Parshat Tazria5 min read

Before Creation God Poured Light Into Vessels That Shattered

Before the world existed, God poured divine light into ten vessels. Seven shattered. The sparks are scattered through creation, and every good act gathers one.

Curated by Arthur · Told by Maggid ·
Table of Contents
  1. The Space That Did Not Exist
  2. The Vessels That Could Not Hold the Light
  3. The Earlier Worlds That Were Destroyed
  4. What Gathering the Sparks Means

The Space That Did Not Exist

Before creation, the infinite light of God filled everything. There was no space that was not God. No void, no gap, no location that was not saturated with divine presence. The Hebrew term for what God is without limit is Ein Sof, the Endless, and before creation the Endless was the only reality. There was nowhere for anything else to be.

Creation required a space in which to exist. To make that space, God contracted. This is the act the Kabbalists call tzimtzum. The Endless drew its light inward, pulling it back from a particular region, creating for the first time a place that was not God, a vacated zone into which a world could be made. Into that vacated zone God extended a single ray of the original light, and with that ray the process of creation began.

The Vessels That Could Not Hold the Light

The light moved through ten channels, ten vessels called sefirot, each one a dimension of divine quality: crown, wisdom, understanding, lovingkindness, strength, beauty, victory, splendor, foundation, kingdom. The first three vessels were large enough to handle what poured into them. They received the light and held. The remaining seven were not. One by one they shattered under the force of what they were asked to contain. The light scattered. The shards of the broken vessels fell toward lower regions of creation, carrying with them sparks of the original light, fragments of divine quality embedded in physical matter and the conditions of ordinary existence.

The world we inhabit is the aftermath of this catastrophe. The structures that organize human experience, the pleasures and pains and moral complexities and relationships and objects of the material world, all contain these sparks, divine fragments embedded in the brokenness. Some of the light fell so far that it became available to forces that use it for harm. Some fell into forms that can be liberated. The work of human life in this framework is the work of gathering the sparks back, of recognizing the divine fragment in its physical housing and releasing it upward through the act of doing what is good and right and holy.

The Earlier Worlds That Were Destroyed

Before the world we know, there were other worlds. God made them and found them insufficient. Genesis Rabbah preserves the tradition: God created worlds and destroyed them until this one emerged and He said this one pleases me, the others did not. The sparks from the shattering of the vessels in the Lurianic account are connected in some interpretations to the debris of these earlier destroyed worlds, as though the shards of failed creation were incorporated into the foundation of the creation that survived.

The image is of God as a craftsman who works through failure. The first attempts are broken and set aside and the materials are used again in the next attempt. What looks like destruction from the inside of the broken vessel is, from a longer view, preparation for what comes next. The world we live in is built partly from the wreckage of what did not work, and what did not work is now present in the grain of every material thing as a possibility waiting for the right act to release it.

What Gathering the Sparks Means

Rabbi Kalonymus Kalman Shapira, who ran a Hasidic court in Warsaw and died in the Holocaust, taught this idea to his students under conditions that made the concept immediate rather than abstract. He described tzimtzum not as God contracting Himself but as God contracting His light, pulling back not His essence but the intensity of His presence so that human beings could exist as genuine agents rather than be consumed by the proximity of the infinite. The contraction was an act of generosity, not withdrawal.

The sparks that human beings gather are gathered through the performance of the commandments, through acts of justice and kindness, through prayer, through the sanctification of eating and working and resting, through every deliberate act that orients the ordinary toward the holy. Each such act, in the Lurianic account, releases a spark from its material housing and returns it to its source. The project of tikkun, of repair, is the aggregate project of all the sparks being gathered back across the full duration of human history. When the last spark is gathered, creation will have been restored to what it was before the vessels shattered, and the work of this world will be complete.


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The texts this telling draws on, in full. Open a card to read inline, or expand it for a wider, quieter read.

Etz Hayim 1:1Etz Hayim

Tzimtzum, a Hebrew word that means "contraction" or "self-limitation," is a profound idea in Jewish mysticism, particularly within the Kabbalistic tradition. It suggests that, before creating the universe, God, the Ein Sof (אין סוף) or "Infinite," contracted Himself.

It: Before creation, God's light, an infinite light, filled all of existence. There was no empty space, no void. Everything was saturated with the divine presence. This light had no beginning and no end. But then, God decided to create worlds. And to do that, according to this powerful myth, He contracted Himself.

The primary source for this idea comes from Rabbi Hayim Vital (1542-1640) in his Etz Hayim (עץ חיים), "The Tree of Life." Vital was the chief disciple of Rabbi Isaac Luria, known as the Ari (1534-1572), a towering figure in Kabbalah. Vital explains that God contracted His essence into what's described as no more than a handbreadth. At that instant, darkness spread everywhere, because God's infinite light had been withdrawn. like this: "Like a person who draws in his breath," Vital writes, "so that the smaller might contain the larger, so did God contract His light into a handsbreadth, and the world was left in darkness." And in that darkness, God carved large boulders and hewed rocks to clear wondrous paths of wisdom.

Vital elaborates that the light, which formed a circle, contracted itself at its midpoint, withdrawing to the circumference and leaving an empty space in between. This is where the World of Emanation, and all other worlds, exist, with the light of the Infinite surrounding it.

Why this elaborate act of contraction? Because, as Vital explains, before the emanations were manifested and the creatures were formed, there was only a simple, ethereal light filling all of existence. There was no empty space, no vacuum, for everything was filled with that infinite light. When God desired to create the worlds and manifest the emanations, He contracted Himself in the very center of His light, creating an empty space. This tzimtzum was equally distributed around that empty middle point, forming a circular vacuum.

Now, the idea that God's presence fills the world isn't new. We see it in the biblical account of the Tent of Meeting. Remember when Moses couldn't enter because God's presence filled it entirely (Exodus 40:34-35)? Or the verse in Jeremiah (23:24) where God declares, "For I fill both heaven and earth"? Midrash Rabbah (Lev. Rab. 4:8) even quotes King David saying, "Just as the soul fills the body, so God fills the whole world."

But the idea that God can also contract His presence is also rooted in tradition. Think about God speaking to Moses from between the two staves of the Ark of the Tabernacle (Genesis Rabbah 4:4). Exodus Rabbah (34:1) is even more explicit, with God saying, "I will descend and concentrate My presence within one square cubit of the Ark." So, God can fill heaven and earth when He wishes, but He can also focus His presence as needed.

Dov Ber, the Maggid of Mezritch, had a slightly different take. He believed that tzimtzum took place in this world, where God contracted His infinite light, but that in the higher worlds, God's light remains unrestricted. He even found support for this in (Isaiah 60:19): "No longer shall you need the sun for light by day… For the Lord shall be your light everlasting, your God shall be your glory." (Maggid Devarav le-Ya'akov 184).

So, what does it all mean? The concept of tzimtzum offers a powerful way to understand the paradox of creation. It suggests that God, in His infinite generosity and love, made space for us – literally. He limited Himself to allow for our existence, our freedom, and our ability to create and shape the world alongside Him. It's a humbling and awe-inspiring thought, isn't it?

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Sefer Yetzirah 1:4-6Sefer Yetzirah

Ten Sefirot of nothingness: ten and not nine, ten and not eleven. Understand with wisdom, and be wise with understanding. Examine with them and probe from them, and set the matter in its clarity, and restore the Former to His place.

Ten Sefirot of nothingness: their measure is ten, for they have no end. A depth of beginning and a depth of end; a depth of good and a depth of evil; a depth of height and a depth of below; a depth of east and a depth of west; a depth of north and a depth of south. The one Lord, God the faithful King, rules over them all from His holy dwelling place and unto everlasting eternity.

Ten Sefirot of nothingness: their appearance is like the sight of lightning, and their goal has no limit. His word is in them as they run forth and return, and at His command they pursue like a whirlwind, and before His throne they bow down.

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Esh Kadosh 122-124Esh Kodesh (Rabbi Kalonymus)

Jewish mystical tradition grapples with this very question, offering a powerful, and somewhat unsettling, origin story. It's a story of creation through destruction, a cosmic recycling program, if you will.

The idea is this: at the very beginning, God created worlds, plural. But, according to some accounts, these weren't quite right. They didn't please Him. They were…imperfect. As we find in Genesis Rabbah 3:7 and elsewhere, God destroyed these worlds. Imagine the scale of that!

What happened to them? Were they simply erased?

That's where the really fascinating twist comes in. Rabbi Kalonymus Kalman Shapira, in his book Esh Kadosh, offers a powerful reinterpretation, linking the idea of destroyed worlds with the teachings of Rabbi Isaac Luria (the Ari) and his myth of Shvirat HaKelim, the Shattering of the Vessels, and Kibbutz HaNitzotzot, the Gathering of the Sparks.

The Ari taught that God's light was originally contained in vessels, but these vessels couldn't hold the immense power, and they shattered, scattering sparks of divine light everywhere. This shattering, this cosmic catastrophe, was actually the prelude to tikkun (spiritual repair) olam, the repair of the world.

Rabbi Shapira takes this a step further. He suggests that those shattered vessels, those destroyed worlds, weren’t just discarded. Instead, they became the very foundation for our present universe, the olam ha-tikkun, the world of repair. He transforms a myth of destruction into a myth of creation. The imperfections, the failures of previous attempts, are built into the very fabric of our reality. It's a profound idea, isn't it?

Essentially, as described in Tree of Souls (Schwartz), Rabbi Shapira created a new myth that doesn’t contradict the Ari’s. The end result of the two versions is the same, even if the path they take to get there is slightly different.

Rabbi Shapira also believed this cosmic shattering could happen again. He even saw the Holocaust, which he experienced firsthand in the Warsaw Ghetto, as a time of the Breaking of the Vessels (Esh Kadosh 122-124). But even in the face of such unimaginable horror, he held onto his belief in renewal and new creation. For him, the primary task was repentance. Only in this way, he argued, could all the worlds be mended.

It's a challenging and ultimately hopeful message. It suggests that even in the darkest of times, even when it feels like everything is falling apart, there is the potential for rebuilding, for repair, for a new beginning.

So, the next time you look around at this world, remember the broken vessels. Remember that even our imperfections, our struggles, and our failures can be the seeds of something new and beautiful. Maybe, just maybe, that's the point.

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Hovat ha-TalmidimChassidic Literature

The answer, as they see it, lies in light.

Not just any light,. But how does that translate into… us?

Rabbi Kalonymus Kalman Shapira, a remarkable scholar who lived in Warsaw and tragically perished in the Holocaust, offered a powerful image in his work, Hovat ha-Talmidim (a student) (students). He reinterprets the Kabbalistic idea of tzimtzum (צמצום), a concept central to understanding creation. Tzimtzum literally means "contraction" or "self-limitation."

Traditionally, tzimtzum refers to God contracting himself, creating a "space" for the world to exist. Rabbi Shapira takes a different angle. He suggests that it wasn’t God contracting Himself, but rather God contracting His light.

Think of it like this: imagine an infinitely bright light. To create a shadow, you don't diminish the source, but you block parts of the light, creating areas of less intensity. Through repeated "contractions" of this divine light, the physical world, with all its limitations and boundaries, becomes manifest.

Beautiful, isn't it?

This idea also connects to the sefirot (סְפִירוֹת), the ten emanations or attributes through which God reveals Himself and continuously creates the world. According to Rabbi Shapira's myth, each subsequent contraction of God's light leads to the unfolding of the next sefirah (a divine emanation). It’s a layered process, each step bringing the divine closer to our tangible reality.

So, according to this perspective, everything around us – from the smallest grain of sand to the most distant star – is ultimately an emanation of that divine light. God's kingdom truly has dominion over all, because all of creation is a reflection of His essence.

What I find so compelling is that this myth, created in the 20th century amidst unimaginable horror, demonstrates the enduring power of Jewish myth-making. Even in the darkest times, the human spirit seeks to understand its place in the cosmos, and finds new ways to express the relationship between the divine and the mundane.

It reminds us that the story of creation isn't a closed book. It's a living, breathing narrative that continues to unfold with each generation. And perhaps, by contemplating the contractions of light, we can better understand the boundless nature of the source from which it all began.

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