It turns out, that feeling has deep roots in our tradition.

Midrash Tehillim, a collection of rabbinic teachings on the Book of Psalms, offers a fascinating perspective on this transition. It focuses on Psalm 92, which Rabbi Levi says is "a Psalm for the Sabbath day, for there is no darkness in it." Now, what does that mean, "no darkness"? Well, the Midrash points to the creation story. Remember in Genesis (1:5) it says, "And there was evening and there was morning, one day." The Midrash emphasizes that this wording, "one day", applies to every day except for Shabbat.

Rabbi Levi bar Nissimah goes even further, suggesting that the thirty-six hours of twilight on Friday herald the coming of Shabbat, followed by the night and then the blessed day itself.

But here's where it gets really interesting. According to the Midrash, when we see the sun setting and darkness creeping in, marking the end of Shabbat, a person might feel a sense of unease. "Woe is me," they might think, "perhaps what God said will happen to me: 'He will pour out my head like water.'" That's a quote from Isaiah (21:12), and it speaks to a fear of being overwhelmed. The person might even think, drawing from Psalm 139:11, "But the darkness will cover me."

Why this fear? The Midrash suggests they might worry that the serpent, the one who deceived them on the eve of the Sabbath—referring back to the story of Adam and Eve—will come back to bite them as punishment. Yikes!

But then, something amazing happens. A pillar of fire appears to illuminate and protect them from harm! Seeing this pillar of fire, the person rejoices, knowing that God is with them. They bless the Creator of the lights of fire. And when the person withdraws their hand from the fire, they realize something profound: "Now I know that the Sabbath is distinguished from the weekdays, for we are not permitted to light a fire on the Sabbath." In that moment, they recite the blessing, "Blessed are You, who distinguishes between holy and mundane"—Baruch Atah Adonai, Hamavdil bein Kodesh l'Chol.

So, where does this fire come from? According to some interpretations in the Midrash, God gave Adam, the first human, two stones: one of darkness and one of brightness. These may allude to Job 28:3, which states, "He has set an end to darkness," referring to the stone of darkness, "and all perfection he has created," referring to the stone of brightness. Adam struck the two stones together, and fire emerged, creating the very distinction between holy and mundane. This is why, according to the Midrash, we distinguish between light and darkness at the conclusion of the Sabbath. It's a reenactment, a remembrance of that original act of separation.

Rabbi Huna adds another layer, noting that we also distinguish between holy and mundane on Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, by separating the light at the same time. This reinforces the idea that marking the transition between sacred time and ordinary time is a fundamental human need and a recurring theme in Jewish tradition.

Isn't that a powerful image? From a moment of potential fear and darkness springs forth light, understanding, and a renewed appreciation for the gift of Shabbat. It reminds us that even in the face of the unknown, we can find comfort and connection to the Divine.

So, the next time you feel that twinge as Shabbat ends, remember the pillar of fire. Remember the two stones. And remember that the act of distinguishing between holy and mundane is not just a ritual, but a way of bringing light into the darkness and recognizing the sacred in the everyday.