A place of purification, and for some, punishment. Now, even in this fiery realm, the Sabbath casts its protective light. It's a concept that speaks volumes about the power and sanctity of Shabbat.
According to tradition, every Shabbat eve, as the day is sanctified, an angel proclaims, "Let the punishment of the sinners cease, for the Holy King approaches and the Day is about to be sanctified. He protects all!" Instantly, all punishment ceases. The Pesikta Rabbati and the Zohar (2:151a) both touch on this idea of respite. Think of it: even in the depths of Gehenna, the holiness of Shabbat brings a moment of peace.
Those sinners who observed Shabbat during their lives get an extra perk. They're led to two mountains of snow for the duration, a welcome contrast to the flames. But as Shabbat ends, the angel in charge of the spirits shouts, "All evildoers, back to Gehenna — the Sabbath is over!" And they're thrust back. Some try to sneak away with some snow to cool themselves during the week, but even that is forbidden. It's as if God says, "Woe to you who steal even in hell!"
What about those who never observed Shabbat? For them, there's no respite. As we find in sources like Orhot Hayim, the fires keep burning. An angel named Santriel – meaning "God is my Guardsman" – fetches the sinner's body from the grave and brings it before the guilty in Gehenna. Imagine the horror as they see the body, riddled with worms. They know this soul has no escape from the flames.
The other guilty souls surround the body and proclaim, "This person is guilty, for he would not regard the honor of his Master, he denied the Holy One, blessed be He, and denied the Torah. Woe to him! It had been better for him never to be created and not to be subjected to this punishment and this disgrace!"
Rabbi Yehudah adds a chilling detail: after Shabbat, the angel returns the body to its grave, and both body and soul are punished, each in its own way. This continues as long as the body is intact. Once it decays, the punishments cease. As Sha'ar ha-Gemul and Nishmat Hayim (1:12, 1:14) explain, those who must leave Gehenna leave, and those who must find rest, find it. Each gets what is appropriate.
The Tola'at Ya'akov (58b) puts it beautifully: "Din" – harsh justice – "is banished on the eve of the Shabbat, even from the sinners in Gehenna. For the Shabbat protects the cosmos. But on Saturday night Din is restored to its station. A herald cries out: ' Let the wicked be in Sheol!'" (Ps. 9:18). And the Zohar (2:150b) even mentions reprieves on new moons and festivals.
This whole concept, this "Shabbat in Gehenna," is a powerful reminder of the all-encompassing nature of holiness and the transformative power of Shabbat. It is so potent, that even the souls being punished are allowed a moment of rest, a testament to its protective embrace.
Isn't it amazing to think that even in the darkest corners of existence, the light of Shabbat can penetrate? What does that tell us about the potential for redemption, for renewal, even in the face of our deepest flaws?