Israel Folktale Archives Reader

That, my friends, is the heart of a beautiful tradition linked to Shavuot (the Festival of Weeks).

We know Passover commemorates the Exodus, specifically the parting of the Red Sea. But did you know that Shavuot, the holiday when we celebrate receiving the Torah, has its own kind of "parting"? According to tradition, at midnight on Shavuot night, the very heavens themselves split open, revealing the glory of heaven.

The tradition says that if you make a wish at that precise moment, it will come true. It’s a powerful image, isn’t it? The Shekhinah, the divine presence, unveiled for a fleeting second.

How do you ensure you're awake and ready for this celestial event? Well, for centuries, it's been a custom, especially rooted in Kabbalah, to stay up all night studying Torah. That way, you’re not only awake, but also deemed worthy of witnessing God’s glory.

Think of it like this: it’s not just about keeping your eyes open, but opening your heart and mind to receive the divine light. This all-night study session is considered a ceremony of purification, a way to prepare ourselves for the awesome revelation.

What do people study during this night of learning? Often, it’s the Zohar, the central text of Jewish mysticism. The Zohar tells us secrets and unlocks hidden meanings within the Torah. Immersing ourselves in its wisdom is believed to elevate our souls.

You can find traces of this belief all over Jewish folklore. In numerous stories (IFA4014, IFA 13901), the parting of the heavens is the magical moment when wishes come true. It's a recurring theme, a whisper of hope woven into the fabric of our tradition. We even find this idea hinted at in places like B. Pesahim 106a, Deuteronomy Rabbah 3:12, and Pesikta Rabbati 31:10. There’s even a ketubah (marriage contract) for Shavuot, written by Israel Najara in the sixteenth century, that alludes to this concept.

The idea is this: Shavuot isn’t just a historical event; it’s a living, breathing moment of potential. The giving of the Torah wasn't a one-time thing; it's an ongoing process, a continuous revelation that we can access every year.

It makes you wonder, doesn't it? What would you wish for if you knew, with absolute certainty, that it would come true? And perhaps more importantly, what kind of preparation – what kind of all-night study, what kind of soul-searching – would make you worthy of such a moment? Perhaps that's the real miracle of the parting heavens on Shavuot: the chance to reflect on what truly matters to us, and to align our desires with the divine.

There's a wild story in Jewish tradition that tries to explain just that, and it's... well, it's not for the faint of heart.

Our story begins with Samael (the angel of death), often identified with the yetzer hara (יצר הרע) – the evil inclination, or sometimes even the angel of death. According to this tale, Samael, riding on a serpent, approaches Eve. The result? She conceives a child, and this child is considered the son of Samael himself.

Adam, who's been strolling around the Garden of Eden, returns to find this crying baby. Understandably confused, he asks Eve, "Who is this?" And Eve drops the bombshell: "This is Samael's son." Adam, in perhaps the understatement of the millennium, replies, "Why do we need this problem here?"

Here’s where things get really intense. The boy, still crying, seems to be deliberately trying to provoke Adam. And Adam? He… well, he doesn't react well. He slaughters the child, cuts him into pieces, and then – prepare yourself – he and Eve boil the pieces and eat them.

I know, it's a lot to take in. It feels… almost barbaric, doesn't it? Certainly, not what we expect from the idyllic Garden of Eden.

When Samael discovers what happened to his son, he confronts Adam and Eve, demanding, "Give me my boy!" They, of course, deny everything, claiming they know nothing. Samael accuses them of lying, and as they argue, a voice speaks from within Adam and Eve. It's the son of Samael, declaring, "Go on your way, because I have already entered into their hearts, and I am not going to leave their hearts, nor the hearts of their sons, nor the sons of their sons, throughout the generations."

Chilling. This story, found in Tree of Souls by Howard Schwartz, is a pretty gruesome and, frankly, primitive tale about the origin of evil. As Schwartz notes, the cannibalistic elements are shocking. It certainly paints a cynical picture of humanity. It seems to draw upon the midrash – a method of interpreting biblical texts - that the serpent conceived Cain with Eve (you can find another version of that story on p. 447 of Tree of Souls).

There are variations on this story, too. One, found in IFA 1141 from Yemen, tells of Satan bringing Adam his son in the form of a sheep, asking him to care for it for a year. When Satan doesn't return, Adam butchers and eats the sheep with challah. When Satan finally comes back, Adam lies and says the sheep ran away. But when Satan calls for his son, the son answers from inside Adam! Satan then leaves him there. Louis Ginzberg also mentions this story in Ha-Goren 9:38-41. We also find variations in Pirkei de-Rabbi Eliezer 13, 21 and 22.

So, what are we to make of such a disturbing story? Perhaps it's a stark reminder that the struggle with our own yetzer hara is an ancient one. That the temptations and darker impulses we feel aren’t new, but have been part of the human condition since the very beginning. Maybe it's a way of saying that evil isn't some external force, but something that, once ingested (literally or figuratively), becomes deeply ingrained within us, passed down through generations.

It's a tough story, no doubt. But it leaves you pondering: How do we deal with the "son of Samael" within ourselves? And how do we prevent it from taking root in the hearts of future generations?