According to some mystical traditions, there's a place, a hidden realm, far beyond our everyday perception, where souls reside in a truly remarkable way.
Imagine a field. Not just any field, but one overflowing with life, with trees of unimaginable splendor and grass shimmering with holiness. This isn't a field of ordinary plants, though. According to Tree of Souls (Schwartz), this is a field where wondrous trees grow, and the trees and grass are holy souls. This field, this Treasury of Souls, is where souls grow and flourish. It's a vision of paradise, a kind of Gan Eden, the Garden of Eden, where souls both originate and eventually find their eternal rest.
But what happens when souls stray? What happens when they find themselves outside this idyllic space?
The text tells us that there are many naked souls who wander beyond the borders of this field, lost and yearning for repair. These are souls exiled from the Garden, adrift in our fallen world. The Zohar, that foundational text of Kabbalah, often speaks of the exile of the Shekhinah, the Divine Presence, and this imagery resonates with that concept. Even the greatest soul, it's said, struggles to return to the field once it's departed.
Think of it: a soul, separated from its source, exposed and vulnerable, calling out for help. And who answers that call?
The text introduces us to the "field master," the one who dedicates themselves to tikkun – that crucial Hebrew word meaning "repair" or "restoration". The exiled souls cry out for this field master, for someone to set things right. But this isn't an easy task. It demands unwavering dedication and immense courage.
Rabbi Nachman, whose teachings this allegory reflects, suggests that this field master can only complete this sacred work through his own death. He must endure countless afflictions. Yet, in the end, he will succeed in the work of the field and ultimately prevail.
Who is this figure? Well, in Jewish tradition, this figure represents the Tzaddik, the righteous individual, in general. But more specifically, it alludes to Messiah ben Joseph. Now, Messiah ben Joseph isn't as widely known as Messiah ben David, the heavenly Messiah who will usher in the End of Days. But Messiah ben Joseph plays a critical role: he paves the way. His task, as we find in "The Two Messiahs" (p. 517), is to prepare the world for the ultimate redemption. And, tragically, it's his fate to die while engaged in this messianic mission.
This allegory, then, becomes a powerful call to action. As Ginzberg tells us in Legends of the Jews, the longing and prayer for the coming of the Messiah is a central theme in Jewish thought. We are called to yearn for the one who will repair all souls in need, who will restore the world to its intended state of harmony and wholeness.
So, what does this mean for us? Perhaps it's a reminder that we all have a role to play in tikkun olam, repairing the world. Maybe it encourages us to be steadfast and courageous in our own lives, even when faced with adversity. And perhaps, most importantly, it reminds us to never lose hope in the possibility of redemption, for ourselves and for all souls wandering in the wilderness.