We get glimpses in the Torah, of course, but the rabbinic imagination, fueled by Midrash and legend, fills in so much more of the picture. What did he witness in those higher realms? What terrifying realities lurked just beyond our sight?
Well, some of the sights were, shall we say, less than pleasant. Imagine Moses, standing before the very gates of Gehenna, hell itself. And what did he hear?
A cry. A loud, bitter cry, echoing through the cosmos. According to Legends of the Jews, that monumental work by Louis Ginzberg that compiles centuries of Jewish folklore, hell was hungry. Utterly, desperately hungry.
"Give me something to eat, I am hungry," hell wailed to Nasargiel, one of the angelic gatekeepers.
Can you imagine the scene? This insatiable void, personified, demanding sustenance. And what did it crave? Not fire and brimstone, but something far more precious: souls. Specifically, the souls of the pious.
But Nasargiel stood firm. "The Holy One, blessed be He, will not deliver the souls of the pious unto thee." There's a powerful image of divine justice and protection right there, isn't there? A line drawn in the sand, a promise that righteousness will ultimately prevail.
But the vision didn't end there. Moses was then shown a place called Alukah. The name itself sounds ominous, doesn't it? In this place, sinners weren't consumed by fire, but suspended by their feet, heads downward. Imagine the torment, the reversed perspective, the utter helplessness. And then came the worms. Not just any worms, mind you, but black worms, each an impossible five hundred parasangs long. A parasang is an ancient unit of distance, roughly equivalent to 3-4 miles. So, do the math: these were some seriously long worms!
These tormented souls, covered in these monstrous creatures, cried out in anguish. "Woe unto us for the punishment of hell. Give us death, that we may die!" They longed for oblivion, for an end to their suffering, but even that was denied to them.
Who were these wretched souls? Nasargiel explained that they were sinners of a particular kind, those who had transgressed in specific and harmful ways. They had sworn falsely, profaned the Sabbath and holy days, despised the sages, called their neighbors by unseemly nicknames, wronged the orphan and the widow, and borne false witness. As Ginzberg tells us, drawing on earlier sources, they were guilty of social sins, of harming the fabric of community and trust.
These aren't just abstract theological concepts, are they? They're about how we treat each other, how we build or break down the bonds of society. These are the sins that leave lasting scars, the ones that ripple outwards, affecting generations. And for these sins, God, in his justice, had delivered them to these worms.
What does this all mean for us? Is it just a scary story to frighten us into obedience? Perhaps. But I think there's something deeper here. It’s a reminder that our actions have consequences, not just for ourselves but for the world around us. It urges us to consider the weight of our words, the impact of our deeds, and the importance of living a life of integrity and compassion. Maybe, just maybe, it’s a call to build a world where the cries of Gehenna are a little bit quieter, a little bit further away.