Midrash Konen Reader

It even shows up in our ideas about Gehenna.

Gehenna. It’s a loaded word. Often translated as "Hell," it’s really more complex than that. It’s a place of purification, of reckoning, where souls face the consequences of their actions. But where is this Gehenna, exactly? Where does one even enter such a place?

That's where things get interesting, because the answers are… varied, to say the least.

Some traditions, as we find in Midrash Konen, say there are three entrances. One in the desolate wilderness, echoing the wandering and hardship of a life gone astray. Another in the vast, unknowable sea, representing the depths of our own souls, perhaps. And a third… right in Jerusalem! Imagine that. The holy city, also a gateway to… well, to facing the music.

Then there’s another image: two date trees in the valley of Gehinnom (the place of spiritual purification after death) – that's the physical valley outside Jerusalem, the one whose name became synonymous with this whole concept – with smoke rising from them, marking the spot. A grim landmark indeed.

But wait, there’s more! According to other accounts, there aren't just three entrances. Oh no. There are four openings on each side of the universe – sixteen in total! Talk about inescapable. Midrash (rabbinic interpretive commentary) Aggadat Bereshit paints a picture of the wicked desperately trying to flee Gehenna, only to blunder into yet another of its many mouths. It's like a cosmic maze of consequence.

And the variations don't stop there. Fifty gates, some say, each with holes to lock the feet of the condemned. Quite the elaborate security system, isn’t it?

Then there's the most unsettling idea of all: that the mouth of Gehenna can be found anywhere. Any place, any time, the earth could simply open up and… swallow you whole.

Sound familiar? Remember the story of Korah in the Book of Numbers (16:32)? He challenged Moses, and the ground opened up and swallowed him and his followers. A pretty stark image of divine retribution. Well, that story becomes a kind of prototype for this idea of Gehenna being ever-present, ever-ready.

So, how do we make sense of all these different accounts? Some say this myth attempts to resolve the contradictions by settling on the idea of three entrances. But perhaps the alternate explanation is more powerful: that Gehenna, in a sense, is always accessible. That the potential for reckoning, for facing the consequences of our actions, is always there, lurking beneath the surface of our everyday lives.

Maybe the real question isn't where is Gehenna, but when will we encounter it? And more importantly, how can we live our lives in a way that prepares us for that inevitable encounter?

There's this beautiful image tucked away in the Midrash Konen (found in Beit ha-Midrash (rabbinic interpretive commentary) 2:25), this idea that "the wings of heaven are tied to the wings of the land, and the wings of the land are tied to the wings of heaven, and sealed with God's name."

Isn't that evocative?

What could it possibly mean?

Essentially, it's a poetic way of expressing one of the core principles of Kabbalah: "As above, so below; as below, so above." It's a mirror. A reflection. What happens in the heavenly realms, the Olam Ha'atzilut, the world of emanation, has repercussions down here in our everyday reality, the Olam Ha'asiyah (the World of Action). And conversely, our actions, our prayers, our intentions ripple upwards, influencing the spiritual spheres.

Think of it like this: imagine a story. The threads running horizontally represent the earthly realm, and the vertical threads represent the heavenly. They are interwoven, inextricable. Pull on one thread, and you affect the entire design.

It's a powerful idea, isn't it? The implication is that we are not passive observers in the universe. We are active participants. Our choices matter. Our spiritual work matters.

And the image of "wings," specifically, is also telling. Wings imply movement, ascent, and connection. They speak of the ability to transcend limitations, to bridge the gap between the physical and the spiritual. It suggests that the land itself, the earth, has the potential to take flight, to reach towards the divine. And conversely, that the heavens themselves are anchored, connected, to the very ground we stand on.

And sealed with God's name? That's the ultimate guarantee. It suggests that this connection, this mirroring, is not accidental, but divinely ordained. It’s embedded in the very fabric of creation.

So, next time you look up at the sky, remember the wings. Remember the connection. Remember that what you do here, now, has implications far beyond what you can see. Maybe, just maybe, you're flapping your own wings, influencing the heavens above.

Midrash Konen turns to The Gates Of Gehenna.

Gehenna, sometimes translated as Hell, isn't exactly a picnic. It's described as being in the north of the world, in what Midrash Konen calls the “unfinished corner of creation.” gave up.

That’s where the gates come in. According to the Orhot Hayim, there aren't just one, but three gates to Gehenna, each overseen by its own set of celestial (and not-so-celestial) authorities.

The first gate? It's out in the desert, specifically where Korah and his followers met their unfortunate end, swallowed by the earth and descending into Sheol, the underworld. Remember that story of rebellion and divine retribution? Yeah, that very spot.

The second gate is found far out at sea, in the Sea of Tarshish. Imagine the deepest, darkest, most desolate part of the ocean – that's the neighborhood. And the third, perhaps the most chilling, is located right here on Earth, in the valley of Gehinnom (the place of spiritual purification after death) itself, just outside Jerusalem. Talk about a grim landmark.

And who exactly are the gatekeepers? We're told that three "princes" or "ministers" of Gehenna are in charge: Kipod, Nagdasniel, and Samael (the angel of death). These aren't your friendly neighborhood angels. They preside over a domain teeming with demons, harmful spirits, and, surprisingly, hosts of avenging angels. It’s a complicated bureaucracy, even in Hell.

What awaits inside? Well, if you're wicked, prepare for a rough time. Gehenna is described as having seven circles, each designed for specific punishments. The wicked are dragged there, kicking and screaming, by the avenging angels.

Imagine wraithlike figures, resisting with all their might, but no match for the angels’ fiery whips. According to the Midrash Konen in Beit ha-Midrash, an angel strikes the gate with that whip, forcing it open, and the condemned are thrust inside, regardless of their protests. No take-backs, no appeals.

So, what does this tell us? Is it just a scary story to keep us in line? Maybe. But it also speaks to the idea that actions have consequences. That even in the "unfinished corners of creation," there's a sense of cosmic justice, however harsh it may seem. And perhaps, it's a reminder to choose our path wisely, lest we find ourselves facing one of those three dreaded gates.

We walk on solid ground, sure, but Jewish tradition sometimes whispers of other worlds, hidden realities layered beneath our own. Imagine: not just dirt and rock, but entire ecosystems, civilizations even, thriving in the Earth's shadow. According to some accounts, there are not just one, but six such worlds!

The best-known of these subterranean realms? It's called Tevel.

Tevel isn't just a darker version of our world. Oh no. The sun there rises in the west and sets in the east. Already, things are topsy-turvy! But the real strangeness lies in its inhabitants. The stories tell of 365 different kinds of creatures, none of them like anything we've ever seen. Then there are those with serpentine heads attached to human bodies, or, you guessed it, human heads atop snake-like forms. And don't even get me started on the human-headed oxen who can carry on a conversation!

Hold on, because the weirdness dial is about to get cranked up to eleven. The truly bizarre residents of Tevel are the creatures with two heads, four arms, and four legs.. all attached to a single trunk and stomach. Can you picture it? When they sit down to eat, they look like two separate people. But when they stand and walk, they're undeniably one being.

And are these creatures peaceful, living in harmonious bliss? Not a chance. They bicker constantly, arguing over the smallest things. One head wants to go one way, the other insists on going the opposite direction. As they only have one body, they take a step forward, then a step back, ending up exactly where they started. Stubborn and unyielding, they squabble all day long, until their stomachs rumble and they begrudgingly agree that it's time to eat.

But even mealtime is a battle! One head craves something hot, the other demands something cold. How do they solve this culinary conundrum? By preparing both, of course! They meticulously make the cold dish first, ensuring the hot meal doesn't lose its warmth while they're at it. Finally, they sit down to eat, and for a brief, shining moment, there's peace.

But it never lasts. As soon as the last morsel is swallowed, the accusations begin to fly. "You ate more than I did!" one head cries. "No, you ate more!" the other retorts.

We even hear of an encounter with these two-headed beings in the tales surrounding King Solomon. The demon king Ashmedai, in a display of his power, once pulled a two-headed man from Tevel itself, as we learn in Midrash Konen in Beit ha-Midrash (rabbinic interpretive commentary). This creature then married a human woman and fathered seven sons – six resembling her, and one, predictably, taking after his father. When inheritance time came, the two-headed father demanded two portions, leading to a dispute that was brought before the wise King Solomon.

How did Solomon resolve this bizarre inheritance battle? He cleverly scalded one of the heads. Both heads cried out in pain, proving to Solomon that despite their dual nature, they were indeed a single entity, and therefore entitled to only one share.

This story, as recounted in Seder Rabhah Bereshit, highlights a fascinating concept. Just as there are seven heavens, there are also, according to tradition, seven earths. Our familiar world is just the topmost layer. Beneath us lie these other worlds, each a distinct realm with its own unique characteristics and inhabitants, like the bickering two-headed creatures of Tevel.

What does it all mean? Perhaps these stories of Tevel and its strange inhabitants are simply fantastical tales meant to entertain. Or maybe, they’re a reminder that the world is far more complex and mysterious than we can ever fully comprehend. Maybe they are metaphors for the internal battles we all face, the conflicting desires and impulses that pull us in different directions. Or perhaps, just perhaps, they are glimpses into a reality that exists just beyond our perception, waiting to be discovered. What do you think?