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The Messiah Who Waits in Fire and Prison

Rabbi Joshua ben Levi found the Messiah among the afflicted, changing bandages one at a time, ready to move the moment the appointed hour arrives.

Curated by Arthur · Told by Maggid ·
Table of Contents
  1. Where Rabbi Joshua Found Him
  2. Out of Prison With Nothing
  3. The Figure from the Heart of the Sea
  4. The Dew That Wakes the Dead

Where Rabbi Joshua Found Him

Rabbi Joshua ben Levi had already survived things that should have killed him. He had talked his way past the Angel of Death. He had walked into Gan Eden while still alive. Now he kept walking until he reached the palace of the Messiah.

In the medieval Sefer ha-Zikhronot, the Messiah is in Gan Eden among the patriarchs and the ancient righteous. On Sabbaths and festivals, the great figures of history come to the Messiah and weep because the appointed time has not yet arrived. The Messiah asks Rabbi Joshua about his children, meaning Israel still in exile below. Rabbi Joshua answers: they suffer. The exchange between the Messiah and the visitor from the world of the living is not triumphant. It is a conversation between two people waiting in different kinds of patience.

But the other tradition, in the Babylonian Talmud's Tractate Sanhedrin 98a, sends Rabbi Joshua to the gates of Rome rather than to Gan Eden. There, among the sick and wounded who sit at the city's entrance changing their bandages, the Messiah is also sitting, also changing bandages. The difference between the Messiah and the other wounded is one detail: they unwrap all their bandages at once, treat all their wounds, and rewrap everything together. The Messiah unwraps one bandage, treats one wound, rewraps it before moving to the next. He keeps himself ready to leave the moment the call comes. If he were treating all his wounds at once when the summons arrived, there would be a delay. He does not permit delays.

Out of Prison With Nothing

Heikhalot Rabbati, the palace mysticism text from late antiquity, places the Messiah's emergence in a specific historical moment: after the apocalyptic wars of Gog and Magog have ravaged the earth. He does not arrive in power. He comes forth from prison carrying only his staff and his sack. No army. No treasury. No visible sign of authority. The catastrophe has passed and the figure who steps forward to begin the repair looks like someone who has been imprisoned through all of it.

This is not a failure of the tradition's imagination. It is a deliberate contrast with every other kind of arrival. The king arrives with a retinue. The conqueror arrives with the spoils of victory. The Messiah arrives from a cell, stripped of everything except the tools a traveler carries to stay alive on the road.

The Figure from the Heart of the Sea

Seven days of fasting. Then Ezra dreamed. A wind churned the sea and from the sea's very heart, not its surface, not its shallows, something emerged like a human figure. He flew with clouds. Everything under his gaze trembled. His voice melted what it reached. An uncountable multitude gathered from the four winds of heaven to face him, and he carved a mountain from the air without tools and stood on it.

Fourth Ezra, the Jewish apocalyptic text probably composed in the first century CE, presents the sea-figure as a messianic symbol: the one who will gather the scattered, confront the nations, and restore what was lost without conventional violence. He defeats his enemies with fire from his mouth and a stream from his lips. The weapon is not a sword. It is the Law, the Torah, recited by the one who embodies it.

The Dew That Wakes the Dead

After the Messiah comes, what happens to the people who did not live to see him? The Yalkut Shim'oni and other sources give the mechanism of resurrection a physical form. When the time arrives to raise the dead, God will shake the divine locks, releasing the dew of resurrection that has been collecting in the crown of creation since the world began. The Song of Songs contains the line: my head is drenched with dew, my locks with the damp of night. The dew of resurrection has been waiting there.

It will fall on the dead. It will reach the small indestructible bone at the base of each spine, the Luz bone that cannot be burned or ground or dissolved, and from that seed the whole body will grow back. The dead will rise into a world the Messiah has entered from prison, through the gates of Rome, with nothing but a staff and a sack.

MessiahGehinnomResurrectionGan EdenRedemption
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From the tradition

Sources

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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.

Sefer ha-Zikhronot 21:1-11Sefer HaZichronot

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.

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Hekhalot Rabbati 6Heikhalot Rabbati

The apocalyptic wars of Gog and Magog have ravaged the earth, leaving behind a landscape scarred by conflict and despair. But even in the darkest of times, hope flickers. Because from the depths of confinement, a figure emerges: the Messiah.

He doesn't arrive in splendor or with fanfare. As Hekhalot (the heavenly palaces) Rabbati 6 tells us, he comes forth "from prison with nothing except for his staff and his sack." image for a moment. Stripped bare, humbled, yet carrying the weight of destiny.

The first act of the Messiah is not one of immediate triumph, but of profound devotion. He wraps himself in prayer, girds himself as a hero – not for battle, but before God. This moment of intimate connection is crucial. He cries out, a raw and honest plea: "Master of the Universe, remember on my behalf the suffering and grief and darkness and obscurity into which I was cast. My eyes have beheld no light and my ears have heard great reviling, and my heart broke with pain and grief."

Can you feel the weight of those words? The Messiah isn't just some divine figurehead; he's someone who has endured immense personal hardship. And, crucially, he connects his suffering to the suffering of his people. "You know that I have not acted for my own glory, nor for the glory of my father's house, but for Your glory have I acted, and for Your children who dwell in sorrow among the peoples of the world." He recognizes that his mission is inextricably linked to the fate of Israel. We've talked about the idea of a suffering Messiah before – the pain and anguish he has to go through before the final redemption, and the idea of the "chains of the Messiah" that hold back the coming of the messianic era.

And what is the first task he undertakes? It's not to conquer kingdoms or perform miracles, but to gather the scattered remnants of his people. "Go and assemble all your brethren from all the nations," the Messiah commands. This echoes the prophecy of Isaiah (66:20): "And they shall bring all your brethren out of all the nations as an offering to Yahweh." The Ingathering of the Exiles – Kibbutz Galuyot – is a central tenet of messianic belief.

This passage, as Schwartz notes in Tree of Souls, encapsulates the very essence of the Messiah's role at the End of Days. He is not just a redeemer, but a compassionate leader who understands the pain and longing of his people. He emerges not from a palace, but from a prison, a symbol of the oppression and exile that Israel has endured.

So, what does this mean for us? Perhaps it's a reminder that even in our darkest moments, hope remains. That even when we feel imprisoned by our circumstances, we can find strength in faith and in the knowledge that we are part of something larger than ourselves. Maybe it's a call to remember the suffering of others and to work towards a world where all people can live in freedom and dignity. The story of the Messiah emerging from prison isn't just a myth; it's a powerful symbol of resilience, redemption, and the enduring hope for a better future.

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4 Ezra 134 Ezra

Seven days of fasting. Then, in the dead of night, Ezra dreamed.

A wind rose from the sea and churned all its waves. And from the heart of the sea, not its surface, not its shallows, but its very heart, something emerged. A figure like a man. He flew with the clouds of heaven. Wherever he turned his face, everything under his gaze trembled. Whenever his voice issued from his mouth, all who heard it melted like wax before fire.

Then an innumerable multitude gathered from the four winds of heaven. They came to make war against him. He carved out a great mountain and flew up upon it. Ezra tried to see where the mountain came from, he could not.

The armies rushed forward. The figure did not lift his hand. He held no spear, no weapon of war. Instead, from his mouth poured a stream of fire. From his lips, a flaming breath. From his tongue, a storm of sparks. Fire and breath and storm mingled together and fell on the attacking multitude, burning them all to nothing, until there was only dust and ashes and the smell of smoke.

Then the figure came down from the mountain and called to himself a different multitude. A peaceable one. Some were joyful, some sorrowful. Some were bound, and some brought others as offerings.

Ezra awoke in terror and begged the Most High for the interpretation.

The answer revealed a messianic vision of extraordinary power. The figure from the sea was the one whom God had been keeping for many ages, the one who would deliver creation itself. No one on earth could see him or those with him except in the appointed time.

When that time came, bewilderment would seize the world. Nations would plan war against one another, city against city, kingdom against kingdom. Then God's chosen one would be revealed, standing on the top of Mount Zion. And Zion itself would come and be made manifest to all people, prepared and built, the mountain carved out without hands.

The storm from his mouth was reproof. The flames were reproach. The fire was the Torah itself, destroying wickedness without effort.

And the peaceable multitude he gathered? Those were the Ten Lost Tribes of Israel, carried into captivity in the days of King Hoshea by Shalmaneser king of Assyria, taken across the river into another land. But they had made a plan: to leave the nations and travel to a distant region where no human had ever lived, so they could finally keep the statutes they had failed to keep in their own land. They traveled through the narrow passages of the Euphrates, where God stopped the river's channels to let them cross. A journey of a year and a half, to a country called Arzareth.

They had dwelt there ever since, hidden, waiting. And in the last days, God would stop the river again so they could return.

"Those who are left of your people, who are found within my holy borders, shall be saved," the angel declared. "And then he will show them very many wonders."

Ezra asked one more question. Why did the figure come up from the heart of the sea?

The answer was as deep as the image itself: "Just as no one can explore or know what is in the depths of the sea, so no one on earth can see my chosen one or those who are with him, except in the time of his day."

Ezra rose and walked in the field, giving glory and praise to the Most High. The vision had shown him something hidden since before the world began, a deliverer rising from unfathomable depths, armed with nothing but the fire of God's word, gathering the scattered children of Israel from the ends of the earth.

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2 Baruch 48-522 Baruch

What happens to the body after death? Not the soul, the body. Will the dead come back as they were? Will they be transformed into something else entirely? Baruch asked God the question that everyone who has ever stood at a grave wants answered.

First, he prayed. And his prayer was a masterwork of humility and controlled fury. He praised the One who summons the ages and they stand at attention, who arranges the seasons and they obey, who commands flames and they change into spirits, who quickens what does not yet exist with a single word.

Then the prayer turned raw:

"For in a little time are we born, and in a little time do we return. But with You, hours are as ages and days as generations. Be not wroth with man, for he is nothing. We did not say to our parents, 'Beget us.' Nor did we send word to Sheol saying, 'Receive us.' What is our strength that we should bear Your wrath? What are we that we should endure Your judgment?"

He pleaded for God's chosen people: "Destroy not the hope of our people. Cut not short the times of our aid. For this is the nation You have chosen, the people to whom You find no equal. We have received one law from One. And the law which is among us will aid us, and the surpassing wisdom within us will help us."

God heard the prayer. But His answer was unflinching. "You have prayed simply, O Baruch, and all your words have been heard. But My judgment exacts its own, and My law exacts its rights."

What followed was a prophecy of the age before the end. A time when the wise would be few and the intelligent silent. When rumors and phantasms would multiply. When honor would become shame, strength would become contempt, and beauty would become ugliness. Envy would seize the peaceful. Armies would rise to shed blood. And in the end, perish together with their victims.

Baruch cried out: "O Adam, what have you done to all those born from you? What will be said to Eve, who listened to the serpent? All this multitude is going to corruption!"

Then came the question, the one the entire text had been building toward. "In what shape will those who live in Your day exist? Will they resume the form of the present body, these limbs involved in evil, in which evils are consummated? Or will You change what has been in the world, as You will change the world itself?"

God's answer was precise. The earth would restore the dead exactly as it received them. No change in form. The living needed to recognize the returned dead, to see with their own eyes that those who had departed were truly back. Recognition first. Then transformation.

After the appointed day of judgment, everything would change. The aspect of the condemned would become worse than it already was, their very appearance would twist and degrade as torment took hold. But the glory of the righteous? Their splendor would be glorified beyond recognition. The form of their faces would turn into pure light.

"They shall be made like unto the angels. Made equal to the stars. They shall be changed into every form they desire, from beauty into loveliness, from light into the splendor of glory."

The extents of Paradise would unfold before them. They would see the majesty of the living creatures beneath God's throne and the armies of angels held fast by His word, waiting for their appointed hour. Time would no longer age them. The heights of that world would be their dwelling place. And the righteous would surpass even the angels in splendor.

The wicked, seeing all this, would waste away, knowing they had rejected the law, stopped their ears against wisdom, and chosen a time whose issues were full of lamentations. They had denied the world that does not age. They had rejected the time of glory. And now it was too late.

Baruch's grief transformed into resolve: "Rejoice in the suffering you now endure. Make ready your soul for what is reserved for you. Prepare for the reward that is laid up for you."

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Yalkut Shim'oniYalkut Shimoni

It all starts with… dew.

Yes, dew. Specifically, the tal, the dew of resurrection. But where does this life-giving moisture originate? According to some, it descends from the very head of God! As it says in the Song of Songs (5:2), "For My head is drenched with dew, My locks with the damp of night."

The Yalkut Shim'oni and other sources paint a vivid picture: When the time arrives to resurrect the dead, God will shake His locks, releasing this extraordinary dew. And through that dew, all the righteous dead will rise from the dust. Think about the intimacy of that image!

The story doesn't end there. Some traditions, as we find in Seder Eliyahu Rabbah and Pirkei de-Rabbi Eliezer, suggest an even more personal and tender moment. After the reviving dew descends, God will seat each person between His knees, embrace them, kiss them, and personally bring them to life in the World to Come. What a powerful and loving depiction of divine care!

This myth, as noted in Tree of Souls, really finds its foundation in (Isaiah 26:19): "For your dew is like the dew on fresh growth." This isn't some detached, mechanical process. In these stories, God is actively involved, intimately connected to each individual's return to life.

It's interesting to note that here, the World to Come is linked to the messianic era. Traditionally, these are often seen as separate things. The World to Come, as Maimonides explains in his Ma'amar Tehiyat ha-Metim, is often understood as a realm of souls without bodies, like the angels. The messianic era, on the other hand, is typically envisioned as a transformation of this world, restoring it to a state of Eden-like perfection. But in this context, they seem to merge.

So, what is this dew of God, this extraordinary tal? The Zohar (3:128a), in the Idra Rabbah section, offers a stunning description: "the light of the pale glow of the Ancient One." It goes on to say that from this dew exist the supernal righteous ones, and it is the manna which they grind for the righteous in the World to Come. It’s not just water; it’s a divine essence, a source of sustenance and life beyond our comprehension.

It's a potent image, isn't it? This idea of resurrection being initiated by a loving, personal act of God, using something as gentle and life-giving as dew. It makes you think about the power of small things, doesn't it? About the potential for renewal and rebirth that exists even in the most seemingly barren landscapes. And maybe, just maybe, about the extraordinary love at the heart of everything.

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