Parshat Vayera5 min read

Sodom Burned From Below as Well as Above

The fire that fell on Sodom from the sky had a partner rising from Gehinnom beneath. Both were prepared before the world began.

Curated by Arthur · Told by Maggid ·
Table of Contents
  1. The Fire From Below
  2. The Fire Was Older Than the Valley
  3. Seven Levels and Five Kinds of Fire
  4. Abraham's Distress and the Hole in Heaven

The Fire From Below

The fire from the sky is the part the Torah states plainly: brimstone and fire from the Lord out of heaven (Genesis 19:24), the famous celestial rain that turned Sodom and Gomorrah to ash and salt. That part is well attested.

The other part begins underground.

Jewish tradition, in texts ranging from the 2nd century BCE to the medieval period, describes a second fire that rose from beneath the city at the same moment the first descended from above. Sodom was caught between two fires that met in the middle and left nothing between them. The fire that rose came from Gehinnom, the netherworld of punishment, which has a gate in inhabited land, and whose gates open where sin has so thoroughly soaked the ground that the boundary between the upper world and the lower world thins to nothing.

The Fire Was Older Than the Valley

Gehinnom was not improvised. According to the tradition preserved in Bereshit Rabbah, compiled c. 400-500 CE in the Land of Israel, Gehinnom was among the seven things created before the world itself. The list is specific: the Torah, repentance, the Garden of Eden, Gehinnom, the Throne of Glory, the Temple, and the name of the Messiah. All seven preexisted the six days of creation. Gehinnom was not built as a response to human sin after humans appeared and sinned. It was built before humans were made, in full foreknowledge that they would need it.

This is a disturbing kind of planning. It means that when Lot lifted his eyes and surveyed the Jordan plain and saw something that looked like the garden of God, the fire stored beneath that plain was already older than the plain itself. The valley and the judgment waiting under it had been placed side by side in the structure of reality before the first human being drew breath. The beauty was real. The fire beneath it was also real. Both were prepared in the same primordial act of creation.

Seven Levels and Five Kinds of Fire

The Chronicles of Jerahmeel, a 12th-century Hebrew chronicle compiled by Jerahmeel ben Solomon, describes the architecture of Gehinnom with the precision of someone who has studied a building's plans. Three gates: one that opens at the sea, one that opens in the wilderness, one that opens in inhabited land. The gate in inhabited land is the most dangerous because it requires no journey. You reach it by staying where sin has become the local custom.

The interior is organized into seven levels, each divided into seven compartments, each threaded with rivers of fire. The fire itself comes in five varieties, each calibrated for a different category of transgression. None of this was assembled after the fact. The architecture had been in place since before the world was made, waiting for the crimes that would eventually require each chamber.

Sodom had filled those chambers' registers long before the angels arrived. The Book of Jubilees, c. 160-150 BCE, describes the crimes with the directness of a legal indictment: they had soiled themselves and committed fornication in the flesh and polluted the earth. The language is not rhetorical. It is taxonomic. These were specific violations of the categories that had been built into Gehinnom's architecture at creation.

Abraham's Distress and the Hole in Heaven

While Sodom burned, Abraham stood on the hill where he had interceded and watched the smoke rise from the plain. The midrash adds a detail to the day before the destruction. Abraham sat at his tent in the heat of the day, suffering, because no travelers were passing by. His whole identity was organized around hospitality. He needed guests the way other men need food.

God's solution was to open a hole in Gehinnom itself and pour the heat upward so that righteous travelers would stay home rather than walk in the furnace-like air. Abraham's suffering was specifically arranged so that wicked men would not have to walk in the heat. God created a private misery for the righteous so that the wicked would be kept from merit they did not deserve.

The fire beneath the world was active before Sodom's destruction, already close enough to the surface to be used for smaller manipulations. When the destruction came, it was simply the final opening of what had been cracked for some time.

SodomGehinnomFireCreationJudgmentDestruction
← All myths

From the tradition

Sources

5 sources

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

Legends of the Jews 1:29Legends of the Jews

It's a place depicted in ancient texts with a level of detail that’s… well, let’s just say you wouldn’t want to book a vacation there.

A place divided into seven distinct sections. And each of those seven sections? They’re further broken down into seven subdivisions. We're already getting a sense of the scale here. But it doesn't stop there. Within each of these compartments flow not one, but seven rivers of fire… and, just to keep things interesting, seven rivers of hail.

Each of these rivers is a thousand ells wide, a thousand ells deep, and three hundred ells long. (An "ell" is an old measurement, roughly the length of a forearm). These rivers don't just exist in isolation; they flow from one another, creating a complex, fiery, icy network. And overseeing all this? Ninety thousand Angels of Destruction. According to Ginzberg's retelling in Legends of the Jews, these angels are specifically tasked with managing this terrifying landscape.

Wait, there’s more! Within each compartment, you'll also find seven thousand caves. And inside each cave? Seven thousand crevices. And lurking in every crevice? You guessed it: seven thousand scorpions. But these aren't your garden-variety scorpions. These scorpions each have three hundred rings, and inside each ring are seven thousand pouches of venom. And this venom isn't just poisonous; it’s deadly. If someone even touches it, they’ll immediately burst apart. It’s a truly horrific image.

What kind of fires await in Gehinnom? The text describes five distinct kinds of fire. One devours and absorbs. Another devours but doesn’t absorb. Then there's one that absorbs but doesn’t devour. And even one that neither devours nor absorbs! And, incredibly, there's even a fire that devours other fire!

And what fuels this inferno? Coals the size of mountains, hills, even the Dead Sea. Rivers of pitch and sulfur flow and seethe like live coals. It's a landscape of unimaginable torment.

So, what are we to make of these vivid, terrifying descriptions? Are they literal? Symbolic? A warning? A way to conceptualize the consequences of our actions? Perhaps all of the above. What's clear is that these depictions of Gehinnom serve as a powerful reminder to consider the paths we choose in this life. Whether you believe in a literal Hell or not, the message is clear: our actions have consequences.

Full source
Chronicles of Jerahmeel XIVChronicles of Jerahmeel (Gaster, 1899)

Two bands of angels stand at the gates of Gehinnom (גהינום) and call out one word: "Come! Come!" According to the Chronicles of Jerahmeel, a 12th-century Hebrew chronicle compiled by Jerahmeel ben Solomon, Rabbi Eliezer explained that these angels are the "two daughters of the leech" mentioned in (Proverbs 30:15). The name Gehinnom itself means "Valley of Wailing" because the sound of its screaming traverses the entire world from end to end.

Gehinnom has three gates. One gate opens at the sea, referenced by Jonah when he cried from the belly of Sheol. One gate opens in the wilderness, alluded to when Korah and his followers went down alive into the earth (Numbers 16:33). The third gate stands in Jerusalem itself, as Isaiah wrote: "The Lord, whose fire is in Zion and His furnace in Jerusalem" (Isaiah 31:9).

Five different kinds of fire burn there. One devours and absorbs. Another absorbs but does not devour. A third neither devours nor absorbs. And there is fire that devours other fire. The coals are the size of mountains. Rivers of pitch and sulphur flow and seethe.

The angels of destruction seize the sinner and hurl them toward the flame. Gehinnom opens its mouth wide and swallows them whole. But this fate only befalls someone who has not performed even a single act of mercy that might tip the scales. The person who has studied Torah and endured suffering is saved, as David wrote: "Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for You are with me. Your rod and Your staff comfort me" (Psalms 23:4). The rod is suffering. The staff is Torah.

Full source
Book of Jubilees 16:11Book of Jubilees

This ancient Jewish text, considered canonical by some but not included in the standard Hebrew Bible, gives us a vivid, almost apocalyptic, picture. It paints a stark image of divine retribution.

Jubilees 16 pulls no punches. It says God "burned them with fire and brimstone, and destroyed them until this day." A total wipeout, meant as a lasting lesson. The text emphasizes the sheer wickedness of the Sodomites. It wasn't just about violating some arbitrary rule. It was about being "wicked and sinners exceedingly," defiling themselves, committing fornication, and spreading uncleanness across the earth.

The Book of Jubilees is really hammering home the idea that these actions have consequences, not just for individuals but for the land itself. It’s like a spiritual pollution that demands cleansing. This idea of the land being defiled by sin is a recurring theme in ancient Jewish thought.

It doesn’t stop with Sodom. The text goes on to say that God will execute judgment on any place that mirrors the "uncleanness of the Sodomites." It’s a chilling warning, a direct comparison, stating that the punishment will be "like unto the judgment of Sodom." This is a serious, serious threat.

But there's a glimmer of hope, a reminder of divine mercy amidst the destruction. LOT. "But Lot we saved; for God remembered ABRAHAM, and sent him out from the midst of the overthrow." It’s a powerful evidence of the idea of intercession. Abraham's righteousness, his covenant with God, provided a shield for Lot. It’s a reminder that even in the face of overwhelming judgment, compassion and protection can be found.

So, what do we take away from this fiery passage? It's more than just a condemnation of a particular city's sins. It’s a reflection on the enduring consequences of our actions, the interconnectedness of humanity and the land, and the ever-present possibility of redemption. It makes you think, doesn't it? About the choices we make, and the world we're building.

Full source
Book of Jubilees 16:14Book of Jubilees

There's a whole world of fascinating Jewish texts just beyond the familiar narratives, filled with incredible details and alternative perspectives. The source turns to one of those: the Book of Jubilees.

The Book of Jubilees, sometimes called Lesser Genesis, is an ancient Jewish text that retells the stories from Genesis, but with a lot of extra commentary and elaboration. It's considered part of the Jewish apocrypha by some, and holds a sacred place in Ethiopian Orthodox tradition. It claims to be revealed to Moses by an angel while he was on Mount Sinai.

In chapter 16, we encounter a particularly dark and disturbing moment, one that highlights the potential for utter moral collapse. It speaks of a man - not named directly in this section, but understood from context to be Canaan, son of Ham - committing an unspeakable act. "And he and his daughters committed sin upon the earth, such as had not been on the earth since the days of Adam till his time; for the man lay with his daughters."

Wow. Pretty heavy stuff. This isn't just a casual slip-up. Jubilees tells us this was a transgression so profound, so utterly depraved, that it hadn't been seen since the very beginning of humanity. It’s a stark picture of moral decay.

The consequences, were equally severe and divinely ordained. "And, behold, it was commanded and engraven concerning all his seed, on the heavenly tables, to remove them and root them out, and to execute judgment upon them like the judgment of Sodom, and to leave no seed of the man on earth on the day of condemnation."

The "heavenly tables" are important here. The idea is that this decree wasn't just a whim, but a decision etched into the very fabric of reality. This wasn't just a local problem, but a cosmic one. The judgment is likened to that of Sodom, a byword for utter destruction. The implication is clear: Canaan's actions warranted complete annihilation, a complete severing of his lineage from the world.

It’s Interestingly, immediately following this grim pronouncement, the narrative shifts gears abruptly. "And in this month Abraham moved from Hebron, and departed and dwelt between Kadesh and Shur in the mountains of Gerar."

What a contrast! We go from cosmic judgment to… Abraham moving house. Why is this detail included right after such a dire warning? Perhaps it serves as a reminder. Even amidst the darkness of human failing, the narrative of faith and promise continues. While Canaan's line faces obliteration, Abraham, the patriarch of a new covenant, is on the move, carrying the seeds of hope and redemption.

It's almost as if Jubilees is saying, "Yes, there is terrible evil in the world. But there is also Abraham, and the promise he carries." The juxtaposition highlights the stakes, the constant struggle between destruction and renewal, sin and righteousness.

This passage from Jubilees leaves us with a lot to ponder. What does it mean for a sin to be so egregious that it warrants cosmic erasure? How do we balance divine justice with mercy? And how do we, in our own lives, work through the ever-present tension between darkness and light? These are questions that resonate far beyond the pages of this ancient text, inviting us to reflect on the human condition and our place in the grand narrative of existence.

Full source
Legends of the Jews 5:136Legends of the Jews

Legends of the Jews turns to God Opened a Hole in Hell to Keep Visitors Away from Abraham.

Here's the kicker: Abraham is distressed precisely because no one is visiting! His whole life is about welcoming strangers, offering kindness. The absence of wayfarers causes him great vexation.

So, what does he do? First, he sends his servant Eliezer to scout for travelers. When Eliezer returns empty-handed, Abraham, despite his pain and the scorching heat, decides to go out himself. He couldn't fully trust Eliezer anyway, thinking “No truth among slaves,” as the saying went. It reveals a bit about the cultural biases of the time, doesn't it? But more importantly, it emphasizes Abraham's burning desire to fulfill the mitzvah of hachnasat orchim (הכנסת אורחים), the commandment of welcoming guests.

It's at this very moment, as Abraham prepares to venture out, that God appears to him, surrounded by angels.

Abraham, of course, tries to rise in respect. But God stops him. He tells Abraham not to worry about standing on ceremony. Abraham protests, saying it's inappropriate to sit in God's presence. And God responds with this incredible promise: "As thou livest, thy descendants at the age of four and five will sit in days to come in the schools and in the synagogues while I reside therein."

What a beautiful, intimate moment! God essentially says, "Your dedication to hospitality, your desire to connect, is so profound that I will waive my own honor. Your children, your descendants, will be comfortable in my presence, just as you strive to make others comfortable."

As we find in Midrash Rabbah, this encounter highlights the immense value God places on acts of kindness and hospitality. It's not just about following rules or performing rituals; it's about the genuine desire to connect with others, to offer comfort and welcome.

This story isn't just an ancient tale; it's a reminder that even in our own discomfort, even when we feel we have nothing to offer, the impulse to connect, to welcome, is a powerful and sacred act. And sometimes, in those very moments, we find ourselves in the presence of the Divine. What does it mean to you to strive to connect even when it's difficult? Where do you see opportunities to welcome others into your life, as Abraham did?

Full source