And Jewish mystical tradition has something profound to say about it. to a passage from the Zohar" target="_blank" rel="noopener" class="source-link">Tikkunei_Zohar" target="_blank" rel="noopener" class="source-link">Tikkunei Zohar, specifically Tikkun 98. It's a dense text, sure, but within its ancient Aramaic words lies a powerful message about laughter, resilience, and the enduring flame of hope.
The passage begins with a rather unsettling image: "And at that time, the spleen which laughs is destroyed." Whoa, hold on. The spleen? What's that got to do with anything? In Kabbalistic thought, different organs are often associated with different emotional and spiritual qualities. Here, the spleen, the organ that laughs, is seen as being negatively impacted in a time of darkness. This isn't about physical anatomy; it's a symbolic representation of joy being diminished, perhaps even crushed, by difficult circumstances.
But here's where the hope blossoms. The text continues, “And then will be fulfilled: (Ps. 126:2) Then will our mouth be filled with laughter, and our tongue with joy—rinah – specifically.” Rinah, that’s a deep, resonant joy. A joy that comes from somewhere beyond the surface. The promise here isn't just a fleeting chuckle, but a profound, soul-deep rejoicing that will ultimately triumph. Even in the face of destruction, the promise of joy remains. It’s a testament to the enduring human spirit, our capacity to find light even in the darkest corners.
The passage then connects this idea to the verse from Proverbs (31:18): "... her candle will not be extinguished by night, because: She advises that her merchandise is good..." This is often interpreted in the context of the virtuous woman, but here, it speaks to something more universal: the inner light, the spark of hope, that we must keep burning even when surrounded by darkness. The "merchandise" she advises is good, is the inherent goodness within ourselves and the world, the potential for repair and redemption.
And then, the text pivots to Jerusalem, which it equates with the heart. "And at that time, Jerusalem will become fixed – which is the heart." Now, the heart, in Hebrew, is Ha-Lev. The Tikkunei Zohar points out that Ha-Lev is an anagram of LaHaV, which means "flame of the altar." Isn’t that beautiful? The heart, the very center of our being, is linked to the sacred flame, the divine spark within us.
Here’s another layer: the text notes that Yikhbeh, "will-extinguish," has the same numerical value (gematria) as Ha-Lev, the heart—both equaling 37. Then, LaHaV, the flame, is an anagram of HeVeL, which means "breath" or "vanity." It will not be extinguished—especially not during the exile, which is symbolized as "night."
What does this all mean? It suggests that even in times of exile, of darkness and seeming meaninglessness (HeVeL), the flame of the heart (LaHaV) will not be extinguished. Even when it feels like our joy is being stolen, even when the world seems bleak and hopeless, the potential for that joy, that connection to the divine, remains. It's a fragile flame, perhaps, but it's there, waiting to be rekindled.
So, what do we take away from this ancient text? Perhaps it’s this: that even when the world feels heavy, even when our laughter is stifled, the spark of hope, the flame of the heart, endures. It’s up to us to nurture that flame, to remember the promise of joy, and to keep searching for the light, even in the darkest night.