Franz Kafka Reader

Kafka’s parable, "Before the Law," from his novel The Trial, speaks to that feeling in a way that few stories can. It's a tale that resonates deeply, and while it's often interpreted through a secular lens, its roots and echoes within Jewish tradition are surprisingly profound.

The story is simple, yet haunting: A man from the country comes to the Law, seeking entry. But standing before the gate is a doorkeeper who refuses him passage. The doorkeeper says, "Possibly, but not now." The man waits, and waits, for years, even offering bribes, but the doorkeeper remains steadfast, always saying, "I accept this only so you won't think you've failed to do anything."

Year after year, the man sits, pleading, growing old and feeble. He even notices the fleas in the doorkeeper's fur collar! Finally, as he's dying, he asks a question he’s never asked before: "Everyone strives to reach the Law," he whispers. "How is it that in all these years no one but me has asked to get in?"

The doorkeeper, now towering over the dying man, roars, "No one else could be admitted here, since this entrance was intended only for you. I am now going to close it."

Chilling. What is this "Law" that the man so desperately seeks? Is it divine wisdom? Is it justice? Is it something else entirely? And who is this gatekeeper, holding all the power?

The story is rich with interpretive possibilities. Max Brod, Kafka's close friend, called it "an original creation drawn deeply from his archaic soul… another proof of his profound roots in Judaism."

Gershom Scholem, the great scholar of Kabbalah, even went so far as to say that the three pillars of Jewish mystical thought are the Bible, the Zohar (the foundational text of Kabbalah), and the writings of Kafka! He saw Kafka's work, often interpreted in countless ways, as essentially mystical. Scholem drew parallels between "Before the Law" and the Hekhalot (the heavenly palaces) texts, ancient mystical writings that describe journeys through heavenly palaces guarded by powerful angels. Are these doorkeepers reminiscent of those angelic gatekeepers? : In these Hekhalot texts, and in Jewish mystical tradition generally, accessing the divine isn't always easy. There are layers, obstacles, guardians. As Zohar 1:7b says, "Open the gates of righteousness for me. This is the gateway to the Lord. Assuredly, without entering through that gate one will never gain access to the most high King."

Imagine a king who screens himself from view behind gate upon gate, with one special gate, locked and barred. The king proclaims: "He who wishes to enter into my presence must first of all pass through that gate."

We see echoes of this sentiment in Ibn Gabirol’s The Book of the Selection of Pearls. The story speaks of someone standing by the gate of the royal palace, failing to gain access.

The parallels are striking, aren’t they?

And yet, Kafka’s parable introduces a modern twist: doubt. The man spends his life waiting, only to discover the gate was meant for him alone – and is now being closed. Was his quest futile? Was he misled?

Is the doorkeeper an agent of divine testing, or a cruel bureaucrat? Some even suggest the doorkeeper represents Kafka's father, a strict and imposing figure in his life. Or perhaps even his mother, who withheld from his father the letter Kafka wrote for him.

The "inextinguishable radiance streaming out of the door of the Law," as the man sees in his final moments, clearly suggests the eternal nature of the Law, drawing its eternal quality from God. This could shift the focus from human justice to the need for divine justice. But, the question remains: is that justice accessible?

It's a question that continues to resonate, not just within Jewish tradition, but in our own lives. Are we knocking on the right doors? Are we being kept from something that is rightfully ours? Or, perhaps, are we so focused on the obstacle that we miss the open door meant only for us?

Franz Kafka turns to The Building Of The Temple.

He takes this idealized image and introduces a jarring, disturbing element. In one of two parables he penned about the Temple (the other being "Leopards in the Temple"), he throws a wrench into the works.

These pristine stones, ready to be fitted together to create a holy space..but defaced. On every single stone, etched with what must have been fiercely sharp tools, were crude scribblings. The meaningless markings of children, or perhaps the barbarous scratchings of mountain dwellers. Etched in anger, or with the intention to defile, or utterly destroy.

What does it mean?

These weren’t fleeting graffiti. Kafka tells us they were carved deep, intended to last. These marks of imperfection, these signs of human fallibility, were destined to outlive the Temple itself.

Kafka, while not explicitly Jewish, was deeply aware of the Temple's central importance in Jewish tradition. The parable, while universal in its themes, clearly evokes the earthly Jerusalem and its iconic Temple.

The image is powerful. It’s a paradox. The holiest of places, built with divine assistance, yet marred by the indelible marks of human imperfection. The perfect and the profane, existing side-by-side.

Perhaps Kafka is suggesting that even in our most sacred creations, the flaws of humanity are ever-present. That even in the face of the divine, our own messy, imperfect nature leaves its mark. Or maybe he is saying that these marks are not flaws at all, but rather a reminder of the human element, the very reason we strive to create something sacred in the first place.

It leaves you wondering: can true holiness exist without acknowledging the imperfections that surround it? Can we truly build something sacred if we ignore the scribbles on the stones?

Sacrifices are offered, prayers ascend, and the Divine Presence is palpable. Then, out of nowhere, leopards break in. Not once, but repeatedly. They rampage through the sacred space, lapping up the wine and oil from the sacrificial vessels until they’re utterly dry.

It sounds like a nightmare, doesn't it? A desecration. A sign of terrible things to come. But what if… it just became part of the routine?

That's the premise of a powerful, albeit brief, parable by Franz Kafka. He doesn't give us all the details. He simply states this strange, recurring event. And then, almost as an afterthought, he adds: Eventually, it becomes predictable. It becomes a part of the ceremony.

What are we to make of this? It's a classic Kafka move, isn't it? He takes something seemingly straightforward – religious ritual – and twists it into something deeply unsettling and thought-provoking.

Kafka was fascinated by Jewish tradition. He wrote several parables that echo biblical and midrashic (rabbinic interpretive commentary) (interpretive) styles. In fact, you can find similar themes in his parables "Paradise" and "The Coming of the Messiah," and even in his takes on Abraham and Mount Sinai. But here, as critic Howard Schwartz points out in Tree of Souls, Kafka elevates this into a universal myth. We're no longer entirely sure if he's even talking about the Temple in Jerusalem specifically. How often do we go through the motions in our lives, especially in our spiritual practices? Do we truly connect with the meaning behind the rituals, or do they become…predictable? Do we sometimes let the "leopards" – the unexpected, the disruptive, the challenging – simply become part of the background noise?

There's something deeply uncomfortable about the idea that something so jarring, so inherently wrong, could be normalized. It reminds me a little of a story found in IFA 16893, where lions enter a synagogue in Meron. The image is striking, the symbolism rich.

Kafka’s genius lies in his ability to hold a mirror up to our own complacency. He forces us to confront the possibility that we might be so accustomed to the intrusion of the profane that we no longer recognize its presence.

So, what are the "leopards" in your Temple? What are the things that disrupt your sense of the sacred? And more importantly, have you, perhaps, unwittingly incorporated them into your rituals? It’s a question worth pondering, isn’t it?

When will the Messiah come? It's a question that has echoed through generations, a yearning whispered in synagogues and debated in yeshivas. But what if I told you the answer was… paradoxical?

Franz Kafka, yes, that Kafka of unsettling allegories, offered a fascinating take: "The Messiah will not come until he is no longer needed. He will not come until a day after his arrival. He will not come on the last day, but on the last of all."

Intriguing, isn’t it? It sounds like a riddle, a koan designed to break your brain. But buried within that paradox lies a profound truth about Jewish thought and the messianic era.

The idea of the Messiah isn’t just about the arrival of a single, chosen individual. Instead, it is about the transformation that his arrival brings. We're talking about the End of Days, the messianic era. A complete overhaul of existence. Think of it as a return to a prelapsarian state, a kind of heaven… but here on Earth.

So, when Kafka says, “The Messiah will not come until he is no longer needed,” he’s pointing to this very idea. It’s not about waiting for someone to magically fix everything. It's about us, about humanity reaching a point where we've created a world ready for that messianic transformation. We need to actively participate in the repair of the world, the tikkun (spiritual repair) olam.

Think of it this way: the arrival of the Messiah is like flipping a switch. But the wiring needs to be in place first. The groundwork has to be laid. We, collectively, are the electricians wiring the world for that messianic current.

That’s why the transformation accompanying the arrival is what matters. It's less about who arrives and more about what happens next.

Kafka's words, taken from his Parables and Paradoxes, almost force us to rethink our expectations. The idea isn't necessarily about a future event, but an ongoing process. It's about striving for a world where the need for a Messiah, as a singular savior figure, diminishes because we have already started building a more just, compassionate, and peaceful world.

Perhaps the Messiah arrives not in a blaze of glory, but quietly, almost unnoticed, because the world is already… mostly there. The heavy lifting has been done. So when will the Messiah come? Perhaps the answer lies not in waiting, but in becoming the change we wish to see. Maybe, just maybe, the Messiah comes when we are ready to greet him, not as a rescuer, but as a partner in completing the work.