Kafka’s parable, "Before the Law," from his novel The Trial, speaks to that feeling in a way that few stories can. It's a tale that resonates deeply, and while it's often interpreted through a secular lens, its roots and echoes within Jewish tradition are surprisingly profound.
The story is simple, yet haunting: A man from the country comes to the Law, seeking entry. But standing before the gate is a doorkeeper who refuses him passage. The doorkeeper says, "Possibly, but not now." The man waits, and waits, for years, even offering bribes, but the doorkeeper remains steadfast, always saying, "I accept this only so you won't think you've failed to do anything."
Year after year, the man sits, pleading, growing old and feeble. He even notices the fleas in the doorkeeper's fur collar! Finally, as he's dying, he asks a question he’s never asked before: "Everyone strives to reach the Law," he whispers. "How is it that in all these years no one but me has asked to get in?"
The doorkeeper, now towering over the dying man, roars, "No one else could be admitted here, since this entrance was intended only for you. I am now going to close it."
Chilling, right?
What is this "Law" that the man so desperately seeks? Is it divine wisdom? Is it justice? Is it something else entirely? And who is this gatekeeper, holding all the power?
The story is rich with interpretive possibilities. Max Brod, Kafka's close friend, called it "an original creation drawn deeply from his archaic soul… another proof of his profound roots in Judaism."
Gershom Scholem, the great scholar of Kabbalah, even went so far as to say that the three pillars of Jewish mystical thought are the Bible, the Zohar (the foundational text of Kabbalah), and the writings of Kafka! He saw Kafka's work, often interpreted in countless ways, as essentially mystical. Scholem drew parallels between "Before the Law" and the Hekhalot texts, ancient mystical writings that describe journeys through heavenly palaces guarded by powerful angels. Are these doorkeepers reminiscent of those angelic gatekeepers?
Think about it: In these Hekhalot texts, and in Jewish mystical tradition generally, accessing the divine isn't always easy. There are layers, obstacles, guardians. As Zohar 1:7b says, "Open the gates of righteousness for me—This is the gateway to the Lord. Assuredly, without entering through that gate one will never gain access to the most high King."
Imagine a king who screens himself from view behind gate upon gate, with one special gate, locked and barred. The king proclaims: "He who wishes to enter into my presence must first of all pass through that gate."
We see echoes of this sentiment in Ibn Gabirol’s The Book of the Selection of Pearls. The story speaks of someone standing by the gate of the royal palace, failing to gain access.
The parallels are striking, aren’t they?
And yet, Kafka’s parable introduces a modern twist: doubt. The man spends his life waiting, only to discover the gate was meant for him alone – and is now being closed. Was his quest futile? Was he misled?
Is the doorkeeper an agent of divine testing, or a cruel bureaucrat? Some even suggest the doorkeeper represents Kafka's father, a strict and imposing figure in his life. Or perhaps even his mother, who withheld from his father the letter Kafka wrote for him.
The "inextinguishable radiance streaming out of the door of the Law," as the man sees in his final moments, clearly suggests the eternal nature of the Law, drawing its eternal quality from God. This could shift the focus from human justice to the need for divine justice. But, the question remains: is that justice accessible?
It's a question that continues to resonate, not just within Jewish tradition, but in our own lives. Are we knocking on the right doors? Are we being kept from something that is rightfully ours? Or, perhaps, are we so focused on the obstacle that we miss the open door meant only for us?