunity. He didn't just punish Omasis; he interrogated him. He besieged Omasis with questions about all the other demons: their names, their weaknesses, how to stop them.

And Omasis, now powerless against the king, spilled the beans. In this way, King Solomon extracted the names of all the demons. With this secret knowledge, Solomon ensured the Temple’s completion and kept the demons at bay throughout his reign, for they had no power over him.

So, what's the takeaway? This tale, as Howard Schwartz points out, is considered the earliest Jewish vampire story, a fascinating glimpse into the intersection of folklore and religious belief. It's a reminder that even in the face of darkness, wisdom, faith, and a good ring engraved with God’s name can triumph.

And it makes you wonder.. what other secrets are hidden within the ancient stories, waiting to be uncovered?

A world where the divide between heaven and earth blurs, and the sacred becomes tangibly real. What if I told you that in Jewish tradition, there's a vision of the future where the very Beit HaMikdash, the Holy Temple, descends from the heavens?

It's a powerful image, isn't it?

This isn't just any building; it's the dwelling place of the Divine, the heart of connection between God and humanity. And according to some traditions, in the End of Days, this celestial Temple will descend from on high, coming to rest upon four golden mountains. As it says in Isaiah (2:2), "In the days to come, the Mount of Yahweh's house shall stand firm above the mountains."

Think about the sheer scale of it. We're not talking about a modest structure. This Temple’s height will reach to heaven, all the way to the stars and even to the very wheels of the Divine Chariot (Merkavah)! Inside, according to Pirkei Mashiah, every angel will be busy with their divinely appointed task, from Gabriel to Michael and their countless legions. And within it, the Shekhinah, God's Divine Presence, often referred to as His Bride, will fill it, along with God's radiant glory.

What happens when Zion is restored? The mountains themselves burst into song! The mountain of the Lord's house leads the chorus, and the lesser mountains respond, echoing the joy of redemption. And the Kodesh Hakodashim, the Holy of Holies of this future Temple, will be built of twelve onyx stones, according to Midrash (rabbinic interpretive commentary) ha-Ne'elam in the Zohar (1:114a). Its radiance will be so intense, so pure, that it illuminates the entire world and ascends to the very Throne of Glory.

But how will people even get there? The image is breathtaking: according to B. Sukkah 41a, they will fly like clouds and like doves, soaring towards the Temple to receive blessings of eternal life. Imagine multitudes streaming towards this radiant center, drawn by its irresistible light and promise.

Not all traditions agree on the specifics. Some myths, as noted in Tree of Souls by Howard Schwartz, speak of the entire heavenly Jerusalem descending to earth. But in this particular myth, it's the Temple alone that makes the journey, emphasizing its central importance.

Now, it's important to remember that these are powerful, symbolic images. Not everyone interpreted them literally. Take Tzvi Hirsch Kalischer, for example, an early Zionist. In his book Derishat Zion, written in 1860, he rejected this idea of a supernatural redemption. He argued that God wouldn't suddenly descend from on high, nor would the Messiah magically appear. He dismissed the idea of a fiery wall surrounding Jerusalem or the Temple descending from heaven, arguing instead for a redemption achieved through human effort and natural means – through gathering the scattered people of Israel back to the Holy Land.

And that's the beauty of Jewish tradition, isn't it? We confront these powerful images, these metaphors for hope and redemption. We ask ourselves what they mean, how they apply to our lives, and how we can actively participate in building a better world. Whether we envision a literal descent of the Temple or see it as a symbol of inner transformation, the underlying message remains: a future of peace, holiness, and connection with the Divine is within our reach. The Pesikta de-Rav Kahana 21:4 even tells us that God will bring three mountains, Sinai, Tabor, and Carmel, together and build the Temple on top of them! The imagery is powerful and evocative.

So, what does this vision of the descending Temple mean to you? Is it a literal prophecy? A powerful metaphor? A call to action? Perhaps, like the mountains themselves, we are each called to find our own voice in the song of redemption.

Why are our patriarchs, the Avot – Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob – said to be buried in the Land of Israel, specifically in the Cave of Machpelah in Hebron? It's more than just geography; it's about being front and center for the ultimate revival. The belief is that those who rest in the Holy Land will be the very first to rise when the days of the Messiah finally dawn.

The scene: The Messiah is crowned, ready to usher in a new era. But the very first thing Israel asks of him? "Go and bring the glad tidings to those who sleep in the Cave of Machpelah, so that they shall be the first to arise!"

The Pirkei Mashiah, found in Beit ha-Midrash (rabbinic interpretive commentary), paints a vivid picture. The Messiah makes his way to the Cave, calling out, "Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, arise! You have slept long enough." And from the dust, they stir, questioning, "Who is it who uncovers the dust from our eyes?" The Messiah proclaims, "I am the Messiah of the Lord. The hour of salvation is near."

Here's where it gets even more interesting. The patriarchs, even in their awakened state, defer. "If that is really so," they say, "then go to Adam, the first man, and bring the tidings to him, so that he should be the first to arise." The chain of respect is palpable.

So, the Messiah journeys onward, as the Sefer Eliyahu in Beit ha-Midrash continues the story. He calls to Adam, "Arise, you have slept enough!" Adam, too, asks, "Who is this who drives the sleep from my eyes?" And the Messiah replies, "I am the Messiah of the Lord, one of your descendants."

At that instant, according to tradition, Adam rises, along with his entire generation! And then Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, and all the righteous, all the tribes, all generations from the beginning of time… a chorus of psalms and songs of jubilation erupts. What a moment!

Midrashic legend even suggests that Adam and Eve themselves are buried in the Cave of Machpelah, further emphasizing its significance as the starting point for resurrection.

This narrative probably draws from earlier tales, like the one found in the Talmud (B. BM 85b) about Elijah's visits to Rabbi Judah ha-Nasi. Elijah, is the herald of the Messiah, the one who will blow the great shofar, the ram's horn, announcing his arrival. That earlier story seems to set the stage for this idea of waking the patriarchs. As "Forcing the End" suggests, this is about more than just resurrection, it's about the very initiation of the messianic era.

What does it all mean? Perhaps it's a reminder that even in the ultimate moment of redemption, respect for our ancestors, for those who came before us, remains paramount. The patriarchs, even as they are awakened to a new dawn, still point the way to Adam, acknowledging him as the first, the originator. It's a beautiful image of continuity, of history, and of hope.

Beit HaMidrash (Jellinek) turns to The Palaces Of Heaven.

The Olam Ha-Ba, the World to Come, isn't just a static reward; it's a continuation of our earthly pursuits, especially the pursuit of wisdom. As Schwartz points out in Tree of Souls, the mysteries of the Torah aren't confined to our world. Genuine scholars don't hang up their hats when they die! According to Seder Gan Eden, the souls of the righteous, alongside the angels, continue their studies in the heavenly Garden of Eden.

Think of it: you could be sitting in the classroom of Maimonides, the great medieval philosopher and legal scholar, confronting his interpretations of Jewish law. Or perhaps you'd prefer to explore the intricacies of the Torah with Rashi, the unparalleled commentator whose words still illuminate the sacred text today. Tradition holds that each of the patriarchs, matriarchs, and great sages has their own palace in heaven, where they teach myriads of students beneath tranquil canopies.

The higher you ascend, the more profound the learning becomes. Those who reach the palace of Moses, our great lawgiver, have the privilege of learning the Torah directly from his very lips! Imagine hearing the words of God's revelation unfiltered, explained by the man who stood on Mount Sinai.

But the ultimate destination, the pinnacle of heavenly ascent, is said to be the palace of Abraham. According to the oral tradition recounted by Rabbi Shlomo Carlebach, Abraham's mastery of the Torah is so profound that those who hear him weep tears of joy. Just imagine the depth of understanding, the wellspring of wisdom, that could evoke such an emotional response.

This opportunity to study Torah with the greatest minds in history – the patriarchs and matriarchs, the Talmudic masters – is described in texts like Aderet Eliyahu and Sifram Shel Tzaddikim (a righteous person) (the righteous) as one of the primary rewards for righteous souls who ascend to Paradise. Some texts even suggest that the Messiah himself will teach Torah in his heavenly palace! And, if you can believe it, some traditions even go so far as to say that God Himself teaches Torah to the souls of the righteous.

You can find echoes of this concept in various tales. “The Ba'al Shem Tov Ascends on High” and “God Teaches Torah in the World to Come,” both referenced in Tree of Souls, explore similar themes. And if you're looking for a more narrative approach, "The Ocean of Tears," a folktale recounted in Reimagining the Bible, tells the story of a journey to these very palaces of heaven.

What does it all mean? Perhaps it's a way of understanding the enduring value of learning, the idea that our intellectual and spiritual growth isn't confined to our earthly lives. The tradition paints a picture of an afterlife that's not just about reward, but about continued exploration, connection, and the unending pursuit of wisdom. It makes you wonder: what questions would you bring to Rashi or Maimonides, if you had the chance?

A fiery prophet, a champion of God, and a recurring figure who pops up in Jewish stories whenever things need a divine kick in the pants. And Lilith… well, Lilith is a whole other story.

She's the night demoness, a figure shrouded in mystery and often depicted as the first wife of Adam, who left him because she refused to be subservient. She's a primal force, a symbol of female power untamed, and a source of endless fascination.

So, He encounters Lilith.

He confronts her, doesn't mince words. "Unclean one," he says, "where are you going?" It's a loaded question. He already suspects she's up to no good. And Lilith, interestingly enough, knows she can't lie to Elijah. This tells us something about Elijah's power, his connection to truth.

So, she spills the beans. "I am going to the house of a woman who is about to give birth. I will give her a sleeping potion and kill her and take her child and eat it."

Whoa.

Heavy stuff. This single sentence encapsulates the fear and anxiety surrounding childbirth in ancient times. The vulnerability of both mother and child, and the terrifying image of a demon preying on that vulnerability. This depiction of Lilith, found in Tree of Souls (Schwartz, 269), paints her as a literal child-snatcher, a monstrous figure embodying primal fears.

It's a chilling encounter, and it leaves us wondering: What happens next? What does Elijah do? That, my friends, is a story for another time. But this brief meeting highlights the constant battle between good and evil, the ever-present threat lurking in the shadows, and the power of figures like Elijah to confront those shadows head-on. And it reminds us that even in the oldest stories, there's always something new to discover, something to make us think, and maybe even something to make us a little bit afraid of the dark.

Gehenna.

What exactly is Gehenna? And where is it?

Well, that’s where things get interesting. It's not quite as simple as "heaven" and "hell." Jewish tradition sees Gehenna more as a place of purification, a cosmic laundry cycle, if you will, than a place of eternal damnation for most. But that doesn’t mean it’s a pleasant vacation spot.

So, where do we find this… spiritual spa treatment center? The descriptions are as varied as the opinions on pineapple on pizza. Some say it’s above the firmament, that great expanse we see as the sky. Others place it deep, deep below the earth, in the planet’s basement. And still others imagine it lurking behind the Mountains of Darkness, a truly remote and forbidding location.

And size? Oh, the scale is epic! According to some accounts, Gehenna is as big as the Garden of Eden. And we all know that Eden, paradise itself, is said to be boundless, infinite. Talk about a large plot of land.

Now, when did this place come into being? That's another point of debate. Some believe Gehenna existed even before the universe itself was created! Others suggest the space for Gehenna was created first, a sort of pre-emptive measure, but its fires didn’t actually ignite until the eve of the first Sabbath. Imagine that – the universe gets its first day of rest, and Gehenna gets its fiery start.

Then there are those who claim the fires of Gehenna were specifically created on the second day of creation. But here's a twist – ordinary fire, the kind we use to roast marshmallows (or, you know, more practical things), wasn’t created until after the end of the Sabbath. It's like Gehenna got the express pass on fire technology.

Now, these aren’t your average campfire flames. The fires of Gehenna are so intense, so incredibly powerful, that they supposedly make the sun appear red in the evening as it passes over them. That's one heck of a visual. And these fires? According to tradition, they will never be extinguished.

But wait, there's more! As Tree of Souls (Schwartz) tells us, Gehenna isn’t just about fire. It's a dual-climate destination. It’s half fire and half… hail. Yes, you read that right: scorching flames and bone-chilling ice. And here’s the kicker: the hail is said to be much, much worse than the fire. You might think, "Oh, fire, that's bad," but imagine being constantly bombarded by icy shards after being burned. Ouch!

So, what does this all mean? Is Gehenna a literal place? A metaphor? A terrifying warning? Perhaps it's all of the above. Maybe it's a reminder that our actions have consequences, that the choices we make in this life matter. Maybe it's a promise that even after death, there's a chance for purification and growth. Whatever your take, the story of Gehenna certainly gives us something to think about, doesn’t it?

This passage, drawn from Jellinek's Beit HaMidrash anthology of aggadic and visionary texts, describes Gehenna as the place where the souls of the wicked are held to account after death. In Jewish tradition the word Gehenna takes its name from the Valley of Hinnom outside Jerusalem, a place associated in the prophets with idolatry and fire, and it came to stand for the realm in which souls are purified or punished for the deeds of their lifetimes. Here the souls of the wicked are pictured as tormented by angels of destruction, the harsh emissaries whose task is not mercy but strict judgment.

These angels are said to wield fiery whips and to inflict severe pain on the souls placed in their charge. The punishment is portrayed as fitting and personal: the souls are forced to relive the sins they committed and to suffer the consequences of those very actions, so that the wrongdoing itself becomes the measure of the penalty. This reflects the rabbinic principle of judgment measure for measure, in which a person is recompensed according to the precise nature of what he did rather than by an arbitrary sentence.

The text further teaches that Gehenna is not a single undifferentiated place but is arranged in distinct levels, each carrying its own form of suffering. The severity that a soul meets depends on the nature and the extent of the sins it accumulated while alive, so that the deeper transgressions draw the deeper torment. Within the broader framework of Jewish belief, this state is generally understood as bounded rather than endless for most souls, a place of accounting through which the soul passes before its further destiny is determined.

Jewish tradition has always grappled with the mysteries of life, death, and what lies beyond. And when we explore some of the lesser-known corners of our folklore, we find some truly fascinating ideas about the Sabbath and the departed.

One such idea, preserved in the Seder Gan Eden (found in Beit ha-Midrash (rabbinic interpretive commentary) 5:43), paints a vivid picture of a weekly resurrection. Imagine this: every Friday evening, as the sun begins to dip below the horizon and we prepare to welcome Shabbat (the Sabbath) Kodesh (the Holy Sabbath), something extraordinary is happening in the realm of souls.

In this tradition, between the afternoon and evening prayers – that liminal space where the work week fades and the Sabbath’s peace descends – the spirits of the dead are led to a very special place. It's a field near a river… a river that flows directly from the Garden of Eden itself.

Can you picture it?

These spirits, wherever they may reside during the week (perhaps in a place akin to Sheol, the ancient Hebrew concept of the underworld), are given a chance to drink from this life-giving river. Then, as the living congregation on Earth proclaims, "Blessed is the Lord who is blessed," a truly miraculous event unfolds.

The dead are returned to their graves. And God resurrects them.

They rise up, alive, from their resting places. Every Sabbath, all the dead of Israel experience this renewal, this return to life. They rest on the Sabbath, just as we do. But their rest is punctuated by this incredible moment of resurrection.

And it doesn't end there. The resurrected dead gather in crowds, singing praises in God's presence. They enter synagogues, prostrating themselves, beholding the Shekhinah (the Divine Presence) and bowing before it. They participate in the Sabbath alongside the living, a spiritual congregation bridging the worlds.

What does this myth tell us? Well, on the surface, it offers a powerful image of the Sabbath as a time of universal rest and rejuvenation, extending even to those who have passed beyond this world. It suggests that the connection between the living and the dead isn't severed, but rather, that the Sabbath provides a unique opportunity for communion and shared experience.

It also highlights the profound importance of communal prayer. The moment of resurrection is tied directly to the congregation's declaration of blessing. It's a reminder that our words, our prayers, have power – not only in this world, but perhaps in other realms as well.

The Seder Gan Eden presents a beautiful and thought-provoking image: the Sabbath is not just a day for the living, but for the dead as well. It’s a time when the veil between worlds thins, and all of Israel, living and departed, can come together in praise and rest. It makes you wonder, doesn’t it, what other mysteries lie hidden within the tradition of Jewish tradition, waiting to be discovered?

Jewish tradition has a place for them, a place of purification and, yes, punishment called Gehenna. It's not exactly hell, but it's definitely not a pleasant resort.

Who's in charge down there? According to tradition, Gehenna is ruled by the angel Dumah. Think of him as the warden of the netherworld. Schwartz, in Tree of Souls, tells us that Dumah was specifically appointed to this daunting task. He’s not alone, either. He commands three terrifying angels of destruction: Mashit, Af, and Hema. (Try saying those names three times fast!). These three aren’t just middle management; they, in turn, command legions of avenging angels. Imagine the sheer cacophony!

The Zohar, that foundational text of Jewish mysticism, paints a vivid picture. All of Gehenna is filled with the din of these angels and the shrieks of the punished. The noise is so intense, it reaches all the way up to heaven! That’s why, the tradition says, the cries of the wicked are barely heard. And why, perhaps, no one has mercy on them.

In these accounts, every night – except for one – the angels of destruction get to work, punishing those whose evil deeds were conceived in darkness. That one exception? The Shabbat, the Sabbath.

Isn't that amazing? Even in Gehenna, Shabbat brings respite. From the moment Shabbat begins, judgment vanishes from the world. The wicked get a break! The angels of destruction cease their torment, all the way until Shabbat ends. It's a universal day of rest, affecting even the afterlife.

Then, alas, the reprieve is over. As Shabbat departs, the wicked are dragged back to the dungeons of Gehenna, and their punishment resumes. It’s a stark reminder of the consequences of our actions.

But here's where things get really interesting and, perhaps, a little hopeful. There's a fascinating tradition that in the future, all the people of Israel will enter Gehenna together with the nations of the world. But, the tradition continues, the nations will perish, while Israel will emerge unharmed. As it says in (Isaiah 43:2): "When you walk through fire, you shall not be scorched; through flame, it shall not burn you."

What does this mean? It's open to interpretation, of course. Some see it as a symbolic cleansing, a final purification before the messianic age. Perhaps it's a statement about resilience, about the enduring spirit of the Jewish people. Or maybe it speaks to the idea that even in the darkest of times, hope and redemption are always possible.

Gehenna, then, isn't just a place of punishment. It's a reminder of the importance of our choices, the universality of Shabbat, and the enduring promise of eventual redemption. It is a complex concept that continues to provoke thought and discussion.

It’s not a job many would apply for, but Jewish tradition tells us there is someone – an angel, in fact – tasked with this grim responsibility. His name is Samriel, and he's the gatekeeper of Gehenna.

Gehenna, often translated as hell, is the place where, according to some Jewish traditions, the souls of the wicked are punished. But it’s not just a free-for-all. There's order, even in damnation. According to the Tree of Souls, by Howard Schwartz, Samriel makes sure of it. He's not just letting anyone waltz in.

The souls of sinners are dragged to Gehenna by avenging angels. Grim stuff. But before they’re thrown into the fire, Samriel consults a massive, presumably terrifying, Book of Gehenna. If your name's not in the book, you're not getting in. He’s making sure that those arriving truly deserve their punishment. It’s like the ultimate cosmic bouncer, but with eternal consequences.

The text goes on to say that Samriel oversees three gates of Gehenna, specifically those located on the side of the wilderness. And here's a fascinating detail: he holds the keys to these gates. When he opens them, a sliver of the world's light seeps into the darkness.

Why would light be allowed into Gehenna? Well, Samriel has three angels under his command who use shovels – imagine that image for a moment – to clear a path so the inmates of Gehenna can actually see the light. It's a poignant image, isn't it? A glimpse of hope, even in the depths of despair.

Now, you might be thinking, "Okay, so only really bad people are allowed in. Got it." But what about those righteous souls, the sages and rabbis, who occasionally try to descend into Gehenna? Sometimes, according to the story, they're trying to obtain a get (a bill of divorce) from a soul trapped there – a detail that highlights the complexities of Jewish law and the lengths to which some will go to uphold it, even in the afterlife.

But Samriel turns them all away… all except one.

Enter Rabbi Naftali Katz. When he arrives at the gate, Samriel, ever the diligent gatekeeper, checks the Book of Gehenna. No Rabbi Naftali Katz. Denied!

But Rabbi Naftali wasn't one to take no for an answer. He threatened to take a vow to remain there, eternally pestering the angel until he relented! Talk about commitment! Faced with the prospect of eternal nagging, Samriel caves and lets him in. (We find this account in Schwartz's Tree of Souls, which references "Rabbi Naftali's Trance.")

It's a fascinating story. According to this myth, as Schwartz says, Samriel is there to keep out anyone who doesn't belong. But it also reveals something deeper about Jewish tradition: the willingness to challenge even the most rigid rules in the face of compassion and justice.

We see this idea echoed in other stories, where sympathetic rabbis attempt to enter Gehenna to ease the suffering of the sinners. So, what does it all mean? Perhaps it's a reminder that even in the darkest of places, even in the face of divine judgment, there's always room for compassion, for questioning, and for a little bit of light. And sometimes, just sometimes, even the gatekeeper of hell can be persuaded to bend the rules.

It's a moment watched over, judged, and ultimately, a reckoning.

As a person breathes their last, two angels are there, witnessing everything. These aren't just any angels; according to Gan Eden (the Garden of Eden, paradise) ve-Gehinnom (the place of spiritual purification after death), one is the Angel of Death, and the other, the Angel who keeps track of a person’s days and years. These angels, as Tree of Souls points out, even know if someone has been dishonest. The very walls of their house, “the stones and beams,” will testify against them, echoing the verse in Habakkuk (2:11): “For a stone shall cry out from the wall, and a rafter shall answer it from the woodwork." It's a powerful image of accountability woven into the very fabric of our lives.

What happens next? The soul is brought before the patriarchs – Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. They act as judges, posing a fundamental question: "My son, what have you done in the world from which you have come?"

How you answer matters. Imagine someone responding, "I bought fields and vineyards, and I tilled them all my life!" According to Beit ha-Midrash, the patriarchs would reply, "Fool that you have been! Have you not learned that ‘The earth is the Lord's and all that it holds’?" (Psalm 24:1). The implication? Earthly possessions, while necessary, shouldn't be the sole focus of our existence.

Or consider someone who boasts, "I gathered gold and silver!" The response is equally harsh: "Fool, have you not read in the books of the prophets, ‘Silver is Mine and gold is Mine, says the Lord of Hosts’?" (Haggai 2:8). Wealth, it seems, is fleeting and ultimately belongs to something greater than ourselves.

In both these cases, the soul is then handed over to "avenging angels" and cast into Gehenna – often translated as Hell, but more accurately understood as a place of purification.

But what if the answer is different? What if, when asked what they did with their life, the soul responds, "I have devoted my life to the study of the Torah," (the first five books of the Hebrew Bible, and more broadly, Jewish law and teaching)?

Then, the patriarchs declare, "Let him enter into peace" (Isaiah 57:2), and God receives him with grace. As Orhot Hayim tells us, dedicating oneself to learning and understanding is highly valued. This account really emphasizes the importance of Torah study, not just in the eyes of the patriarchs acting as judges, but in the eyes of God, too.

So, what’s the takeaway? This isn't just a story about the afterlife; it's a powerful message about how we should live this life. It’s a reminder that true value lies not in material wealth or earthly possessions, but in dedicating ourselves to something greater – to learning, to understanding, and to connecting with the Divine. How will we answer when that question is posed to us?

We spend so much time thinking about life, about the “now,” that the “what comes next” can feel like a distant, almost abstract question. But Jewish tradition offers some pretty vivid, and ultimately comforting, answers. Let's

Specifically, let's

Gehenna often gets translated as "Hell," and while there are some similarities, it's not quite the fire-and-brimstone eternal damnation you might be picturing. Think of it more like a spiritual cleansing, a cosmic washing machine for the soul. A place where imperfections are burned away.

So, what happens when that purification process is complete?

This is where the story gets really beautiful. According to Jewish mystical tradition, once the soul has been cleansed, the "chief angels" themselves escort it out of Gehenna. Imagine that: angelic escorts! They lead the soul, weary but lighter, to the very Gate of Paradise.

And what happens at the Gate?

The angels standing guard – the gatekeepers of Paradise, if you will – are told a remarkable thing. The chief angels announce: "This soul was broken after its ordeal in the infernal fire, and now it has come to you pure and white."

Think about the weight of those words. “Broken… pure and white.” It speaks to the transformative power of the experience, the idea that even after being broken down, something beautiful and pure can emerge.

But the story doesn’t end there.

Then – and this is where the imagery gets truly powerful – God causes the sun to penetrate the firmament. Imagine a beam of pure, divine light piercing through the heavens, shining directly on that soul. And what does that light do? It heals.

It's a potent image, isn't it? A soul, purified and brought to Paradise, receiving the direct healing light of the Divine. It speaks to the ultimate compassion and mercy at the heart of the universe.

This idea of purification and healing can be found throughout Jewish literature. The Zohar, that foundational text of Jewish mysticism, offers countless meditations on the soul's journey. And stories like this one, retold in works like Ginzberg's Legends of the Jews, offer us a glimpse into the richness of that tradition.

So, the next time you find yourself pondering the big questions – life, death, and everything in between – remember this story. Remember the image of the soul, broken but purified, bathed in the healing light of God. It's a reminder that even in the darkest of times, there is always the possibility of renewal, of healing, of coming home.

Jewish tradition is rich with imagery of the End of Days, and one particularly potent symbol keeps popping up: a gate. Not just any gate, but the Golden Gate of Jerusalem.

Jerusalem has a lot of gates. But the Golden Gate, also known as the Sha'ar Harachamim, the Gate of Mercy, has a special significance. It's been sealed shut for centuries, lending it an air of mystery and anticipation. But what if I told you that, according to tradition, this very gate will be the entrance to a new world?

In Ma'aseh Daniel, found in Beit ha-Midrash, at the End of Days, things will get pretty spectacular. God, in an act of ultimate restoration, will lower the heavenly Jerusalem to replace the earthly one, the one that was tragically destroyed. And the Temple? It will be re-established, with a pillar of fire erupting from within its walls, a signal for all to see.

The real magic happens with the Golden Gate. At God's command, two angels will retrieve it from its hiding place deep beneath the earth. They’ll raise it back to its original position, ready for its grand purpose. Can you picture it? This ancient gate, gleaming gold, resurrected!

And who will be there to greet us? Abraham will stand to the right of the gate, with Moses and the Messiah on the left. A welcoming committee of epic proportions! And through this gate, all of Israel will pass, entering into the new world that awaits. It's a powerful image, isn't it? A journey through history and into a future brimming with hope.

The tradition doesn’t stop there. The Gate of Mercy is also deeply connected to the Shekhinah, the divine presence, the feminine aspect of God. The tradition tells us that the Shekhinah departed Jerusalem through this very gate after the destruction of the Temple (as we discussed earlier in relation to the Wandering of the Shekhinah). And, just as importantly, the Shekhinah will one day return through that same gate. It becomes a symbol of not just physical return, but spiritual reunification.

So, what does it all mean? Perhaps the Golden Gate represents more than just a physical passageway. Maybe it's a symbol of hope, of redemption, of the promise of a new beginning after times of great hardship. It’s a potent reminder that even when things seem irrevocably broken, restoration is always possible. Maybe, just maybe, the journey to a better future starts with walking through a gate of mercy.