This is the story we're diving into today: the mourning over the Shekhinah, the divine feminine presence, after the destruction of the Temple in Jerusalem. It’s a powerful myth, one that speaks to grief, absence, and the very nature of God.
The story goes that when the Temple was destroyed and the Shekhinah – often understood as the dwelling presence of God and, in Kabbalistic thought, God's feminine aspect – went into exile, the universe itself wept. All the angels, the heavenly hosts, they all went into mourning, composing dirges and lamentations. Even the upper and lower realms, heaven and earth, joined in this cosmic cry. We find echoes of this sentiment in Isaiah 50:3, which says, "I clothe the skies in blackness and make their raiment sackcloth." It wasn't just humanity that felt the devastation; creation itself grieved.
Then, as the story unfolds, God Himself descends. He looks upon His burned house, searches for His exiled people, and inquires about His Bride, the Shekhinah, who has left Him. And here's where it gets truly poignant: just as she suffered a change, so too did He. The myth suggests that God’s light no longer shone as brightly. He was changed from what He had been.
Some accounts, incredibly, even say that God was bound in chains!
Think about that for a moment. Bound in chains. Where does that idea come from? Well, Pesikta de-Rav Kahana 13:9 offers an explanation, linking it to God's promise in Psalm 91:15: "I will be with him in distress." So, when the prophet Jeremiah was bound in chains during the exile, so too, in a sense, was God.
But back to the initial mourning. God asks the ministering angels, "When a mortal king mourns, what does he do?" They respond, "He extinguishes his torches." And God says, "I too shall do that. The sun and moon will become black, and the stars stop shining," echoing the prophecy of Joel 4:15.
Again, God asks, "When a mortal king mourns, what does he do?" They say, "He sits in silence." God responds, "I too shall do that. I will sit alone and keep silent." And finally, "When a mortal king mourns, what does he do?" "He sits and laments," they answer. "I too shall do that," says God.
This is a powerful image: God, mirroring the mourning practices of humanity.
Now, what’s particularly daring about this myth, as Tree of Souls points out, is the implication that God's glory is somehow diminished by the loss of the Shekhinah. "His light no longer shone, and He was changed from what He was before." It challenges the traditional view of an unchanging, eternal God. It suggests a dependence, a relationship.
The Zohar, that foundational text of Kabbalah, delves into this idea. In Zohar 1:182a, it explains that "the secret of the matter is that blessings reside only where male and female are together." The loss of the Shekhinah, the feminine aspect, leaves God, in a way, incomplete. He is referred to as a "husband," emphasizing this relational aspect.
This myth is a profound exploration of loss, not just for humanity, but also for the divine. It asks us to consider the nature of God, the importance of relationship, and the very real pain of absence. It reminds us that even in the face of devastation, lamentation, and ultimately, hope, are essential parts of the human – and perhaps even the divine – experience. What does it mean to you that even God can experience profound grief?