Zohar Reader

The Torah tells us that Abraham did. But the story, like so many in our tradition, is layered with meaning, prompting centuries of interpretation and debate.

The scene is set in Genesis, chapter 18. Abraham is recovering, somewhat painfully, three days after circumcising himself at the ripe old age of 99. It's the hottest part of the day. And then, Adonai, the Lord, appears to him. (Gen. 18:1)

What does that mean, "appears"?

The commentators have wrestled with this for ages. Rashi, for example, suggests that God was simply paying a sick visit, checking in on Abraham after his procedure. A divine bedside manner, if you will.

But the Zohar, that foundational text of Jewish mysticism, sees something far more profound. It describes this appearance as a mystical experience that utterly transforms Abraham, elevating him to the status of a full-fledged prophet. After this encounter, the Shekhinah – the Divine Presence – actually spoke from Abraham’s throat! God's presence, the Zohar tells us, remained with him. (Zohar l:97b-98a)

Before his circumcision, Abraham’s prophetic experiences were primarily visionary. But afterwards, the voice of prophecy issued directly from his lips. He enjoyed, in a sense, a greater measure of Ruach (spirit) ha-Kodesh, the Holy Spirit. According to Tree of Souls (Schwartz), the Voice of God was revealed in his speech.

It wasn't just a one-way street, either. After this, Abraham could not only receive messages from God, but he could also initiate communication with God. He had become holier, capable of receiving a divine visit while fully awake, even in the heat of the day. He was able to absorb a vision of God in His superior light.

The text emphasizes that this vision was different, of a "superior nature" compared to previous ones. After the circumcision, Abraham attained the fullest possible prophetic vision. Just as God had shown Adam each generation and its leaders, God now showed them to Abraham, along with each generation’s sages.

And here's where it gets even more intriguing. Some traditions suggest that God manifested Himself to Abraham by means of a tree, since the vision took place at the terebinths of Mamre. Why a tree? Midrash (rabbinic interpretive commentary) Rabbenu Bahya on (Genesis 18:1) suggests it was to show Abraham that, like an old tree, he could still bear fruit, even in his old age.

The symbolism of the tree runs deep. As Proverbs (3:18) tells us, the Torah is a "tree of life to those who grasp her." And since God is so closely linked to the Torah, some interpretations suggest that any identification of the Torah with a tree might, at the same time, apply to God. It also might be important to recall that the Canaanite goddess Asherah was linked to sacred groves, and therefore identified with a tree.

There’s even a fascinating debate about who actually performed the circumcision. (Genesis 17:24) seems clear: Abraham did it himself. But Rabbi Levi, in Genesis Rabbah 47:9, asserts, "It is not written here that Abraham circumcised himself, but rather that he was circumcised by God." And Zohar 1:96b describes Abraham throwing himself on his face, God speaking to him, and when Abraham arose, he found himself already circumcised! A miraculous act.

What are we to make of all this? Perhaps the key takeaway is the transformative power of covenant. Abraham's act of commitment, his willingness to embrace the physical mark of his relationship with God, opened him up to a deeper, more profound connection with the Divine. It allowed him to not only hear God's voice, but to speak back. To become a true partner in the ongoing story of creation.

And maybe, just maybe, it reminds us that even in the hottest, most uncomfortable moments of our lives, we too can open ourselves to the possibility of encountering the Divine.

The familiar story is this: he led the Israelites out of Egypt, received the Torah on Mount Sinai, and brought his people to the edge of the Promised Land. But then… he just disappears from the narrative. (Deuteronomy 34:6) tells us that "No one knows his burial place to this day.” Spooky. So, what happened? Did he just… vanish?

Well, Jewish tradition offers a pretty alternative.

Forget death! Some believe Moses never actually died. Instead, he’s in a kind of… suspended animation, waiting for his next big mission. According to this idea, he’s in exile with the Shekhinah (שְׁכִינָה), the divine presence of God. And God, in this scenario, has given Moses a crucial task: to lead the people of Israel, and the Shekhinah itself, out of exile. Just as he once led them out of slavery in Egypt, he will one day lead them to redemption. Moses was the liberator. Who better to bring about the final redemption?

If he’s not dead, what’s he doing? The story goes that God has cast a deep sleep upon him. He slumbers, dreaming, until the moment arrives for the exile of the Jewish people to end.

Where does this idea come from? Well, it’s rooted in those ambiguous verses we find in the Torah.

The Sifre on Deuteronomy, for example, offers a fascinating reinterpretation of (Deuteronomy 34:7): “Moses was one hundred and twenty years old when he died, his eyes were undimmed and his vigor unabated.” The Sifre takes a closer look at that last phrase, which can be literally translated as "his moisture had not dried up." Now, that might sound a little strange, but Rabbi Eliezer ben Ya'akov in the Sifre goes even further. He suggests we shouldn't read it as "had not dried up," but as "is not dried up!" Even now, he says, anyone who touches the flesh of Moses would find "moisture ascends here and there." And it gets even wilder. The Talmud, in B. Sota 13b, uses (Exodus 34:28) – "And he was there with Yahweh" – as evidence that Moses isn't dead at all. He's still "standing," still alive, ministering to God.

The Zohar, that foundational text of Jewish mysticism, offers yet another reason why Moses might have avoided death. Zohar 1:28a suggests that Moses, through his perfection during his lifetime, actually rectified the sin of Adam – the sin that brought death into the world. Because he repaired that cosmic flaw, death simply couldn't touch him.

So, what do we make of all this? It's certainly not the mainstream understanding of Moses' fate. But these midrashic (rabbinic interpretive commentary) and mystical interpretations offer a powerful message of hope. They suggest that even in the darkest times, our greatest leaders are still with us, working behind the scenes, waiting for the moment they can lead us to a brighter future. They challenge us to consider that maybe, just maybe, death isn't always the end. Maybe some souls are too important, too connected to the divine, to simply disappear. Maybe Moses is still out there, sleeping, waiting, and dreaming of redemption.

It's not alone, of course. Nearby, almost like a tempting whisper, is the Etz haDa'at (Knowledge) Tov v'Ra, the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil.

God Himself walks in the garden, joined by the righteous. As (Genesis 3:8) puts it, "They heard the sound of the Lord God moving about in the garden at the breezy time of day." Can you feel the cool breeze?

Then… the fragrance.

The Zohar, that foundational text of Jewish mysticism, hints at the Tree of Life's incredible power. This isn't just any tree. It exudes a fragrance so potent, so pure, that it fills the entire Garden. It's more than just a pleasant smell; it sustains the righteous souls who dwell there. It's their very nourishment. A fragrance that nourishes. It's a beautiful, almost unbelievable image.

As this life-giving scent spreads, something amazing happens: the leaves of the Tree of Life "shout for joy." According to Elliot Ginsburg's Legends of the Jews, the entire garden rejoices in God's presence.

It's a scene of pure harmony and delight. A place where the divine presence is palpable, where even the leaves participate in the eternal song of praise.

What does this tell us? Perhaps it's a reminder that life, in its purest form, is meant to be fragrant, joyful, and sustaining. That even in the face of temptation, represented by the Tree of Knowledge, the true path lies in seeking the nourishment of the Tree of Life. And maybe, just maybe, a little bit of that fragrance can be found even here, in our own world, if we know where to look.

Jewish tradition often speaks of a profound connection between the heavens and the earth – “as above, so below,” as the Kabbalists say. But what happens when tragedy strikes here? Does it resonate in the celestial realms?

There's a powerful story about the destruction of the Temple in Jerusalem that suggests it absolutely does. But it's not just about the earthly Temple. The tale, as told in the Zohar, explores what happened in the heavens when God made that fateful decision.

In this tradition, when God decided to destroy the Temple, He didn't just target the physical structure. He first "put aside the Holy Land above," the supernal Jerusalem. And, crucially, He cut it off from the sacred heavens that nourished it.

What was the impact? The angels, witnessing this severing, wept bitterly. Why? Because it signified the exile of the Shekhinah (the Divine Presence). The Shekhinah (שְׁכִינָה) – the divine feminine presence, the immanent glory of God – was being sent away.

This is where it gets really interesting. The story suggests that God's judgment works from the top down. As we find in the tradition, "When He wishes to judge the world, He first passes judgment on the world above, and only then does He pass judgment on the world below." It’s a chilling thought, isn’t it? That our earthly trials might be reflections of a divine process already underway.

And it wasn't just the Shekhinah who suffered. According to the Zohar (2:175a), even God Himself was changed. His light, it says, no longer shone as brightly. Why? Because blessings, that divine flow, exist only where male and female are together. The Zohar (1:182a) even provides a prooftext from Genesis (5:2): "Male and female He created them and blessed them." This reinforces the Kabbalistic idea of the union of the divine masculine and feminine principles as essential for divine blessing. The destruction of the Temple, the exile of the Shekhinah, the severing of the celestial Jerusalem – all of this impacted the very light of God. As a result, from that day forward, the heavens did not shine with their usual brilliance.

The story concludes with a glimmer of hope. The light of the heavens, we're told, will not be restored until the End of Days. When? When the Bride and Groom – representing, perhaps, the reunited divine masculine and feminine or God and Shekhinah – dwell together again as one.

Many myths surrounding the heavenly Temple emphasize its eternal nature, a stark contrast to our earthly Temple's destruction. But this story, as Isaiah Tishby points out, is different. It claims God actively cut off the heavenly Temple's nourishment. Tishby suggests this myth from the Zohar is actually more about the exile of the Shekhinah than the heavenly Jerusalem itself. It emphasizes the heavenly parallels to the human condition, underscoring that central Kabbalistic tenet, "as above, so below.”

What does this all mean? Perhaps it's a reminder that our actions, our tragedies, and our triumphs resonate far beyond our earthly realm. That the divine, too, is affected by our world. And that ultimately, healing and restoration, both here and in the heavens, depend on unity, on the coming together of seemingly disparate forces. It's a profound and beautiful thought, isn’t it?

It wasn't just a simple "pack your bags and leave," it was a journey into something far more profound.

In some fascinating strands of Jewish tradition, Adam’s exile didn't end with a new address. He first found himself in a place called Eretz. Eretz, meaning "land" in Hebrew, wasn't exactly a paradise. In fact, it was the opposite: a desolate, dark realm, perpetually devoid of sunlight. Imagine the crushing fear that must have gripped him. No matter which way he turned, he was confronted by the blazing, ever-turning sword, a direct echo of (Genesis 3:24), guarding the path back to Eden and, more importantly, trapping him in his despair. It was a land of consequence, the embodiment of grief itself.

You might notice that Eve isn’t mentioned in this part of the story. The Genesis narrative tells us they were together, so why the omission? This absence strongly hints that Eretz isn’t a literal place, but an allegorical one, a representation of the intense sorrow and regret that paves the way for teshuvah (repentance), repentance.

The myth paints a picture of Adam overwhelmed by panic and fright. The familiar, peaceful boundaries of his existence had vanished, replaced by terrifying unknowns. Melancholy and fear became his constant companions, symptoms of his fallen state. He bitterly regretted his sin, his expulsion, and especially the introduction of death into the world, condemning himself and all his descendants to mortality.

But here's where the story takes a turn. It wasn't permanent. Relief came when Adam finally turned his thoughts toward repentance. As we learn in the Zohar Hadash, one version says he stood in the river Gihon, neck-deep in the water, as a sign of his remorse. And then, God brought him out of Eretz.

He was led to another place, another “land”, this one called Adamah. Now, Adamah means “ground” or “soil.” And there, at last, he found peace.

Why these two specific "lands"? Why Eretz as a place of suffering, and Adamah as a place of peace? Well, the Torah gives us a clue. Remember in (Genesis 3:23), after the expulsion, God banished Adam "to till the soil (adamah) from which he was taken"? There's a deep connection between Adam and Adamah; he was formed from the dust of the earth, after all, a link underscored by their similar names.

Eretz, on the other hand, appears in a very different context. In (Genesis 4:12), it’s the place where Cain is condemned to wander, a land of restless exile.

The ever-turning fiery sword, that recurring image from Genesis, is key here. It’s not just barring Adam from Eden, it's trapping him in Eretz, in his own bitter remorse. It represents all the limitations that now defined his existence, a prison built of regret. The Zohar (1:253b) and Midrash Rabbah elaborate on these themes, painting a vivid picture of Adam's internal struggle. Ginzberg, in his Legends of the Jews, masterfully weaves these threads together, creating a compelling narrative of post-Edenic sorrow and eventual redemption.

So, what does this story tell us? Perhaps it's a reminder that even after mistakes, even after experiencing the darkest "lands" of our own making, repentance and a return to our roots, to the Adamah from which we came, can lead us back to peace. It's a powerful message of hope, whispered through the ages, reminding us that even in exile, redemption is always possible.

Some mystical teachings say the soul of the Messiah dwells in a celestial palace, waiting. It’s a powerful image, isn't it? A soul, shimmering with potential, poised to descend and transform the world.

The idea isn't that only one Messiah-candidate exists throughout history. Instead, the tradition suggests that in every generation, there is a potential Messiah born on Earth. This individual is known as the Tzaddik (a righteous person) ha-Dor, the most righteous person of their generation. Think of them as a beacon of light, a person embodying the highest ideals of justice, compassion, and wisdom.

This Tzaddik ha-Dor possesses both an earthly soul and a heavenly soul. It’s like having two aspects to their being, one deeply rooted in the here and now, the other connected to something far greater. And if the time is ripe, if the world is ready, then the heavenly soul will descend and unite with the earthly soul. This fusion, this divine spark igniting within a human being, signals the arrival of the Messianic era.

In recent history, this concept took on a particularly fervent expression within the Lubavitch Hasidic community. Many believed that their Rebbe, Rabbi Menachem Mendel Schneersohn, was the Messiah. They even launched a public campaign advocating for "Messiah Now," a evidence of their deep longing for redemption. Lubavitch theologians delved into messianic traditions, seeking confirmation that the Rebbe, as he was affectionately known, fulfilled the criteria.

But in their search, they encountered what appeared to be conflicting traditions. One tradition painted the Messiah as a divine figure, residing in a heavenly palace, practically a god. The other portrayed the Messiah as the Tzaddik ha-Dor, a human being, albeit the wisest and most righteous of their time. How could these two seemingly disparate ideas coexist?

The answer lies in understanding that these were originally two separate messianic traditions within Judaism. Over time, they became intertwined. The Messiah wasn't either divine or human, but rather a synthesis of both. The earthly, human Messiah was. what, exactly?

Perhaps it's this tension between the divine and the human that makes the Messianic idea so compelling. It reminds us that even in our ordinary lives, we have the potential to embody extraordinary qualities, to become vessels for something greater than ourselves. And that, perhaps, is a message worth pondering, regardless of your beliefs.

This isn't just any palace; it's a secret place, holding within it a thousand halls of yearning. Imagine the sheer depth of longing contained within those halls! And according to tradition, no one can enter this place, except for the Messiah himself. It’s a sanctuary, a waiting room of sorts, where he patiently awaits the divine signal that his time, at long last, has come.

Why is it called the Bird's Nest? Because near this palace dwells a wondrous bird, the Messiah’s own bird, whose nest is nestled in a nearby tree. It's a vivid image, isn't it? A palace of yearning, a waiting Messiah, and a bird of unparalleled beauty.

On Rosh Chodesh (New Moons), on holy days, and every Shabbat (Sabbath), the Messiah enters these halls of longing. He lifts his voice and weeps. Can you feel the weight of that sorrow? The pain of waiting, the yearning for redemption?

The Zohar, that foundational text of Jewish mysticism, hints at the immense power of this moment. The Garden of Eden itself trembles, and the very rakia (firmament) shakes as the Messiah's voice ascends, reaching all the way to God's throne.

And what happens when God hears this heart-wrenching cry? God beckons the enchanted bird. This bird, residing in the Garden of Eden, flies from its paradise and enters its nest near the Messiah's palace. And then… it sings.

Oh, the song of this bird! It’s said to be indescribably beautiful, a melody unlike any other ever heard. According to the lore, no earthly music can compare. Three times the bird repeats its song, a celestial aria of hope and redemption.

And then, the climax: the bird and the Messiah ascend together, rising on high to the very Throne of Glory. It's there, in the divine presence, that God swears an oath. God promises to destroy the wicked kingdom of Rome – a symbol of oppression and evil throughout much of Jewish history – and to bestow upon His children all the blessings destined for them.

After this sacred oath, the bird returns to its nest, and the Messiah returns to his palace. And there, once again, he remains hidden, waiting.

It's a powerful image, isn't it? This hidden palace, this waiting Messiah, this celestial bird. This story, drawn from the tradition of Jewish tradition, reminds us that even in the darkest of times, hope remains. It reminds us that the yearning for a better world, for redemption and peace, resonates not only within our hearts, but also in the very fabric of the cosmos.

What does this image evoke in you? Does it offer comfort? Does it inspire hope? Perhaps, like the Messiah in his palace, we too are called to cultivate a space of yearning within ourselves, a space where we can connect with the divine promise of a brighter future.

Maybe that’s because the rainbow we see today isn’t the rainbow of the Messiah. Not yet, anyway. the rainbow we know is a promise, a beautiful one, certainly. It's a reminder of God's covenant with Noah, a pledge that He will never again unleash a flood to destroy the earth. As it says in (Genesis 9:12-13), God set His bow in the clouds as a sign of the covenant between Himself and all living creatures. It’s a comforting thought, isn’t it?

What if the rainbow could be more? What if it could signify not just the prevention of destruction, but the promise of redemption?

Jewish tradition tells us that the rainbow holds a deeper, messianic significance. The Zohar, that foundational text of Jewish mysticism, hints at this. It suggests that the rainbow we see now, with its muted colors, is just a shadow of what it will become.

A rainbow so vibrant, so dazzling, that it radiates its splendor throughout the entire world. A rainbow adorned like a bride for her bridegroom. That, my friends, is the rainbow of the Messiah.

When that rainbow appears, it will be a sign that God has remembered His covenant with Israel, a signal that the footsteps of the Messiah are drawing near. It signifies a new covenant, a promise of the Ingathering of the Exiles – one of the key prerequisites for the messianic age. This kibbutz galuyot, the return of the Jewish people to their ancestral homeland, is not just a political or geographical event. It's a spiritual homecoming, a cosmic shift.

The current rainbow, in a way, is a reminder of what’s not here. It’s a promise of no more destruction, but the messianic rainbow is a promise of something more – a world restored, perfected, and filled with light.

So, the next time you see a rainbow, take a moment. Admire its beauty, yes, but also remember the promise it holds. Remember that one day, we might just witness a rainbow so magnificent, so transformative, that it will herald the dawn of a new era. A rainbow that proclaims the coming of the Messiah.

Zohar turns to The Chains Of The Messiah.

Hebron, long ago. A city steeped in history, in faith, in the whispers of ancestors. And in this city lived Joseph, a man obsessed – in the best possible way – with the coming of the Messiah. He wasn’t just idly wishing; he was living it. He devoted his life to mystical study, pouring over ancient texts and offering fervent prayers, all in a desperate attempt to understand how he could speed up the arrival of redemption.

Then, something extraordinary happened.

It was during Joseph’s lifetime that the Zohar – the central text of Kabbalah, Jewish mysticism – was rediscovered. moment! This ancient, profound book, filled with secrets and insights into the nature of God and the universe, suddenly reappears. For Joseph della Reina, this wasn't just a coincidence. It was a sign.