It's about four great sages who dared to enter Pardes – Paradise. The implications of this seemingly simple story have echoed through Jewish mysticism for centuries.
Who were these brave souls? They were Ben Azzai, Ben Zoma, Aher (whose real name was Elisha ben Abuyah), and the great Rabbi Akiba. What happened to them is... well, let's just say it's a cautionary tale.
The Talmud (B. Hagigah 14b-15a) tells us that Ben Azzai "looked and died." Ben Zoma "looked and lost his mind." Aher – a name meaning "other" that he earned after this incident – "cut himself off from his fathers" and became an apostate. Only Rabbi Akiba "entered and departed in peace."
Wow. Right?
What exactly did they see? What was so overwhelming, so transformative, that it drove three of them to such drastic ends?
The stories swirl. It's said that when Ben Azzai, a brilliant scholar, passed through the heavenly palaces, he was so overcome by the glory he saw that his soul simply couldn't bear to leave. He felt he had finally returned home (Tree of Souls, Schwartz). Can you imagine such a feeling of homecoming that it eclipses everything else?
Aher's story is perhaps the most tragic. He ascended to the realm of the angel Metatron, a powerful celestial being. But Aher saw Metatron seated on a throne, and in his confusion, he cried out – "There are, God forbid, two powers in heaven!" (ibid). He couldn't reconcile what he saw with his understanding of monotheism. From that moment, he lost his faith. The story goes that God then commanded Metatron to be lashed sixty times with a fiery whip for not correcting Aher's misunderstanding! Imagine the turmoil and confusion Aher must have felt.
Ben Zoma's fate is equally unsettling. One day, a rabbi and his students saw him walking down the road, and when they greeted him, he didn't respond. The rabbi asked, "Where have you been, Ben Zoma?" He replied, "I was contemplating the Mysteries of Creation. I learned that between the upper waters and the lower waters there are but three finger-breadths." (ibid). That seemingly innocuous statement was enough for the rabbi to declare, "Ben Zoma is gone." He didn't live much longer after that. According to Ginzberg's Legends of the Jews, Ben Zoma's mind simply couldn't handle the immensity of what he had grasped.
And then there's Rabbi Akiba. He ascended to heaven, made signs at the entrance so he could find his way back, and when the angels of destruction came to harm him at the Pargod – the celestial curtain – a heavenly voice boomed from beneath the Throne of Glory: "Leave this elder alone. He is worthy of gazing at My glory" (ibid). There, in the highest heaven, before the Throne of Glory, God's holy and secret Name was revealed to him. He alone entered and left in peace.
Why him? What made Rabbi Akiba so different?
This short but profound legend became a central text in Jewish mystical thought. Some saw it as a blueprint for mystical contemplation and heavenly ascent, a model for exploring the Hekhalot – the heavenly palaces described in the Hekhalot texts. Others saw it as a dire warning: mystical exploration is dangerous and should be reserved for those who are truly prepared.
This tale also opened the door to the mysteries of Pardes for esoteric Jewish sects. They sought to enter Pardes – often equated with the Garden of Eden – through mystical contemplation. This involved a form of Ma'aseh Merkavah – contemplation of the Mysteries of the Chariot (ibid). Paradoxically, this mystical ascent was sometimes described as a descent. The writings of these sects, the Hekhalot texts, detail journeys through the heavenly palaces.
The ambiguity of the legend is perhaps its greatest strength. What did Ben Azzai see that killed him? What did Ben Zoma see that drove him mad? What did Aher see that made him an apostate? These are the questions that have fueled centuries of speculation and interpretation.
Some link Ben Azzai's death to the mystical tradition of those who willingly give up their souls during a mystical experience, dying by the "Kiss of the Shekhinah" – the Divine Presence – as Moses did (ibid). Gershom Scholem, a towering figure in the study of Jewish mysticism, suggested that the Hekhalot mystics actively used techniques to induce mystical experiences, including yoga-like positions and rhythmic chanting (ibid). They also employed standard Jewish practices of purification: the mikveh (ritual bath), fasting, and extensive prayer. The power of the word – prayers, amulets, and, above all, the secret pronunciation of the Divine Name – was central to their practices.
Was their ascent a bodily one, or a soul ascent? Consider Ben Zoma's precise knowledge of the space between the upper and lower waters. Did he gain this firsthand? Midrash Tehillim 19:4 suggests otherwise. Rabbi Samuel bar Abba says, "I know the lanes of heaven as well as the lanes of Nehardea" – a city in Babylonia. But he hadn't actually gone up there! Rather, through diligent study of Torah, he learned what is in the firmament.
There's even a Moroccan Jewish folktale, IFA 13901, where the four rabbis are invited to heaven on Sukkot, when the sky opens, to study Kabbalah in Paradise! The invitation itself signifies their recognized greatness in Heaven.
So, what does this all mean for us today? Perhaps the story of the Four Who Entered Paradise isn't meant to be a literal account, but a metaphor for the journey of the soul, the dangers of unchecked ambition, and the importance of a solid foundation in tradition. It's a reminder that profound spiritual experiences require preparation, humility, and a deep understanding of the boundaries between the known and the unknowable. And maybe, just maybe, it's a reminder that some mysteries are best left as mysteries.