Sefer HaZichronot Reader

Sefer HaZichronot turns to The Darkness That Existed Before Creation.

So, what do we make of that?

Is it simply an absence of light, like the "unformed and void" suggests an absence of form? Or is darkness something more... substantial? Something that pre-existed creation itself?

Isaiah offers a fascinating clue. God proclaims, "I form light and create darkness" (Isa. 45:7). Notice the difference in verbs: yotzer, "forming," and borei, "creating." The key, according to some interpretations, is that whatever God only forms – rather than creates – must have already been in existence. So, if God "forms" light, but "creates" darkness, does that imply darkness had a head start?

That's where the idea of a pre-existing darkness, lying on the face of the deep, gets really interesting. It hints that darkness isn’t just nothingness. It suggests it's a primordial element, as foundational as light itself.

Where did it go? Some rabbinic traditions have an answer. Sefer ha-Zikhronot (11:11) suggests that this original darkness is now hidden away in the seventh compartment of Gehenna – often translated as Hell. And get this: in that compartment reside six nations who can’t even see each other because the darkness is so complete. It's also said that the heretic Elisha ben Abuyah, a figure who famously strayed from orthodox belief, makes his home there.

The implication is chilling. This isn't just about a lack of illumination. It's about a fundamental separation, an inability to connect. The darkness becomes a symbol of spiritual isolation, a consequence of rejecting the divine light.

This idea of a pre-existing darkness also raises profound theological questions. If the Torah seems to imply that something (darkness) pre-existed creation, it challenges the notion of creation ex nihilo and suggests a more complex picture of how the world came into being.

So, what does it all mean? Perhaps it’s a reminder that even within the most brilliant creation, shadows linger. That even as we strive for light and understanding, there's always a corner, a hidden compartment, where the ancient darkness still holds sway.

Perhaps it is our responsibility to seek out and illuminate these spaces, both within ourselves and in the world around us.

Mashiach – the Messiah – is often remembered as a future figure, the one who will usher in an era of peace and redemption. But what about now? Where is he? What’s he doing?

The tale begins with Rabbi Joshua ben Levi, a figure already known for his… let’s call it "spirited" encounters. As we discussed in the story of his meeting with the Angel of Death, he's not easily intimidated. (See "Rabbi Joshua ben Levi and the Angel of Death," p. 206.) This time, Rabbi Joshua finds himself in Gan Eden, the Garden of Eden. Not content to just relax and enjoy the scenery, he decides to do some exploring. He makes his way through the nine palaces of paradise, each more wondrous than the last, until he arrives at a very special place: the palace of the Messiah.

In Sefer ha-Zikhronot, and Orhot Hayim, Rabbi Joshua recognizes the Messiah immediately by the sheer splendor of his aura. What does he find there? He sees the patriarchs and kings of old, visiting the Messiah every Sabbath and holy day, weeping because the time for his arrival has not yet come.

The scene: These great figures of our history, filled with yearning for a future they can only glimpse. Rabbi Joshua approaches the Messiah, who asks, "How are my children faring?" Rabbi Joshua responds, "Every day they await you." The Messiah, burdened by the suffering of his people, sighs deeply and weeps.

The Messiah then shows Rabbi Joshua all of Gan Eden, both the earthly and the heavenly parts, revealing profound mysteries. But Rabbi Joshua, ever the inquisitive one, has another request: He wants to see Gehenna – hell.

Now, this is where things get interesting. At first, the Messiah refuses. The righteous, after all, aren't meant to behold such a place. But Rabbi Joshua persists. He explains, as we learn in Aggadat Bereshit, that he wants to measure hell, to understand its dimensions. Perhaps he felt that if he could understand the place of punishment, he could better understand the path to redemption?

Intrigued, the Messiah finally agrees. Together, they journey to the fiery gates of Gehenna. The angels guarding the gates, recognizing the Messiah, immediately grant them entry. As they venture deeper, Rabbi Joshua witnesses the horrifying punishments inflicted upon the wicked. He sees avenging angels striking them with flaming rods, throwing them into fiery pits, hanging them by their tongues (presumably for speaking falsehoods) or by the very organs with which they committed adultery. It's a gruesome, vivid picture.

Rabbi Joshua attempts to measure the compartments of Gehenna, but discovers something profound: they are boundless. As Schwartz notes in Tree of Souls, Gehenna can contain any number of sinners. The suffering seems infinite.

But here’s the truly remarkable part, the glimmer of hope in this otherwise bleak landscape. Whenever the wicked in Gehenna see the light of the Messiah, they rejoice. They cry out, "There is the one who will bring us out of here!" Even in the depths of hell, the presence of the Messiah offers hope. This speaks to a powerful tradition: that one of the Messiah's roles, as we find in Ginzberg's Legends of the Jews, is to redeem those suffering in Gehenna, raising them to paradise. The Messiah described here is the celestial Messiah ben David, residing in his heavenly palace, awaiting the right moment to descend and usher in the Messianic Age.

What does this story tell us? It's not just a vivid description of heaven and hell. It's a reminder that even in the darkest corners, even in the places of greatest suffering, the hope for redemption remains. The Messiah, even before his arrival, is a source of light and comfort. And maybe, just maybe, our own anticipation and longing for a better world can help bring that day a little bit closer.