Midrash Aggadah Reader

Jewish tradition, particularly Kabbalah, offers some fascinating and intricate possibilities. It's not just about heaven or hell, but a whole cycle of transformation and, sometimes, even a second chance.

One intriguing idea is the transmigration of souls, or gilgul, as it's known in Hebrew. It’s a concept that really took hold in Judaism starting in the 16th century with the Kabbalists of Safed. The basic idea? Our souls might go through multiple lives to complete their purpose, to learn, to grow, and ultimately, to return to their source.

What does that journey look like? According to some accounts, after death, a soul undergoes a series of transformations. Picture this: a soul crossing a vast sea. But if it falters, if it falls, it could enter the body of a fish. Now, that sounds like a pretty raw deal. But If that fish is caught, cooked, and someone says the proper blessing before eating it, that soul is spared its aquatic suffering and ascends to the Garden of Eden! A blessing becomes a lifeline.

It doesn’t stop there. What about the souls that manage to cross the ocean and soar above the trees? Even then, there’s a chance of falling. Imagine a soul entering a fruit-bearing tree. But again, redemption is possible! If those fruits are picked and blessings are pronounced over them, that soul, too, finds its way to the Garden of Eden, its trials finally over.

We even find similar ideas connected to the crops we harvest. A soul might enter wheat, and if that wheat is made into bread and blessed, it's saved. But if, instead, the soul enters crops that are eaten by animals? Well, then it remains in a state of sorrow, trapped within the animal until it is slaughtered and blessings are said over the meal. This, we're told, is the soul's last chance at salvation (DevH Bran, Megillat Setarim, IFA 10200). The food we eat, the blessings we say – they have a profound impact, not just on our physical sustenance, but potentially on the spiritual journeys of others.

So, what happens if a soul isn’t saved? The text paints a stark picture: it continues to suffer until the End of Days, waiting for the coming of the Messiah. The ultimate goal of the soul, as seen through the lens of gilgul, is freedom from this cycle of reincarnation, a concept

Now, there’s also the darker side of this. The tradition speaks of souls whose sins were so great that they are relentlessly pursued by avenging angels. These wandering spirits, when they possess a living person, are known as a SAFE0. (You might recall S. Ansky’s famous folk drama, "The Dybbuk," which explores this very idea.)

Sefer ha-Likutim, based on the teachings of Hayim Vital, suggests that even the righteous might go through gilgul for up to a thousand generations! Why? Because even they accumulate sins that need cleansing. This process serves to purify their souls, protecting them from the harsher punishments of Gehenna (hell). The unjust, on the other hand, might only go through three generations of gilgul before entering hell to have their sins purged.

We can see examples of this in stories like "The Sabbath Fish," (Gabriel's Palace, pp. 233-234) or "The Widow of Safed," (p. 228), where souls are freed from this cycle.

What does all this mean? Well, perhaps it’s a reminder that our actions have consequences, not just in this life, but potentially beyond. The idea of gilgul encourages us to live with intention, to be mindful of the blessings we say, and to recognize the interconnectedness of all things. It's a complex and sometimes unsettling idea, but it offers a powerful vision of the soul's journey and the enduring hope for redemption.

Midrash Aggadah turns to The Scorpions Of Gehenna.

Gehenna, often translated as hell, is understood in Jewish tradition as a purification process, a place where souls are cleansed of their sins. But that cleansing? Let's just say it's not a spa day. And among the many torments described, there's one that really makes my skin crawl: the scorpions of Gehenna.

The familiar version gives us scorpions can pack a nasty sting. But imagine scorpions so potent, so utterly filled with venom, that they make our earthly versions look like cuddly teddy bears. According to the Baraita (a teaching from outside the Mishnah) de-Masekhet Gehinnom (the place of spiritual purification after death), found in Hesed le-Avraham, there are seven thousand of these monstrous creatures lurking in every crevice of Gehenna. Seven thousand! And each one. each one has seventy thousand pouches of venom.

Can you even picture that?

From these pouches flow six rivers of deadly poison. And what happens when a sinner, undergoing their period of purification, comes into contact with this horrifying toxin? Instant disintegration. The person "immediately bursts, and his body is cleft asunder, and he falls dead on his face."

Okay, that's bad enough. End of story? Nope. This is Gehenna.

The mal'akhai ha-khabbalah, the avenging angels, aren't done yet. They gather up the scattered limbs, revive the person, stand them back on their feet, and. inflict the whole process again. And again. And again. This cycle of agonizing death and resurrection continues until the soul has atoned for its sins.

It’s a chilling reminder, isn't it? These deadly scorpions, far more lethal than any found on earth, are one more example of the kinds of punishments of Gehenna, where a sinner can be killed and revived over and over again, so that his suffering continues until his time in Gehenna comes to an end.

Why such a gruesome image? Perhaps it's a way of emphasizing the severity of our actions and the importance of living a life of tzedakah (righteousness) and chesed (loving-kindness). Maybe it’s meant to scare us straight. Or perhaps, on a deeper level, it's a metaphor for the internal torment we inflict upon ourselves when we stray from the path.

Whatever the interpretation, the scorpions of Gehenna certainly leave a lasting impression, a stark reminder of the consequences of our choices and the enduring power of repentance and redemption.

As the story goes, GOD intervened. MOSES stretched out his hand, and the sea parted. A path opened up, dry land appeared, and the Israelites began to cross. But what was it really like? The familiar picture has it as a straightforward march, but the myths and legends surrounding this moment add layers of wonder and reassurance.

One beautiful story, recounted in Midrash (rabbinic interpretive commentary) Avkir, Exodus Rabbah 21:10, and Mekhilta de-Rabbi Ishmael, be-Shalah 1:86-108, paints a vivid picture of GOD's providential care during that miraculous crossing. Can you imagine the scene? Thousands of people, walking on newly-revealed seabed. Women clutching their babies, children wide-eyed with a mix of fear and amazement. And, inevitably, the sound of crying.

According to this tradition, as recounted in Tree of Souls by Howard Schwartz, GOD ensured that everything the Israelites needed was right there in the waters. So, when the children started to wail, their mothers didn't have to despair. They simply reached into the sea and plucked out… apples and pomegranates! Fresh, ripe fruit, growing right there in the saltwater. Imagine the relief, the astonishment, as those crying children were soothed by the taste of sweetness in the midst of chaos.

Isn't that a breathtaking image? It's more than just a nice story. It speaks to the profound belief that GOD provides, even in the most impossible circumstances. We find this idea echoed throughout the Exodus narrative. Think about the manna, that mysterious food that tasted like whatever each person desired most (more on that story elsewhere!). Or Miriam's Well, the legendary source of water that followed them through the desert, as described in other tales. And let's not forget the Seven Clouds of Glory, shielding them from the harsh desert sun and the dangers lurking below.

These aren't just isolated miracles. They are all interconnected. They highlight GOD's constant, unwavering concern for the well-being of the Israelites, a theme woven throughout the entire Exodus story. The Zohar, that foundational text of Jewish mysticism, tells us that everything in creation is ultimately an expression of GOD's loving-kindness. This myth of the Red Sea crossing seems to be a perfect illustration of that idea.

As Ginzberg tells us in Legends of the Jews, the Exodus was more than just a historical event; it was a demonstration of GOD's power and love. And the image of those women, drawing sustenance from the sea for their children, is a powerful reminder that even in the face of overwhelming challenges, hope – and even sweetness – can be found in the most unexpected places. What other hidden sweetnesses, maybe even miracles, await us in our own lives, if we only look closely enough?

Midrash Aggadah turns to The Angel Of The Lord.

Jerusalem, poised on the brink of annihilation. God, in his wrath, sends an angel to destroy it. Can you picture it? A city about to crumble, its inhabitants facing utter despair. But just as the angel is about to unleash his devastating power, a voice rings out: "Enough! Stay your hand!"

This dramatic scene comes to us from the Myths of King David, as retold in Howard Schwartz's Tree of Souls. It's a powerful image, and it makes you wonder: what stopped the destruction?

The story continues: The angel of the Lord, obedient to the divine command, halts his mission. He stands by the threshing floor of Oman the Jebusite. And then David, King David himself, looks up. What he sees is enough to make him and the elders fall to their faces in supplication.

Picture this: An angel, colossal and awe-inspiring, suspended between heaven and earth. In his hand, a drawn sword, its point aimed directly at Jerusalem. It's an image that sears itself into your mind. A stark reminder of divine power and the precariousness of human existence.

Think about the implications. Jerusalem, the heart of the kingdom, spared from utter ruin. We see echoes of other stories here, don't we? It calls to mind the story of Abraham and Isaac. Remember that pivotal moment? God calls on Abraham to sacrifice his beloved son, and at the very last second, stays his hand. The Akedah, the binding of Isaac, is a foundational story for us. It is a test of faith, and a demonstration of God's ultimate mercy.

This myth of the angel and Jerusalem mirrors that moment. It speaks of divine intervention, of a last-minute reprieve. Jerusalem was on the verge of total destruction when God intervened, preventing it at the last possible moment.

What does it all mean? Perhaps it’s a reminder that even in the face of divine judgment, there is always the possibility of mercy. Perhaps it's a evidence of the enduring power of faith and repentance. Or maybe it's simply a way of understanding that sometimes, just sometimes, we are given a second chance. A chance to rebuild, to redeem, to start again. It makes you wonder what "threshing floor of Oman the Jebusite" represents. Perhaps the place where the wheat is separated from the chaff, a place of judgement and renewal.

What do you think? Are there times in your own life when you've felt like that city, on the verge of collapse, only to be saved by a moment of grace?

You're not alone. But have you ever wondered why that wall, of all the Temple, still stands?

There are many explanations, of course, both historical and theological. But Jewish tradition whispers a particularly compelling reason, one that ties the Kotel directly to the most pivotal moment in our history: the giving of the Torah at Mount Sinai.

The story goes that every single stone used to build the Temple – that magnificent, awe-inspiring structure – came from Jerusalem and the surrounding mountains. Every stone, that is, except one.

Just one solitary stone was brought from elsewhere, all the way from Mount Sinai itself. And where was this special stone placed? You guessed it: in the Kotel, the Western Wall.

According to this tradition, the Kotel survived the Temple's destruction precisely because of that stone. The Zohar, that foundational text of Jewish mysticism, is filled with secrets like these. Imagine, the very essence of Sinai, the holiness of that mountain where Moses received the Torah, embedded within a single stone, protecting the last remnant of the Temple.

It's a powerful image, isn't it? A tangible link to our covenant with God, preserved through millennia of upheaval.

What does this tell us? Perhaps it's a reminder that even in the face of utter devastation, something sacred, something foundational, endures. The physical Temple may be gone, but the spiritual connection, the covenant forged at Sinai, lives on, embodied in that single, enduring stone. And that, perhaps, is why so many of us are drawn to the Kotel, searching for that spark of Sinai within ourselves.

The pain, the suffering, the sheer brutality of the Egyptian exile… was actually part of a divine plan?

It sounds crazy. To suggest that God deliberately placed the descendants of Abraham into slavery? But that's exactly what some Jewish mystical traditions propose. Why Egypt? Why so much suffering? The answer, according to some, is that the exile was a necessary prelude to receiving the Torah, the ultimate gift.

The Tzofnat Pa'ane'ah, Perush ha-Haggadah (non-legal rabbinic narrative) poses a fascinating question: If God had simply blessed Abraham's descendants with prosperity and allowed them to conquer the land without the crucible of exile, how could He have then compelled them to go into the desert to receive the Torah? In other words, how do you make a people ready for a sacred covenant?

It's a bold idea. The exile wasn't a punishment, but a preparation. A spiritual boot camp, if you will. The suffering, the hardship, the constant struggle for survival – all of it forged a people ready to embrace the responsibilities and the profound wisdom contained within the Torah. As the Em ha-Banim S'mehah suggests, it was a necessary step to be worthy of receiving such a divine gift.

This isn't about glorifying suffering, mind you. It's about finding meaning within it. Recognizing that even in the darkest of times, there can be a purpose, a divine plan unfolding. It's about understanding that sometimes, the greatest blessings come after the most difficult trials.

It’s like the idea that a muscle grows stronger when it’s been torn. The exile, in this view, tore at the soul of the Jewish people, but in doing so, it made them strong enough to carry the weight of the Torah.

So, the next time you read the story of the Exodus, remember this secret. The Egyptian exile wasn't just a historical event; it was a necessary step on the path to Sinai. It was a painful, brutal, but ultimately transformative experience that shaped the Jewish people and prepared them to receive the greatest gift of all: the Torah. A gift that continues to shape us to this day. Is it a justification for suffering? Perhaps. Or perhaps, it’s a reminder that even in the midst of suffering, there is always hope, always purpose, always the possibility of redemption.

Midrash Aggadah turns to The Sleeping Messiah.

They were poor, these students, but rich in faith. Penniless, they set out, driven by a dream that dwarfed every obstacle in their path. And after countless trials, they arrived, breathless and awestruck, in the holy city. But where was David's tomb?

As they stood there, lost and wondering, a figure emerged from the shadows. An old man, his eyes twinkling with ancient wisdom. It was Elijah the Prophet, appearing in human form! He, the harbinger of the Messiah, had come to guide them.

"My sons," he said, his voice like the rustling of sacred scrolls, "ascend Mount Zion. Seek the entrance to King David's tomb. Descend the steps until you reach the very bottom."

But here's where the story takes a strange, almost surreal turn. Elijah warned them: "You will be blinded by visions of gold, silver, and diamonds. But these are only illusions, set to..."

What awaits them in the depths of King David's tomb? What kind of test is this? We can only imagine the mix of anticipation and trepidation churning within those two young men as they began their descent. The story, alas, ends here. But it leaves us with a powerful image: two souls driven by faith, guided by a prophet, facing a challenge that blurs the line between reality and illusion. And it reminds us that the path to redemption is rarely easy, and often fraught with unexpected trials.

That’s hardcore.

What's the secret?

Well, Jewish tradition offers a fascinating explanation. It wasn’t just about toughing it out. It goes much deeper. The Makhon Siftei Tzaddikim (a righteous person) (the righteous) on (Genesis 1:16) suggests that Moses achieved something extraordinary: he elevated himself to the level of an angel. Angels, as we understand them in Jewish lore, don’t need earthly sustenance. They exist on a different plane, sustained by a spiritual energy we can barely comprehend. So, if Moses became like an angel, then food and water simply weren't necessary for him.

It's not quite a full-blown transformation, like we see in the story of Enoch, who, as Schwartz recounts in "The Metamorphosis and Enthronement of Enoch," becomes the angel Metatron. Moses didn’t permanently morph into an angel. But he achieved a similar state of spiritual elevation. He became as exalted as an angel.

It's a powerful idea, isn’t it? That through intense spiritual connection and divine purpose, a human being can transcend the limitations of their physical form. It makes you wonder what we're all capable of, doesn't it? What hidden strengths we possess when we truly connect to something bigger than ourselves. Maybe we can't all go forty days without eating, but perhaps we all have the potential to tap into a deeper well of resilience and strength than we realize.

Moses, nearing the end of his earthly life. Instead of just fading away, God takes him on a field trip – a celestial tour of the highest heavens! There, according to Tree of Souls, Moses gets to see not only his reward, but also the future destiny of the Jewish people. And what does he see? God, personally constructing the heavenly Temple.

This isn't just any building project. And it's not just the Temple; Moses also sees Messiah, son of David, standing there, alongside his own brother, Aaron.

There’s a catch. Aaron warns Moses to keep his distance. Why? Because this heavenly realm is so intensely holy that entering it prematurely – before giving up one's soul – would mean instant consumption by the flame of the Shekhinah.

Understandably, Moses is a little freaked out. He pleads with God to let him speak with Messiah before he dies. God, in His infinite compassion, agrees. But first, an angel must teach Moses God’s "great Name," a kind of divine shield that will protect him from the intense spiritual energy.

Armed with this divine protection, Moses finally gets to ask the big question: "Will God build a sanctuary on earth like the one He is building here in heaven?"

The Messiah’s answer is profound. He explains that this heavenly Temple, built by God's own hands, will exist for Israel for all time. It’s not just a future hope; it’s an eternal reality. Remember Jacob's dream of the ladder reaching to heaven? As we read in Genesis (28:17), Jacob awoke and exclaimed: "This is none other than the abode of God, and that is the gateway to heaven!" According to the Messiah, Jacob saw both the earthly and heavenly Temples and understood the enduring nature of the latter. And, Messiah reveals, when the time is right, God will bring this heavenly Jerusalem down to earth.

Moses, understandably, is thrilled. He wants to know when this incredible event will happen. But God, ever the mystery, keeps the exact timing a secret. "I have not disclosed this to any living being," He says, "neither to the first ones or the last." But because Moses is, well, Moses, God gives him a hint: the Israelites will be scattered to the four corners of the earth, but one day, they will return to the Land of Israel.

And what does Moses do with this glimpse into the divine plan? According to this passage, he descends from heaven, content. He then gives his soul to God, peacefully and with a longing heart. What a way to go!

What does this all mean? The Zohar tells us that everything on Earth has a parallel in the heavens. This story suggests that our earthly struggles, our hopes for redemption, are all mirrored and nurtured in the celestial realm. The heavenly Temple isn't just a beautiful image; it's a promise. A promise that even in times of exile and suffering, there is a perfect, eternal sanctuary waiting for us, built by God Himself. It’s a reminder that our connection to the divine is always present, even when we can’t see it. And perhaps, just perhaps, it's a glimpse of what awaits us when we finally "taste the taste of death."

The familiar story is this: from (Genesis 32:24-30). Jacob, preparing to meet his estranged brother Esau, sends his family and possessions across the Yabbok River (a stream whose name means "emptying"), and remains alone for the night. There, a mysterious figure appears, and the two wrestle until dawn. But one tradition, found in Midrash (rabbinic interpretive commentary) Avkir and cited in Yalkut Re'uveni, gives us a different, and quite frankly, location for this epic battle: the palaces of Heaven!

It says that this wasn't just a physical struggle on the muddy banks of the Yabbok. Instead, Jacob's soul ascended on high! Ever since Jacob's famous dream of the ladder – the one stretching from earth to heaven – his soul, it was said, had the ability to climb to the highest rungs. And on this particular night, while his body slept, his soul journeyed upwards for a celestial showdown.

Who was his opponent? None other than the angel Michael, the heavenly priest! According to this tradition, Michael leads a choir of ministering angels in singing God's praises every morning. That explains why he begged Jacob, "Let me go, for dawn is breaking!" (Genesis 32:27). Imagine the scene: bands of angels arriving, eager to begin their divine song, as we find alluded to in (Song of Songs 2:12). "The time of singing God's praises has come!" they announce.

Michael, desperate, pleads with Jacob. "Let me go! I beg you," he says, "lest the ministering angels incinerate me for delaying the song!" But Jacob, ever the determined one, refuses to release him unless he receives a blessing. What happens next is pivotal. Michael declares, "Your name shall no more be called Jacob, but Israel" (Genesis 32:29). And then he adds a powerful statement: "Blessed are you, born of woman, for you entered the palace above and remained alive." Jacob, a mortal, had entered the heavenly realm and survived! The Midrash suggests this was the moment God chose to reveal Himself to Jacob and the angels. Jacob, looking up, saw God face to face. At that instant, a profound transformation occurred, and he became Jacob the patriarch, the father of Israel's twelve tribes.

But what about the wrestling? What about the injury? In this version, even the injury gets a heavenly spin. As for the angel Michael, in the presence of God his strength was depleted. Still, he touched the hollow of Jacob's thigh and harmed him. But when God saw this. He said: "What right have you to cripple My priest?" Michael answered, "Master of the universe, am I not Your priest?" God replied: "You are My priest in the world above; Jacob is My priest in the world below."

So, how was Jacob healed? Michael summoned Raphael, the Angel of Healing, and begged him to heal Jacob. And as soon as Raphael touched Jacob’s thigh, he recovered, and no sign of his injury remained! This contrasts with the biblical account, where Jacob limps away from the encounter.

Now, why this particular interpretation? Why move the wrestling match to heaven? Well, as Rabbi Schwartz points out in Tree of Souls, the idea of Jacob ascending to heaven echoes the Hekhalot (the heavenly palaces) texts. Hekhalot (literally "palaces") literature describes mystical journeys into the celestial palaces, journeys fraught with danger. It was said that the angel at the sixth gate would cut off the head of anyone who didn't know the right answer! But Jacob, like Rabbi Akiva in the Talmud (B. Hagigah 14b), survives this dangerous ascent intact.

This version also addresses a potential problem. According to Halakha, Jewish law, the High Priest must have no physical imperfections. Jacob, having set up altars and made offerings to God (Genesis 28:18 and 35:6-7), had taken on the role of a priest before Aaron. So, the healing by Raphael ensures that Jacob remains fit for his priestly role.

There's even a reason given for Michael's urgency to end the wrestling match: he fears being incinerated by the other angels if he delays the heavenly choir! This detail adds a layer of complexity and urgency to the story.

God identifies Jacob as His High Priest, while Michael serves as the heavenly High Priest, making offerings in the celestial Temple. Their competing roles might even suggest a reason for their conflict.

But here's a final twist: in other sources, Michael is identified as Jacob's guardian angel! He's been the guardian angel of Israel since he visited Abraham to announce Isaac's birth. So, perhaps Jacob was wrestling with his own conscience, confronting the consequences of his actions – escaping Laban, facing Esau. The bitter harvest he has brought upon himself has become apparent. Perhaps Jacob was wrestling with himself!

So, the next time you read the story of Jacob wrestling with the angel, remember this tradition. It invites us to imagine not just a physical struggle, but a soul's ascent to heaven, a battle for identity, and a divine encounter that transformed Jacob into Israel. What does it mean to wrestle with your conscience? To ascend to your highest self? Maybe that's the real struggle we all face.

What would that era be like? What wonders would unfold? Jewish tradition whispers of one breathtaking miracle: a magical tree, springing to life right there in the heart of the city.

Trees hold a special place in Jewish thought, don't they? We see them everywhere, from the Torah itself – "She is a tree of life to those who grasp her" (Prov. 3:18) – to the most ancient stories of creation. But this tree…this one is different.

The Talmud speaks of leaves with extraordinary power. Some say they’ll grant the gift of speech to those who have never uttered a word. Others believe they’ll bring fertility to women who long for children but cannot conceive. It's a potent image, isn't it? A symbol of hope, of renewal, of a world made whole.

You might be thinking, a magical tree… that sounds familiar. And you’d be right! The image echoes through our collective memory, back to the Garden of Eden, with its Etz Chaim (Tree of Life) and Etz haDa'at (Knowledge) Tov vaRa (Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil). The Zohar, that foundational text of Jewish mysticism, paints vivid pictures of Eden's wonders, and these images ripple forward, finding new expression in the messianic dream.

But why this connection between the Garden of Eden and the Messianic Age? Well, Jewish tradition often draws a parallel between the world before the “fall” – before Adam and Eve ate from the Tree of Knowledge – and the world that will be ushered in by the Messiah. The coming of the Messiah, in a sense, is about restoring the world to its original, perfect state. As the teachings of the Ari, Rabbi Isaac Luria, suggest, this restoration involves a cosmic process of repairing what was broken, gathering the scattered sparks of divinity.

This idea of healing, of restoration, is also woven into the folklore of many cultures. Think about fairy tales like "The Wonderful Healing Leaves," a story of Jewish origin collected in Elijah's Violin, where leaves possess the power to cure all ills. And even in Jewish lore, we find similar themes. Abraham, it is said, had a… well, you’ll have to look to the sources to find out.

So, what does this magical tree in Jerusalem really represent? It's more than just a pretty image. It's a symbol of hope, of healing, and of the ultimate restoration of the world. It whispers of a future where brokenness is mended, where potential is realized, and where the world reflects the divine perfection it was always meant to embody. It reminds us that even in the darkest of times, the seeds of redemption are always present, waiting to sprout and blossom.

There's a folk tradition, a whisper passed down through generations, that paints a rather surprising picture. It begins not with wailing, but with joy. Imagine: on the very day the world is set to transform, people emerge from the earth, not as ghosts or tormented souls, but filled with happiness. They're beating drums, playing flutes, making music – a full-blown parade of joy!

In this vision (as retold in Howard Schwartz's, Tree of Souls), this jubilant throng travels from east to west, their destination etched in their hearts: the Holy Land. And as they journey, a miracle unfolds. The very mountains before them blossom into blooming gardens. Can you picture it?

It gets even wilder. Every tree bursts with fruit, an endless bounty. And – hold on to your hats – the stones themselves… transform into meat and rice! Yes, you read that right. The very rocks offer sustenance, and the people eat to their hearts' content.

It’s a striking image, isn’t it? A world where even the stones provide nourishment. This detail, Schwartz notes, speaks to a very human understanding of the messianic era: even in paradise, we’ll still have appetites, and there will be plenty for everyone. No scarcity, no hunger. Just pure, unadulterated abundance.

But the story doesn’t end there. After this incredible feast, the Messiah arrives. His task? To separate the believers from the non-believers. A stark division. Those deemed unworthy are sent to Gehenna (hell), while the faithful accompany the Messiah to Jerusalem. And that, according to this folk tradition, is how the world ends – and a new one begins.

This vision, as Schwartz points out, echoes a fundamental mythical pattern: the resurrection of the dead, the gathering of the righteous in the Holy Land, and the arrival of the Messiah. It's a powerful narrative of redemption and transformation.

But what are we to make of this strange and wonderful tale? It's not the fiery apocalypse we often imagine. Instead, it’s a celebration, a journey, and a promise of plenty. Perhaps it's a reminder that even at the end, there's still room for joy, for music, and for a good meal. Maybe, just maybe, the end of the world won't be so bad after all. Maybe it will be… delicious.

Mashiach is not first seen here as a crowned king, but as a captive bound before the Throne of Glory.

In some stories, for generations, the Messiah has been sitting chained before the Throne of Glory. Chained with golden chains, no less! It’s a powerful image, isn’t it? As Howard Schwartz recounts in Tree of Souls, the prophet Elijah himself has tried countless times to release him, but always without success.

So, what's the key? How do we break these chains? Elijah, in his earthly travels, reveals the answer: a magic saw. But this isn't just any saw. Its teeth are formed by the good deeds – the mitzvot (commandments) – of the people of Israel. Every good deed adds a tooth, while every sin, alas, takes one away. We, in our daily lives, are literally building the tool that will bring about redemption.

The idea is that when our good deeds outweigh our sins by a factor of two, the saw is complete and can be used to free the Messiah. That’s why, as the tradition teaches, the Messiah won’t come until we bring him. We hold the power. We are the key.

This isn't just one isolated story. Numerous texts depict the Messiah as bound. Pirkei Hekhalot (the heavenly palaces) Rabbati, for instance, describes God Himself tying up the Messiah hand and foot for eight long years. During this time of the Messiah’s imprisonment, God hides His face from him.

Why such a harsh image? It’s a potent reminder. The decision to bring about the End of Days, the Messianic Era, doesn’t belong to the Messiah himself. It ultimately rests with God, or, perhaps more accurately, with the collective actions of the Jewish people. Our deeds will pave the way.

It adds another layer of complexity to the whole concept of Mashiach. It’s not just about waiting for a savior to descend from on high. It’s about active participation, about taking responsibility for the world we live in.

And the layers don't stop there. There are even more startling myths in which God Himself is in chains! As we explore in "Mourning over the Shekhinah (the Divine Presence)," the Divine Presence can also be seen as captive, yearning for release.

What does it all mean? Maybe it’s a call to action. A reminder that we are not passive observers in the grand drama of history. We are active participants, capable of shaping the future, one good deed at a time. The choice, ultimately, is ours. Will we build the saw that can break the chains?

One captivating story, found in Midrash (rabbinic interpretive commentary) Aleph Bet (5:8-9), suggests that God's day is divided into two distinct phases. From morning till evening, God sits upon the Throne of Glory, lost in thought. Considering new thoughts, new plans. How to create the deep, how to create the heights, the pillars of the clouds, the very foundation of the world! It’s a powerful image, isn’t it? Echoes of creation itself, brought to mind by verses like (Psalms 33:6): "By the word of Yahweh the heavens were made, and all their host by the breath of His mouth."

Then, as evening falls, everything shifts. God descends from the Throne of Glory and rides on sparks of fire, arranging the orders of new worlds with his own… well, fingers! Positioning the upper worlds opposite the lower ones, and vice versa. Action! Creation! Night as a time of doing. This is the opposite of how we humans tend to operate, using the day for action and the night for contemplation.

That’s not the only account we have. The Talmud, in B. Avodah Zarah 3b, offers another perspective, dividing God's first twelve hours into neat three-hour blocks. For the first three hours, God is engaged in the study of Torah – the ultimate student! Then, for the next three, God sits in judgment of the world. A weighty responsibility, to be sure. After that? Sustenance! God feeds the whole world – from mighty buffalo to the smallest vermin. Think of the scale!

Finally, for the last three hours of this divine workday? Well, opinions differ. Some say God plays with Leviathan, that mythical sea monster of immense power. Can you picture it? Others insist that God sits and teaches schoolchildren. I love the intimacy of that image.

But wait, there's more! Genesis Rabbah 8:13 adds to the mix, suggesting that God is also busy blessing bridegrooms, adorning brides, visiting the sick, burying the dead, and reciting the blessing for mourners. All those acts of kindness and compassion woven into the fabric of God's day.

So, what about the night? According to this second account, God's nights are a bit more… relaxed. He rides a cherub of light and floats through 18,000 worlds, listening to heavenly songs. A passive role, almost like… God's dreamtime.

What’s so striking is how both these accounts, though different, draw parallels between God's day and our own. As the mystical tradition of Kabbalah teaches, "as above, so below." God, too, seems to have a schedule, a need to divide time between study, work, and perhaps even a little bit of relaxation. We see that even God has a schedule that He must follow.

These stories are incredibly reassuring. They suggest that even the Divine must find a balance, just as we do, between the active and the passive, between responsibility and rest. Perhaps, in these mythical glimpses into God's day, we find a reflection of our own struggles and triumphs, reminding us that even in the vastness of the cosmos, we are all connected.

The familiar picture has the shame, the hardship.. but what about the stuff? Did he get to take anything with him?

Well, according to one fascinating folktale recounted in Howard Schwartz's Tree of Souls, God, reluctant to simply kick Adam out, essentially encouraged him to leave. God even gave him a parting feast, the best food and wine imaginable, and said, "There’s a whole world out there! Don't you want to explore it?"

Adam, understandably, wasn't thrilled. Eden was, after all, Eden. But God insisted, "You can take anything you like with you, whatever you desire, but you must go." So, God showed him all the treasures of the garden: lush orchards, amazing animals, gold, silver, precious stones...

Nothing caught Adam's eye. Until he found the diamonds. These weren't just any diamonds; they shone as brightly as the sun. Adam chose one of the largest, most brilliant ones. Holding it tight, he walked toward the gates, an angel accompanying him.

He passed through, glanced back, and saw the cherubim with their flaming swords. No turning back now. A pang of regret hit him, but he kept walking until he reached a river.

And this is where the story takes a truly unexpected turn.

As Adam stood by the riverbank, admiring his prize, the angel suddenly pushed him! The diamond slipped from his grasp and plunged into the water.

"Why did you do that?" Adam cried out, distraught.

The angel simply replied, "Go down to the river and find your diamond."

So, Adam went down to the river... and what he saw astonished him. Thousands upon thousands of diamonds sparkled beneath the surface, reflecting the sunlight. How could he possibly find his?

Then the angel revealed a startling truth: "Do you think you were the first one who was expelled from the Garden of Eden and took a diamond with you? Thousands and thousands did as you did, and their diamonds fill the river, as you can see."

Wow.

This unusual tale echoes the midrashic (rabbinic interpretive commentary) tradition of the Tzohar, the jewel said to have been given to Adam upon his exile. The Tzohar, in some traditions, even provided light for the world! But this story does something different with the diamond motif. Here, it becomes a symbol of loss, but also of shared experience.

The idea that the river is full of other diamonds is a powerful one. As the angel points out, Adam wasn't the first to leave Eden with such a diamond.

While we have extensive rabbinic traditions about God creating and destroying worlds before this one, the notion of multiple Adams, each expelled and taking a diamond, is quite original. Where did they all come from?

What does it all mean?

Perhaps it's a commentary on the nature of loss and desire. Adam's diamond, so precious to him, becomes just one among many, highlighting the transient nature of earthly possessions. Or maybe it’s a reflection on the shared human condition. We all carry our own "diamonds" – the things we cling to, the things we lose. And perhaps, in that shared experience of loss, we find a strange kind of connection.

It's a reminder that even in our most individual struggles, we are part of a larger story, a river of experiences flowing through time. And that, perhaps, is a comfort in itself.

A bare, deserted landscape, just desolate mountains stretching as far as the eye could see. Not exactly the Promised Land we know and cherish.

Then, something incredible happened.

The tradition says God wears a magnificent ring, a celestial adornment studded with every precious gem imaginable – amethysts, emeralds, sapphires…each one a source of light, scattering holy sparks across the firmament like a million twinkling stars.

One day, God decided to transform that desolate land.

He turned the ring on His finger.

The Zohar tells us that sparks flew forth, arcing over the Galilee and the Jordan Valley, reaching the desert and even as far as the Dead Sea. In an instant, the mountains shimmered, cloaked in a bluish gleam, and luminous circles embraced the Jordan Valley. "God saw that it was good," the story goes, and turned His ring once more. This time, fiery sparks enveloped the mountains, resembling a glimmering tallit, a prayer shawl.

It makes you wonder, doesn't it? This act of creation, this divine intervention…it's not just about aesthetics. It's about imbuing the land with holiness, with a divine presence. Perhaps, as some suggest, this echoes the Kabbalistic idea of the "shattering of the vessels," the Shevirat HaKelim, and the scattering of holy sparks. (Remember that myth? We touched on it before, about how creation is a process of gathering those sparks.)

But the story doesn't end there.

God raised His hand, and a fragment of precious stone soared over the Negev. It landed with such force that it melted, becoming the Sea of Eilat – sparkling and shining day and night, forever remembering its origin in God's ring. As we find in Tree of Souls (Howard Schwartz), this is an origin story, explaining how a desolate land transformed through divine intervention.

And then, God gazed northward. He turned His ring again, and the most beautiful of God's sapphires descended to earth, transforming into the Sea of Galilee, the Kinneret. Ginzberg, in his Legends of the Jews, might even say these jewels flew like comets!

So, the next time you see a picture of the Sea of Galilee shimmering under the sun, or imagine the vibrant coral reefs of Eilat, remember this story. Remember the desolate mountains, the turning of the ring, and the sparks that transformed a land into something truly holy. It's a powerful reminder that even the most barren places can be filled with beauty and divine light.

What do you think? Does this story change how you see the Land of Israel? Does it give you a new appreciation for the beauty of the natural world, knowing that, according to tradition, even these landscapes hold a spark of the divine?

In Jewish mystical tradition, That’s why, as the Yesod (Foundation) ha-Teshuvah (repentance) teaches, quoting the Ari (Rabbi Isaac Luria, the great 16th-century Kabbalist), when one of us stumbles and sins, it’s as though we’ve all sinned. the entire people of Israel is described as being attached to the Etz Chaim, the Tree of Life. We all stood together at Mount Sinai, hearing God's voice as one. We sang together, a single voice, at the Sea of Reeds after escaping Egypt. We are all responsible for rebuilding the Temple in Jerusalem, and we all must participate in raising up the Shekhinah (the Divine Presence) – God’s divine presence – from Her exile.

Israel, then, isn't just a nation or a group of people. It’s a single organism. In the eyes of God, we’re rewarded and punished as one.This idea resonates throughout Jewish thought. Remember the myth of the Shattering of the Vessels, the Shvirat ha-Kelim? (You can read more about that in those earlier sections, "God's Image," "The Fruit of the Tree of Life," "The Shattering of the Vessels and the Gathering of the Sparks," and "The Shekhinah Within.") The Ari taught that the combined efforts of all of Israel are needed to gather those holy sparks, those fragments of divine light, scattered throughout the world after the vessels shattered. Only then can the Messianic era begin. It's a collective effort.

So, what does this all mean for us, here and now? Perhaps it's a call to greater responsibility. To see ourselves not as isolated individuals, but as integral parts of something far larger and more profound. To recognize that our actions, both good and bad, ripple outwards, affecting the entire body of Israel. It's a reminder that