From Ozer Bergman’s “Where Earth and Heaven Kiss: A Guide to Rebbe Nachman’s Path of Meditation” (Breslov Research Institute), pp. 119-121. The subject this excerpt addresses is actually part of a larger and more complex discussion, one of the Breslov sources for which is Likkutei Moharan I, 49. There, Rebbe Nachman discusses the paradox of the necessity to fall into dualistic thinking for the sake of the world and the spiritual advantages that can only come about through our working through conflicting thoughts and emotions.
The Heart of the Struggle
Rabbi Ozer Bergman
Struggling is, well, a struggle. It’s hard—it may even hurt— to keep your mind free of wrong-thinking and keep it focused on right-thinking, but it’s part of the medicine the soul needs to take. The brit (covenant) which we Jews made with God includes the attitude, state of mind and dedication that is necessary for and characterized by tzaddik-like self-control in the face of temptation and distraction. The struggle takes serious effort and often drains us of happiness, a counterproductive by-product if ever there was one. So be smart enough, while you’re struggling, to take joy and smile: Despite my setbacks and failures, I’m fortunate to be allied with a teacher such as Rebbe Nachman.
Many an individual finds it disconcerting and discouraging that he has to battle his thoughts so long and so hard. Wouldn’t it be better, he thinks, if he could spend his time and energy discovering the cure for cancer? Wouldn’t it be better to spend his time on the obviously holy, like Torah study and prayer? Not necessarily. This kind of conclusion betrays our limited perspective. Do you think that while we’re busy doing our tikkun haolam, God is just sitting back, watching us and letting us make all the decisions about what to do next? Not at all. He intervenes, pointing each of us towards his next job. Often that “next job” is the “Battle of the Thoughts,” the score of which is not tallied by how many unwanted thoughts you cast out, but by your beads of sweat.
The fact that you invest so much time and effort in struggling against wrong-thinking and are prevented from coming up with a cure for cancer is not your concern. That’s Heaven’s affair. What you are thinking (i.e., your need to struggle) may be wrong for the goals you had hoped to achieve, but they are right for what God hopes from His creation. Just follow your teacher’s instructions.
Kola b’machashavah itberiru (“Everything is purified through thought” [Zohar 2:254b]). All tikkun haolam has its genesis in your thinking. All tikkun haolam begins in your mind. As thoughts come into your head, you have to select which ones to keep and which ones to reject.
The Midrash tells us that when Pharaoh set out to capture the Israelites by the Red Sea, he and his army came on horses of different colors—red, black, white and spotted. Each horse in Pharaoh’s cavalry had its own gait. Red horses ran to anger and to violence, and to passion for food, sex, money and power. Black horses galloped to the quicksand of depression and despair. White horses had the zealous gait of mistaken religious fervor for seeming mitzvot which are sanctioned by Rabbi Pharaoh, but which are not really mitzvot at all. Spotted horses had a drunken gait-thinking that is inconsistent at best and unstable at worst.
When the Egyptian army appeared on the horizon, the Israelites were rightfully terrified. They were so many of them! Moshe told the Jewish people to remain silent; God would fight their battle. We shouldn’t be frightened when encountering the unruly thoughts represented by Pharaoh’s horses. Moshe, the clear thinker, taught us to not respond directly to the wrong thought.
Surprising, counter-intuitive, but true: Direct combat with such thoughts only makes them stronger. Much too strong for us. The silent response (a la “don’t look over your shoulder”) is your strongest response. If one of Pharaoh’s horses canters into your mind, wait with patient silence. God will send one of His horses to take its place, and you’ll be back on track.
Pharaoh’s horses, the products of fantasy and imagination, are there only because God put them there. He put them there to get you to see through the illusion and choose God rather than the illusion.
Put your hand in His. Cry out for His help. If you cannot actually cry out, at least raise your eyes to seek His help.
November 18, 2009
SO MANY CHOICES
From Ozer Bergman’s “Where Earth and Heaven Kiss: A Guide to Rebbe Nachman’s Path of Meditation” (Breslov Research Institute), pp. 163-166.
So Many Choices
Rabbi Ozer Bergman
Every now and then, use your hitbodedut as the first stage of defining and refining the values by which you want to live. Use it also as the venue in which you begin to formulate the goals and the plans that, stage by stage and step by step, will reflect your chosen values.
What exactly are those chosen values? Until you choose what you want out of life, you cannot formulate or pray for a plan to live by those values. As every good novelist knows, you always write the ending of your book first. Why? Because how the book ends will determine everything else that will be written in the story. Similarly, the ending which you choose for your life’s story will impact every decision you make. There is no more important choice you will ever make.
Alice asked the cat, “Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to go from here?”
“That depends a good deal on where you want to get to,” said the cat.
To make the right choices in life, you must turn your ear—and your heart—to listen closely and carefully, to hear through all the reverberating sounds and calls, the cacophony of wild beasts and wild claims. Your goal is to detect the genuine voice of Creation and reject its echoes. The genuine voice is a quiet, subtle, barely detectable whisper—until you hear it. Then it roars. You’ll never be able to hear it, though, unless you want it. If you don’t hear it, it’s either because you don’t want it at all or you don’t want it enough.
Rebbe Nachman once said to Reb Noson: “Everything you see in the world, everything that exists, is for the sake of free will, in order to challenge people.”
There are so many choices and oh so many voices—some yelling, some whispering, some in your face, some tugging and your sleeve. Some are so seductive, some so compelling. It can be maddening. A person may feel so overwhelmed that he makes a blind decision just to silence the noise.
Even if you have a fairly clear idea of what you want, some voices can mimic yours so well that you may believe that what they are saying is really you speaking. Is the choice you are making really yours? Is that really where you want to go? Are you fooling yourself or being fooled? Even if you’re sure that the choice is yours, are you certain that it leads to safe harbor?
Rebbe Nachman once remarked to Reb Noson, “You speak to people. Ask them, ‘What?’ Ask them to cut through all their excuses and rationalizations and honestly consider: What legacy will you leave for yourself? What will be your destiny?”
There’s an interesting experience one has almost immediately upon dying, an experience that is forced upon him: he gets to see that this world is vanity. He finally takes note that many of his “important concerns” were nonsense. This insight results from the great yishuv hadaat, the calm reflection, that comes when a person finally stops running and starts observing life from an unbiased perspective. Sadly, it is then too late to make use of this all-important piece of wisdom.
Lying there dead, one realizes that he wasted his days in vain. He will know that his most overwhelming desires were nonsense and confusion. Who really forced him! But a person must die before he fully perceives this truth.
Most things that people fear cannot harm them at all. The only time a person can think clearly is when he is dead. When he is lying on the ground, with his feet to the door, he will finally see the truth. Then he will realize that all his fears and worries were foolish and for nothing. What could anybody have done to him?!
While your fullest and most complete realization of this truth will hopefully wait for a good long while, Rebbe Nachman offers a valuable tip in the meantime: Use hitbodedut to reflect well on what you are doing. There is no need to wait till you’re absolutely dead and no longer able to busy yourself in the world to take a good, hard look at what’s truly important—and what is not.
Dedicating some of your hitbodedut to “comparison shopping” can be of inestimable value. An honest appraisal of the success that this world offers reveals that such pleasures are as permanent as passing shadows. They are, as Rebbe Nachman pointed out, as real as sunbeams in a dark room. It looks as if something is there, but if you try to grab it, you come up empty-handed.
Understand that this world is transient. From the day you’re born you begin to die. You’re never again going to live this day, this hour or this minute, ever. You need to remind yourself of this fact often because part of God’s genius was to hide it from us. Nothing is going to remain of all your fame, fortune, steak dinners or sexual pleasures. It may be necessary to occasionally make use of any or all of these for some nobler goal, but in and of themselves they have no value.
With hitbodedut you can detach from the furious and spurious pace and gauge accurately where your current path is leading. It usually takes more than an hour or two of hitbodedut to come to the intellectual realization and deep-rooted acceptance that this world has no enduring value. However long it takes, the hitbodedut invested is well worth it. Those sessions are your first steps and the crucial keys to easily divest yourself of your phobias and desires. From there, you can make hitbodedut the forum in which you determine, affirm and create your desire for living a life that is Jewish inside and out, from the inside out.
So Many Choices
Rabbi Ozer Bergman
Every now and then, use your hitbodedut as the first stage of defining and refining the values by which you want to live. Use it also as the venue in which you begin to formulate the goals and the plans that, stage by stage and step by step, will reflect your chosen values.
What exactly are those chosen values? Until you choose what you want out of life, you cannot formulate or pray for a plan to live by those values. As every good novelist knows, you always write the ending of your book first. Why? Because how the book ends will determine everything else that will be written in the story. Similarly, the ending which you choose for your life’s story will impact every decision you make. There is no more important choice you will ever make.
Alice asked the cat, “Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to go from here?”
“That depends a good deal on where you want to get to,” said the cat.
To make the right choices in life, you must turn your ear—and your heart—to listen closely and carefully, to hear through all the reverberating sounds and calls, the cacophony of wild beasts and wild claims. Your goal is to detect the genuine voice of Creation and reject its echoes. The genuine voice is a quiet, subtle, barely detectable whisper—until you hear it. Then it roars. You’ll never be able to hear it, though, unless you want it. If you don’t hear it, it’s either because you don’t want it at all or you don’t want it enough.
Rebbe Nachman once said to Reb Noson: “Everything you see in the world, everything that exists, is for the sake of free will, in order to challenge people.”
There are so many choices and oh so many voices—some yelling, some whispering, some in your face, some tugging and your sleeve. Some are so seductive, some so compelling. It can be maddening. A person may feel so overwhelmed that he makes a blind decision just to silence the noise.
Even if you have a fairly clear idea of what you want, some voices can mimic yours so well that you may believe that what they are saying is really you speaking. Is the choice you are making really yours? Is that really where you want to go? Are you fooling yourself or being fooled? Even if you’re sure that the choice is yours, are you certain that it leads to safe harbor?
Rebbe Nachman once remarked to Reb Noson, “You speak to people. Ask them, ‘What?’ Ask them to cut through all their excuses and rationalizations and honestly consider: What legacy will you leave for yourself? What will be your destiny?”
There’s an interesting experience one has almost immediately upon dying, an experience that is forced upon him: he gets to see that this world is vanity. He finally takes note that many of his “important concerns” were nonsense. This insight results from the great yishuv hadaat, the calm reflection, that comes when a person finally stops running and starts observing life from an unbiased perspective. Sadly, it is then too late to make use of this all-important piece of wisdom.
Lying there dead, one realizes that he wasted his days in vain. He will know that his most overwhelming desires were nonsense and confusion. Who really forced him! But a person must die before he fully perceives this truth.
Most things that people fear cannot harm them at all. The only time a person can think clearly is when he is dead. When he is lying on the ground, with his feet to the door, he will finally see the truth. Then he will realize that all his fears and worries were foolish and for nothing. What could anybody have done to him?!
While your fullest and most complete realization of this truth will hopefully wait for a good long while, Rebbe Nachman offers a valuable tip in the meantime: Use hitbodedut to reflect well on what you are doing. There is no need to wait till you’re absolutely dead and no longer able to busy yourself in the world to take a good, hard look at what’s truly important—and what is not.
Dedicating some of your hitbodedut to “comparison shopping” can be of inestimable value. An honest appraisal of the success that this world offers reveals that such pleasures are as permanent as passing shadows. They are, as Rebbe Nachman pointed out, as real as sunbeams in a dark room. It looks as if something is there, but if you try to grab it, you come up empty-handed.
Understand that this world is transient. From the day you’re born you begin to die. You’re never again going to live this day, this hour or this minute, ever. You need to remind yourself of this fact often because part of God’s genius was to hide it from us. Nothing is going to remain of all your fame, fortune, steak dinners or sexual pleasures. It may be necessary to occasionally make use of any or all of these for some nobler goal, but in and of themselves they have no value.
With hitbodedut you can detach from the furious and spurious pace and gauge accurately where your current path is leading. It usually takes more than an hour or two of hitbodedut to come to the intellectual realization and deep-rooted acceptance that this world has no enduring value. However long it takes, the hitbodedut invested is well worth it. Those sessions are your first steps and the crucial keys to easily divest yourself of your phobias and desires. From there, you can make hitbodedut the forum in which you determine, affirm and create your desire for living a life that is Jewish inside and out, from the inside out.
November 16, 2009
SOME REMARKS ON IMMANENTISM AND 'AYIN
The following is an excerpt from Dr. Moshe Idel’s “Hasidism: Between Ecstacy and Magic” (SUNY), pp. 107-111. Footnotes have been omitted from this online version, although we restored several source references to the text. We also took the liberty of fixing several typos and settling on the term “naught” exclusively as the English equivalent of ‘Ayin, where the author uses both “naught” and “nought.”
Some Remarks on Immanentism and ‘Ayin
Moshe Idel
The question of which is the more dominant factor in religion, and especially in mysticism – experience or theology – is not easy to answer. A more open theology, with immanentist leanings, might be considered to open up more easily the way for mystical experiences. However, mystical experiences are reported even within religions that cultivate extreme forms of transcendental theology. Thus, it may be that the spiritual predisposition, the opening of the human to the divine, is more important for the occurrence of mystical encounters than theology. Such an opening would select out of the many available theologies in the speculative reservoir of a particular religion the more immanentist or pantheistic one. As Erich Neumann has said, the “world and its content are numinous, but this is true only because man is by nature a homo mysticus” (Mystical Man, p. 385). Therefore, the emergence of a certain type of mystical theology should be an indicator of the experiential emphasis of the religious mentality within which this theology appears. Provided that mystical experiences emerge from and are encouraged by both immanentist and transcendental types of theologies, it seems reasonable to conclude that the latter do not impede upon the mystical experiences. Insofar as Hasidism is concerned, its theologies, which include strong immanentist formulations, are apparently not strong determinants of this religiosity, but more the effects of a theological selection determined by the strong openness of the Hasidic masters toward the numinous. This also seems to be true in the case of other Jewish mystical systems, more precisely ecstatic Kabbalah, especially in the forms espoused by R. Yizhaq of Acre and [R. Moshe] Cordovero. Indeed, a certain correlation between a tendency toward experiential mysticism and immanentism should be presupposed.
That immanentist theology cannot alone explain the emergence of full-fledged mystical experience may be deduced from a comparison between Hasidism and the thought of one of its great opponents. R. Hayyim of Volozhin, who used expressions that betray his deep interest in immanentist theology, as M. Pachter has shown. Therefore, the theological assumption that God is immanent in the world is far from being an innovation of Hasidic thought, but is one of the possible theologies that an eighteenth-century mystic could have adopted from a variety of classical Jewish writings. Strong unitive expressions, however, cannot be found in the writings of R. Hayyim. It would therefore be more plausible to look for the sources of Hasidic mysticism not in a certain type of theology, or at least not solely in it, but in a special spiritual opening, which drew on classical sources both in order to reach and to express the mystical state. The existence of a long history of mystical techniques, concepts, and systems in medieval Jewish mysticism proves that those texts that revealed them could have informed the Hasidic masters; thus we may assume that the role of immanentist theology in the emergence of Hasidic mysticism may be substantially reduced.
With this observation in mind, let us inspect briefly the history of the concept of “annihilation [bitul].” This concept is crucial for many of the Hasidic discussions of mystical experience and may be considered one of the most important components of the mystical technique in Hasidism. Indeed, its role as part of the technical aspect of the model is the expansion of consciousness, the break ing of the ego-centered personality, in order to assimilate to the divine and thereby receive the influx from above. It should be emphasized that assimilation by annihilation does not concern divinity in its immanent aspect but, on the contrary, the highest plane in the divine world, the divine Naught. Despite the remoteness of this aspect of the divine, it is possible to encounter the deity by inducing a certain state of mind and/or soul. In these discussions, while we are stressing the importance of experiential starting points over theological ones, the possible impact of the latter should not be ignored. We must assume, however, that the existence of mystical practices is far more important for the actualization of a mystical drive than the theosophical or theological structure within which a particular form of mystical revival takes place. In other words, the emphasis should be placed on the existence of a directive to imitate God by self-effacement as well as on the practices of solitude and mental concentration. Such practices reflect more adequately the emergence of a mystical search that may also adopt a variety of theologies as religious frameworks. Let us therefore examine the availability of a pivotal practice for the nascent Hasidism in earlier mystical traditions.
In a Talmudic discussion, R. Abbahu, a mystically inclined Amora, is quoted to the effect that “the world does not subsist ... but for the sake of someone who conceives himself as nonexistent” (Hullin 89a). The last phrase is a translation of the Hebrew words Mesim ‘azmo kemiy she-‘eino This awareness of personal “nothingness” has no direct relationship to a divine way of behavior, though it has, at least implicitly, a certain cosmic connotation: the existence of the worlds is conceived as depending upon this kind of person. The precise nature of such a person is not specified by the Talmudic source, which mentions in this context—though not in this specific case—names of biblical figures.
However, in another context, R. Yohanan is quoted as saying that the Torah does not subsist except for those who conceive themselves as “nonexistent.” (Sotah 21b). In this case, however, a prooftext is given: the famous verse in Job 28:12, “Ve-ha-hokhmah me-‘ayin timaze.” While the original sense of the verse is interrogative (“But where shall wisdom be found?”), in the Talmudic context the sense is that wisdom, namely the words of the Torah, [is] found in someone who regards himself as nonexistent, the last concept being represented in the verse by the word ‘Ayin. Interestingly, R. Shelomo Yizhaqi [Rashi], the most important commentator on the Talmud, uses in the context of the passage the form ke-‘Ayin, namely “as nonexistence,” or “as naught,” instead of ke-’eino. I cannot embark here on a full description of the implication of such a reading of the biblical verse in the Talmud. However, for our purpose, it is sufficient to point out that according to the above quotes, ‘Ayin can designate the spiritual state of the few, who play a special role both in sustaining the world and as teachers of the Torah.
A correlation between humility and the concept of ‘Ayin as the symbol of the highest Sefirah, Keter [Crown], is already evident in R. Moshe Cordovero’s Tefillah le-Moshe (fol. 219b): “ ‘Ayin ‘Aniy, the humble, Anavim who are within ‘Ayin, while the poor ones are within ‘Aniy.” This statement means that the humble ones can reach the divine Naught, which stands for the first Sefirah, while the poor belong to the last Sefirah, Malkhut [Kingship]. Even more important for the subsequent evolution of Jewish mysticism is a passage from Cordovero’s Tomer Devorah [“Palm Tree of Deborah”], in which he relates the imitatio dei to the imitation of the activity of the first Sefirah; in the second chapter of this book we read that the “quintessence of the humility is that man should not find in himself any value but should consider himself as naught [‘Ayin] ... because Keter is the first attribute ... which sees itself as naught in front of its emanator. Likewise, man should consider himself as naught, indeed, his ‘non-existence’ being better than his existence.”
As Bracha Sack has shown (“The Influence of Reshit Hokhmah”), this text has influenced Cordovero’s student’s important book, Reshit Hokhmah, and thereby also Hasidism. However, before turning to this work, let us ponder the meaning of the comparison between human behavior and the theosophical processes. The first Sefirah recognizes both its nothingness and its dependence when it ascends to receive the power of the Infinite. However, the first Sefirah does not disappear, and there is no reason to assume that the concept of self-negation is proposed here even implicitly. The Sefirot in Kabbalah can return to their source, but they do not lose their distinctiveness even there. By analogy, humility does not automatically assume a loss of identity, but may signify instead the proper understanding of the nature of reality and the absolute dependence of the individual upon the higher entities.
R. Elijah de Vidas, a major disciple of Cordovero, describes the first Sefirah as bowing in front of the emanator; it is called ‘Ayin, “since it considers itself as nothing when compared to the Emanator. And it lowers its head in order to watch over and to emanate onto the lower worlds, which all incline to suckle from it. Therefore, it is appropriate for man to think about himself as naught before His Greatness, blessed be He, which has no end or limit” (Reshit Hokhmah, The Gate of Holiness, chap. 1, para. 15, p. 582, [Appendix 5]).
Although there is no doubt that de Vidas was influenced by Cordovero, it should be mentioned that he also made recourse to the two talmudic texts quoted above (ibid. p. 618). However, there is one element that is hinted at in Reshit Hokhmah that does not occur in the context of the passage we have quoted above from Cordovero’s Tomer Devorah. According to de Vidas, the Kabbalist should imitate the first Sefirah not only through his humility or “annihilation” but also, he seems to be saying, through his influence on others. It should be emphasized that this is not an explicit statement: the emanation of Keter appears in de Vidas, but not explicitly in Cordovero, while the human counterpart of this act is not mentioned. Nevertheless, from the phrase “it is appropriate” we may infer that someone should also attempt to imitate the first Sefirah by service to others. Although this is only a possible inference, it is one which, indeed, was drawn by the Hasidic masters. It should be emphasized that the use of the term ‘Ayin, in order to express the mystic’s attitude of humility in relation to God, does not imply, at least in the above texts, individual disintegration or momentary annihilation. On the contrary, in some instances we may assume that by imitating the divine Naught the mystic is extending his consciousness by removing the boundaries of the self. Just as the divine Sefirotic realm starts with the infinite and moves toward the finite, so it is the case with human consciousness during this experience: by broadening his consciousness one not only transcends his regular, mundane state of awareness, but enhances his spiritual capacity, enabling it subsequently to capture or attract more sublime contents and stronger divine powers. This is the explanation of the ability to imitate the second type of divine act: the emanation or the production of the influx that descends upon the lower entities. This explanation ensures a certain logic of events, a Gestalt-contexture between the two divine acts as imitated by the mystic…
Some Remarks on Immanentism and ‘Ayin
Moshe Idel
The question of which is the more dominant factor in religion, and especially in mysticism – experience or theology – is not easy to answer. A more open theology, with immanentist leanings, might be considered to open up more easily the way for mystical experiences. However, mystical experiences are reported even within religions that cultivate extreme forms of transcendental theology. Thus, it may be that the spiritual predisposition, the opening of the human to the divine, is more important for the occurrence of mystical encounters than theology. Such an opening would select out of the many available theologies in the speculative reservoir of a particular religion the more immanentist or pantheistic one. As Erich Neumann has said, the “world and its content are numinous, but this is true only because man is by nature a homo mysticus” (Mystical Man, p. 385). Therefore, the emergence of a certain type of mystical theology should be an indicator of the experiential emphasis of the religious mentality within which this theology appears. Provided that mystical experiences emerge from and are encouraged by both immanentist and transcendental types of theologies, it seems reasonable to conclude that the latter do not impede upon the mystical experiences. Insofar as Hasidism is concerned, its theologies, which include strong immanentist formulations, are apparently not strong determinants of this religiosity, but more the effects of a theological selection determined by the strong openness of the Hasidic masters toward the numinous. This also seems to be true in the case of other Jewish mystical systems, more precisely ecstatic Kabbalah, especially in the forms espoused by R. Yizhaq of Acre and [R. Moshe] Cordovero. Indeed, a certain correlation between a tendency toward experiential mysticism and immanentism should be presupposed.
That immanentist theology cannot alone explain the emergence of full-fledged mystical experience may be deduced from a comparison between Hasidism and the thought of one of its great opponents. R. Hayyim of Volozhin, who used expressions that betray his deep interest in immanentist theology, as M. Pachter has shown. Therefore, the theological assumption that God is immanent in the world is far from being an innovation of Hasidic thought, but is one of the possible theologies that an eighteenth-century mystic could have adopted from a variety of classical Jewish writings. Strong unitive expressions, however, cannot be found in the writings of R. Hayyim. It would therefore be more plausible to look for the sources of Hasidic mysticism not in a certain type of theology, or at least not solely in it, but in a special spiritual opening, which drew on classical sources both in order to reach and to express the mystical state. The existence of a long history of mystical techniques, concepts, and systems in medieval Jewish mysticism proves that those texts that revealed them could have informed the Hasidic masters; thus we may assume that the role of immanentist theology in the emergence of Hasidic mysticism may be substantially reduced.
With this observation in mind, let us inspect briefly the history of the concept of “annihilation [bitul].” This concept is crucial for many of the Hasidic discussions of mystical experience and may be considered one of the most important components of the mystical technique in Hasidism. Indeed, its role as part of the technical aspect of the model is the expansion of consciousness, the break ing of the ego-centered personality, in order to assimilate to the divine and thereby receive the influx from above. It should be emphasized that assimilation by annihilation does not concern divinity in its immanent aspect but, on the contrary, the highest plane in the divine world, the divine Naught. Despite the remoteness of this aspect of the divine, it is possible to encounter the deity by inducing a certain state of mind and/or soul. In these discussions, while we are stressing the importance of experiential starting points over theological ones, the possible impact of the latter should not be ignored. We must assume, however, that the existence of mystical practices is far more important for the actualization of a mystical drive than the theosophical or theological structure within which a particular form of mystical revival takes place. In other words, the emphasis should be placed on the existence of a directive to imitate God by self-effacement as well as on the practices of solitude and mental concentration. Such practices reflect more adequately the emergence of a mystical search that may also adopt a variety of theologies as religious frameworks. Let us therefore examine the availability of a pivotal practice for the nascent Hasidism in earlier mystical traditions.
In a Talmudic discussion, R. Abbahu, a mystically inclined Amora, is quoted to the effect that “the world does not subsist ... but for the sake of someone who conceives himself as nonexistent” (Hullin 89a). The last phrase is a translation of the Hebrew words Mesim ‘azmo kemiy she-‘eino This awareness of personal “nothingness” has no direct relationship to a divine way of behavior, though it has, at least implicitly, a certain cosmic connotation: the existence of the worlds is conceived as depending upon this kind of person. The precise nature of such a person is not specified by the Talmudic source, which mentions in this context—though not in this specific case—names of biblical figures.
However, in another context, R. Yohanan is quoted as saying that the Torah does not subsist except for those who conceive themselves as “nonexistent.” (Sotah 21b). In this case, however, a prooftext is given: the famous verse in Job 28:12, “Ve-ha-hokhmah me-‘ayin timaze.” While the original sense of the verse is interrogative (“But where shall wisdom be found?”), in the Talmudic context the sense is that wisdom, namely the words of the Torah, [is] found in someone who regards himself as nonexistent, the last concept being represented in the verse by the word ‘Ayin. Interestingly, R. Shelomo Yizhaqi [Rashi], the most important commentator on the Talmud, uses in the context of the passage the form ke-‘Ayin, namely “as nonexistence,” or “as naught,” instead of ke-’eino. I cannot embark here on a full description of the implication of such a reading of the biblical verse in the Talmud. However, for our purpose, it is sufficient to point out that according to the above quotes, ‘Ayin can designate the spiritual state of the few, who play a special role both in sustaining the world and as teachers of the Torah.
A correlation between humility and the concept of ‘Ayin as the symbol of the highest Sefirah, Keter [Crown], is already evident in R. Moshe Cordovero’s Tefillah le-Moshe (fol. 219b): “ ‘Ayin ‘Aniy, the humble, Anavim who are within ‘Ayin, while the poor ones are within ‘Aniy.” This statement means that the humble ones can reach the divine Naught, which stands for the first Sefirah, while the poor belong to the last Sefirah, Malkhut [Kingship]. Even more important for the subsequent evolution of Jewish mysticism is a passage from Cordovero’s Tomer Devorah [“Palm Tree of Deborah”], in which he relates the imitatio dei to the imitation of the activity of the first Sefirah; in the second chapter of this book we read that the “quintessence of the humility is that man should not find in himself any value but should consider himself as naught [‘Ayin] ... because Keter is the first attribute ... which sees itself as naught in front of its emanator. Likewise, man should consider himself as naught, indeed, his ‘non-existence’ being better than his existence.”
As Bracha Sack has shown (“The Influence of Reshit Hokhmah”), this text has influenced Cordovero’s student’s important book, Reshit Hokhmah, and thereby also Hasidism. However, before turning to this work, let us ponder the meaning of the comparison between human behavior and the theosophical processes. The first Sefirah recognizes both its nothingness and its dependence when it ascends to receive the power of the Infinite. However, the first Sefirah does not disappear, and there is no reason to assume that the concept of self-negation is proposed here even implicitly. The Sefirot in Kabbalah can return to their source, but they do not lose their distinctiveness even there. By analogy, humility does not automatically assume a loss of identity, but may signify instead the proper understanding of the nature of reality and the absolute dependence of the individual upon the higher entities.
R. Elijah de Vidas, a major disciple of Cordovero, describes the first Sefirah as bowing in front of the emanator; it is called ‘Ayin, “since it considers itself as nothing when compared to the Emanator. And it lowers its head in order to watch over and to emanate onto the lower worlds, which all incline to suckle from it. Therefore, it is appropriate for man to think about himself as naught before His Greatness, blessed be He, which has no end or limit” (Reshit Hokhmah, The Gate of Holiness, chap. 1, para. 15, p. 582, [Appendix 5]).
Although there is no doubt that de Vidas was influenced by Cordovero, it should be mentioned that he also made recourse to the two talmudic texts quoted above (ibid. p. 618). However, there is one element that is hinted at in Reshit Hokhmah that does not occur in the context of the passage we have quoted above from Cordovero’s Tomer Devorah. According to de Vidas, the Kabbalist should imitate the first Sefirah not only through his humility or “annihilation” but also, he seems to be saying, through his influence on others. It should be emphasized that this is not an explicit statement: the emanation of Keter appears in de Vidas, but not explicitly in Cordovero, while the human counterpart of this act is not mentioned. Nevertheless, from the phrase “it is appropriate” we may infer that someone should also attempt to imitate the first Sefirah by service to others. Although this is only a possible inference, it is one which, indeed, was drawn by the Hasidic masters. It should be emphasized that the use of the term ‘Ayin, in order to express the mystic’s attitude of humility in relation to God, does not imply, at least in the above texts, individual disintegration or momentary annihilation. On the contrary, in some instances we may assume that by imitating the divine Naught the mystic is extending his consciousness by removing the boundaries of the self. Just as the divine Sefirotic realm starts with the infinite and moves toward the finite, so it is the case with human consciousness during this experience: by broadening his consciousness one not only transcends his regular, mundane state of awareness, but enhances his spiritual capacity, enabling it subsequently to capture or attract more sublime contents and stronger divine powers. This is the explanation of the ability to imitate the second type of divine act: the emanation or the production of the influx that descends upon the lower entities. This explanation ensures a certain logic of events, a Gestalt-contexture between the two divine acts as imitated by the mystic…
November 10, 2009
UNION
From Allen Afterman, “Kabbalah and Consciousness” (The Sheep Meadow Press 2005), pp. 71-75. A kabbalistic diagram and the author’s explanatory notes have been omitted from this online version, except where we restored several source references to the text. The late poet and mystic Allen Afterman studied with Rabbi Yitzchok Ginsburg of Chabad and Rabbi Gedaliah Fleer of Breslov, among others. One remark below calls for modification, however. Although it is true that the Chassidim put more stress on devekut (mystical cleaving) than their predecessors, at least in writing, the concept is found in several scriptural verses and is discussed by Rishonim (early medieval authorities) such as Ibn Ezra, Ramban and Radak, as well as in pre-Chassidic kabbalistic works such as those of the Maharal of Prague and Peleh Yo’etz. The method of hitbonenut (contemplation) he describes recalls the classic contemplative practice of Chabad Chassidism, although the author hastens to add that reflection in Torah study in general may be considered a sort of intellectual meditation.
Union
The innate desire of the soul is to reunify with the infinite. This is the root of every wanting; no other object, idea, or love can satisfy its desire. It is not only what the soul wants but what all of existence wants.' In the moment of union a person experiences all of existence uniting in himselfand all of its suffering, all of its yearning. This moment, as well as lower levels of mystical experience, is usually referred to as devekut. (being bound to, clinging, or cleaving to God) but also as “prophecy” and ahdut (becoming united, unification). The experience of devekut, however, is seldom elaborated upon in pre-Chassidic Kabbalah. The famous Talmudic story of the “four Sages who entered Paradise” expresses the dangers involved in the highest levels of transcendent experience. We read that Ben Azzai died, Ben Zoma became insane, Elisha Ben Abuyah renounced his faith, and only Rabbi Akiva “entered in [the state of] shalom and went out in shalom” (Chagigah 14a). In Chassidism, it is taught that while the other Sages did not commit themselves to return before the onset of their ascent towards God, Rabbi Akiva did. So that upon achieving union he naturally (unconsciously) returned. This is interpreted to reflect his commitment to the rectification of reality, which is the enduring value and purpose of union.
As the story of the four Talmudic Sages illustrates, mystical experience is inherently unstable, and is as potentially dangerous to the psyche as is its power of illumination. The process of “running towards God” is inevitably followed by a fall into ordinary consciousness. Falling is part of the natural spiritual rhythm in which transcendent experience is integrated into the routine of daily life. In order to achieve this integration, it is best that a person be committed to the spiritual path with its structure and collective experience, and if possible, to a teacher. If not, he may draw conclusions in isolation which lead into extreme asceticism, or egoism (most commonly in the form of messianism), or into psychosis. The ambivalent attitude of the Sages towards mystical experience is reflected in the teaching:
“Better is one hour of tshuvah (returning to God) and good actions in this world than the whole of life in the world to come; and better is one hour of the bliss of the spirit in the world to come than all the life in this world” (Sayings of the Fathers 4:17).
For such reasons the writings of Kabbalah are coded; its language and imagery is designed both to reveal and to conceal. Nevertheless, mystical union is the hidden core of Kabbalah, and is at the root of its total understanding.
Meditation
The traditional practices used by kabbalists to achieve devekut often involved Hebrew letter combinations and the recitation and permutation of divine names. These techniques are principally associated with the 13th century kabbalist Rabbi Abraham Abulafia and his school which in turn drew upon ancient sources. Letter combination and meditation on the names of God are still used by kabbalists and their students today. The intention of these meditations is explained by the Italian kabbalist Rabbi Moshe Chaim Luzzatto:
“God decreed . . . that when one would utter His Name, divine illumination and influence would be bestowed upon him. This is what God means when he says (Exodus 20:21), ‘In every place where I allow My name to be mentioned, I will come to you and bless you.’ When a particular name of God is uttered and used to call upon Him, it will result in the emanation of an influence (hashpa'ah) associated with that Name . . . God decreed that inspiration and prophecy should be attained in this manner . . . This occurs when one repeats one of these Names mentally, utters it verbally, or combines it with other words, and at the same time fulfills all the other conditions . . .”
Prayer, singing, meditation, secluded and silent communion with God, and speaking directly to God are the main paths to devekut. In prayer, the kabbalist concentrates his mind on the inner mystical intentions (kavvanot) and specific rectifications associated with each word or phrase. In meditation (hitbonenut), which may involve concentration upon spiritual ideas for many hours, the meditator reaches out through the intellect and then beyond. Such contemplation, although in a less concentrated form, is the essence of Torah study. The happiness which accompanies contemplation of the Torah (associated with Binah), underlies the great Jewish emphasis upon learning. The phenomenon of Jewish study for its own sake, of men spending the greatest part of their lives “learning,” is that of lifelong meditation. Nevertheless, no matter how much is gained in this way, it is not considered comparable to knowledge gained through direct spiritual inspiration.
“Turning one's face to God” is the direct and most uniquely Jewish approach to union. As is described by Rabbi Moshe Chaim Luzzatto, one is “... imploring and entreating Him and being heard and listened to by the Blessed One in the same way that a man, speaking to his friend, is heard and listened to by him.”
Direct communion usually develops in the mind before being overtly spoken. One’s inner conversation is the continuation of Abraham’s and Sarah’s conversation. In the Jewish tradition, this right can be considered the inheritance and entitlement from the ancestors (z'chut avot); an inheritance which includes the right to argue with God and to question his providence and justice. When communion involves actual speaking or spontaneous speech, it may be called sichah. Sichah (conversation) is simply intimate speaking out loud to God. (The daily practice of sichah, which is strongly emphasized by Rabbi Nachman, is nevertheless called hitbodedut in his writings.) In general, Jewish prayer or communion begins with praise. But each person begins at his own beginning; one with silence, another with singing, another by speaking of the difficulty of speaking, etc. This opening is called “the arousal from below,” the creation of an opening in oneself in which the infinite may “dwell.” Eventually, perhaps after many periods of silence and deadness, a person’s speaking will be answered by the experience of the divine presence.
Song Meditation
Song always implies pleasure; even a song of pain is a song longing for life’s pleasure. Each and every part of the Creation sings to its Creator. In terms of the sefirot, both the root of song and of primordial pleasure arc in the second head of Keter, the Head of Nothingness (Resha d'ayin), which is also the root of primordial pleasure. The Head of Nothingness is also the root of the Torah; thus Torah itself is called song, and is sung out. Singing is pure speech; the union of air, water, and fire. Thus chassidim often begin the study of Torah with the singing of several niggunim (wordless songs) which open the learning with their rhythms and transcendent structures.
Song meditation is known from the time of the prophets and their schools. Music is both an analogy for the movement towards mystical experience, and also an actual technique used to achieve devekut. In meditation, the singer sings with God's presence before his eyes. [According to an interpretation of Rabbi Elijah de Vidas,] “ ‘Sing, tzadikkim, to the Name’ . . . so that this name is before you, in order that you unify in such a way that the song is the complete devekut. . .”
Singing is the dark path, the blind search of the lover. When a person enters into singing, he is searching for the Beloved One. Thus the Song of Songs (called the “Holy of the Holies” of the Torah) is the allegory of the love between the bride and groom, between the soul and God.
Poetry and song arc the same word in Hebrew, shir. The song is intense being that disappears, whereas the poem is engraved or perhaps coarsens into words. The song that is sung expresses the upward motion, the stripping away of words. Poetry is the downward motion of enclothement, of capturing. Thus poetry is related to the concept in Torah of catching light, of catching arrows in midair; ultimately, of catching the expanding universe. Poetry is a power to catch something that is about to disappear. This power of the soul to catch comes from the Higher Mother, Binah. The power to catch the arrow is greater than the shooting itself. The poet hears singing and somehow tries to catch it. The poem expresses the outer limit and beyond what he has words for. His desire to preserve and to express it must be stronger than the experience itself. Form must be stronger than inspiration. The female must be stronger than the male. If experience is stronger, if there are no words, it disappears into being.
Union
The innate desire of the soul is to reunify with the infinite. This is the root of every wanting; no other object, idea, or love can satisfy its desire. It is not only what the soul wants but what all of existence wants.' In the moment of union a person experiences all of existence uniting in himselfand all of its suffering, all of its yearning. This moment, as well as lower levels of mystical experience, is usually referred to as devekut. (being bound to, clinging, or cleaving to God) but also as “prophecy” and ahdut (becoming united, unification). The experience of devekut, however, is seldom elaborated upon in pre-Chassidic Kabbalah. The famous Talmudic story of the “four Sages who entered Paradise” expresses the dangers involved in the highest levels of transcendent experience. We read that Ben Azzai died, Ben Zoma became insane, Elisha Ben Abuyah renounced his faith, and only Rabbi Akiva “entered in [the state of] shalom and went out in shalom” (Chagigah 14a). In Chassidism, it is taught that while the other Sages did not commit themselves to return before the onset of their ascent towards God, Rabbi Akiva did. So that upon achieving union he naturally (unconsciously) returned. This is interpreted to reflect his commitment to the rectification of reality, which is the enduring value and purpose of union.
As the story of the four Talmudic Sages illustrates, mystical experience is inherently unstable, and is as potentially dangerous to the psyche as is its power of illumination. The process of “running towards God” is inevitably followed by a fall into ordinary consciousness. Falling is part of the natural spiritual rhythm in which transcendent experience is integrated into the routine of daily life. In order to achieve this integration, it is best that a person be committed to the spiritual path with its structure and collective experience, and if possible, to a teacher. If not, he may draw conclusions in isolation which lead into extreme asceticism, or egoism (most commonly in the form of messianism), or into psychosis. The ambivalent attitude of the Sages towards mystical experience is reflected in the teaching:
“Better is one hour of tshuvah (returning to God) and good actions in this world than the whole of life in the world to come; and better is one hour of the bliss of the spirit in the world to come than all the life in this world” (Sayings of the Fathers 4:17).
For such reasons the writings of Kabbalah are coded; its language and imagery is designed both to reveal and to conceal. Nevertheless, mystical union is the hidden core of Kabbalah, and is at the root of its total understanding.
Meditation
The traditional practices used by kabbalists to achieve devekut often involved Hebrew letter combinations and the recitation and permutation of divine names. These techniques are principally associated with the 13th century kabbalist Rabbi Abraham Abulafia and his school which in turn drew upon ancient sources. Letter combination and meditation on the names of God are still used by kabbalists and their students today. The intention of these meditations is explained by the Italian kabbalist Rabbi Moshe Chaim Luzzatto:
“God decreed . . . that when one would utter His Name, divine illumination and influence would be bestowed upon him. This is what God means when he says (Exodus 20:21), ‘In every place where I allow My name to be mentioned, I will come to you and bless you.’ When a particular name of God is uttered and used to call upon Him, it will result in the emanation of an influence (hashpa'ah) associated with that Name . . . God decreed that inspiration and prophecy should be attained in this manner . . . This occurs when one repeats one of these Names mentally, utters it verbally, or combines it with other words, and at the same time fulfills all the other conditions . . .”
Prayer, singing, meditation, secluded and silent communion with God, and speaking directly to God are the main paths to devekut. In prayer, the kabbalist concentrates his mind on the inner mystical intentions (kavvanot) and specific rectifications associated with each word or phrase. In meditation (hitbonenut), which may involve concentration upon spiritual ideas for many hours, the meditator reaches out through the intellect and then beyond. Such contemplation, although in a less concentrated form, is the essence of Torah study. The happiness which accompanies contemplation of the Torah (associated with Binah), underlies the great Jewish emphasis upon learning. The phenomenon of Jewish study for its own sake, of men spending the greatest part of their lives “learning,” is that of lifelong meditation. Nevertheless, no matter how much is gained in this way, it is not considered comparable to knowledge gained through direct spiritual inspiration.
“Turning one's face to God” is the direct and most uniquely Jewish approach to union. As is described by Rabbi Moshe Chaim Luzzatto, one is “... imploring and entreating Him and being heard and listened to by the Blessed One in the same way that a man, speaking to his friend, is heard and listened to by him.”
Direct communion usually develops in the mind before being overtly spoken. One’s inner conversation is the continuation of Abraham’s and Sarah’s conversation. In the Jewish tradition, this right can be considered the inheritance and entitlement from the ancestors (z'chut avot); an inheritance which includes the right to argue with God and to question his providence and justice. When communion involves actual speaking or spontaneous speech, it may be called sichah. Sichah (conversation) is simply intimate speaking out loud to God. (The daily practice of sichah, which is strongly emphasized by Rabbi Nachman, is nevertheless called hitbodedut in his writings.) In general, Jewish prayer or communion begins with praise. But each person begins at his own beginning; one with silence, another with singing, another by speaking of the difficulty of speaking, etc. This opening is called “the arousal from below,” the creation of an opening in oneself in which the infinite may “dwell.” Eventually, perhaps after many periods of silence and deadness, a person’s speaking will be answered by the experience of the divine presence.
Song Meditation
Song always implies pleasure; even a song of pain is a song longing for life’s pleasure. Each and every part of the Creation sings to its Creator. In terms of the sefirot, both the root of song and of primordial pleasure arc in the second head of Keter, the Head of Nothingness (Resha d'ayin), which is also the root of primordial pleasure. The Head of Nothingness is also the root of the Torah; thus Torah itself is called song, and is sung out. Singing is pure speech; the union of air, water, and fire. Thus chassidim often begin the study of Torah with the singing of several niggunim (wordless songs) which open the learning with their rhythms and transcendent structures.
Song meditation is known from the time of the prophets and their schools. Music is both an analogy for the movement towards mystical experience, and also an actual technique used to achieve devekut. In meditation, the singer sings with God's presence before his eyes. [According to an interpretation of Rabbi Elijah de Vidas,] “ ‘Sing, tzadikkim, to the Name’ . . . so that this name is before you, in order that you unify in such a way that the song is the complete devekut. . .”
Singing is the dark path, the blind search of the lover. When a person enters into singing, he is searching for the Beloved One. Thus the Song of Songs (called the “Holy of the Holies” of the Torah) is the allegory of the love between the bride and groom, between the soul and God.
Poetry and song arc the same word in Hebrew, shir. The song is intense being that disappears, whereas the poem is engraved or perhaps coarsens into words. The song that is sung expresses the upward motion, the stripping away of words. Poetry is the downward motion of enclothement, of capturing. Thus poetry is related to the concept in Torah of catching light, of catching arrows in midair; ultimately, of catching the expanding universe. Poetry is a power to catch something that is about to disappear. This power of the soul to catch comes from the Higher Mother, Binah. The power to catch the arrow is greater than the shooting itself. The poet hears singing and somehow tries to catch it. The poem expresses the outer limit and beyond what he has words for. His desire to preserve and to express it must be stronger than the experience itself. Form must be stronger than inspiration. The female must be stronger than the male. If experience is stronger, if there are no words, it disappears into being.
November 4, 2009
THE REBBE OF KOTZK AND SOLITUDE
The following is an excerpt from Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel’s “A Passion for Truth” (Jewish Lights reprint, 2008, first published 1978), pp. 214-215. One of the 20th century scholar-mystic’s seminal works, “A Passion for Truth” compares and contrasts the spiritual approaches of Chassidic master Rabbi Menachem Mendl of Kotzk and his younger contemporary, Danish theologian Soren Kierkegaard.
The Rebbe of Kotzk and Solitude
By Abraham Joshua Heschel
Even as a child the Kotzker [Rabbi Menachem Mendl of Kotzk, 1787-1859] was inclined to loneliness. He preferred God's nearness, though it involved estrangement from people. He learned to extend his solitudes and to isolate himself. Life, he felt, should be lived apart from the self, for the sake of the greater One outside the Self. The individual had to keep his head clear of all digressions that prevented the splendor of God's thought from centering in the mind. There were tremors below and dizziness above, but the intense love must grow in silence and with painful patience.
Was it not promiscuous to mingle with people who, by mendacity and effrontery, kept the Almighty in isolation?
Even while surrounded by disciples, Reb Mendl lived apart from others. When he closed his doors, it was not he who was suddenly alone but those who followed him. In this way he rid himself of flatterers and mediocre companions and was able to foster his contemplative impulses and insights undisturbed. His soul dwelled so long in the midst of alarms, was afflicted with such frustrations, that only in seclusion could he nurture some crumbs of hope. When decisive acts have to be carried out, even God says, “I have trodden the winepress alone” (Isaiah 63:3).
There is an old tradition in Judaism about holy men, such as Rabbi Shimon ben Yohai, who spent much of' their time in solitude. It was this ancient sage's example that the Kotzker announced he would follow upon assuming the leadership of his Hasidic community. As a young man, Rabbi Yitzhak Luria, the founder of the Lurianic Kabbalah, removed to the banks of the Nile. For seven years lie he secluded himself in meditation, visiting his familv only on the Sabbath, speaking seldom and then only in Hebrew, which was not commonly spoken in his time. Hasidic lore tells us that as a young man the Baal Shem Tov spent many years alone in the Carpathian Mountains.
Solitude was a common practice among mystically inclined Jews. Even the non-mystical Jewish writers of the Middle Ages seemed to agree that solitary living was indispensable to the attainment of spiritual purity. This view may be found in the writings of Abraham Ibn Ezra, Maimonides, Badarshi, Falaquera, Gersonides, Albo, Crescas, and Abravanel among others.
What is there for one who seeks to save his authenticity other than withdrawal from the world's blaring lies and deceitful eyes? Proximity to the crowd, to the majority view, spells the death of creativity. For a soul can create only when alone, and some are chosen for the flowering that takes place in the dark avenues of the night. They may live on the brink of despair, alternating between a longing for fellowship and for privacy.
Even people who consider themselves moderately kind but also realistic tend to accept the use of God's name in association with falsehood or the daily murder of innocent people. How easily we develop indifference to evil and consent to mendacity as an indispensable fact of life.
Can a man of sense feel mercy if he himself has never experienced terror? The Kotzker is very close to us during the night – a night that lasts all day and opens up the horror that other people felt and saw, after which they died.
The Rebbe of Kotzk and Solitude
By Abraham Joshua Heschel
Even as a child the Kotzker [Rabbi Menachem Mendl of Kotzk, 1787-1859] was inclined to loneliness. He preferred God's nearness, though it involved estrangement from people. He learned to extend his solitudes and to isolate himself. Life, he felt, should be lived apart from the self, for the sake of the greater One outside the Self. The individual had to keep his head clear of all digressions that prevented the splendor of God's thought from centering in the mind. There were tremors below and dizziness above, but the intense love must grow in silence and with painful patience.
Was it not promiscuous to mingle with people who, by mendacity and effrontery, kept the Almighty in isolation?
Even while surrounded by disciples, Reb Mendl lived apart from others. When he closed his doors, it was not he who was suddenly alone but those who followed him. In this way he rid himself of flatterers and mediocre companions and was able to foster his contemplative impulses and insights undisturbed. His soul dwelled so long in the midst of alarms, was afflicted with such frustrations, that only in seclusion could he nurture some crumbs of hope. When decisive acts have to be carried out, even God says, “I have trodden the winepress alone” (Isaiah 63:3).
There is an old tradition in Judaism about holy men, such as Rabbi Shimon ben Yohai, who spent much of' their time in solitude. It was this ancient sage's example that the Kotzker announced he would follow upon assuming the leadership of his Hasidic community. As a young man, Rabbi Yitzhak Luria, the founder of the Lurianic Kabbalah, removed to the banks of the Nile. For seven years lie he secluded himself in meditation, visiting his familv only on the Sabbath, speaking seldom and then only in Hebrew, which was not commonly spoken in his time. Hasidic lore tells us that as a young man the Baal Shem Tov spent many years alone in the Carpathian Mountains.
Solitude was a common practice among mystically inclined Jews. Even the non-mystical Jewish writers of the Middle Ages seemed to agree that solitary living was indispensable to the attainment of spiritual purity. This view may be found in the writings of Abraham Ibn Ezra, Maimonides, Badarshi, Falaquera, Gersonides, Albo, Crescas, and Abravanel among others.
What is there for one who seeks to save his authenticity other than withdrawal from the world's blaring lies and deceitful eyes? Proximity to the crowd, to the majority view, spells the death of creativity. For a soul can create only when alone, and some are chosen for the flowering that takes place in the dark avenues of the night. They may live on the brink of despair, alternating between a longing for fellowship and for privacy.
Even people who consider themselves moderately kind but also realistic tend to accept the use of God's name in association with falsehood or the daily murder of innocent people. How easily we develop indifference to evil and consent to mendacity as an indispensable fact of life.
Can a man of sense feel mercy if he himself has never experienced terror? The Kotzker is very close to us during the night – a night that lasts all day and opens up the horror that other people felt and saw, after which they died.
November 2, 2009
WHERE SHALL I FIND YOU?
This devotional work by the great medieval poet and author of “The Kuzari,” Yehudah Halevi (before 1075-after 1141), bespeaks one of the central themes of Jewish mystical contemplation: the Creator’s simultaneous transcendence and immanence. (Rabbi Nachman of Breslov addresses this theme in Likkutei Moharan II, 7, as well as in numerous other lessons.) We have attempted to replicate at least an echo of the poem’s rhyme schemes, but our translation is more concerned with communicating the author’s message than the poetic qualities of his Hebrew, which remain untranslatable. Many of the poem’s lines allude to scriptural verses and rabbinic teachings.
Where Shall I Find You?
Yehudah HaLevi
Translated by Dovid Sears
God, where shall I find You?
Your place is lofty and concealed.
And where shall I not find You?
The whole earth is full of Your Glory!
Though present within the heart’s inner core,
The ends of earth You fixed of yore.
The stronghold of those who draw nigh,
You are hope and trust of those faraway.
Enthroned on the Cherubim above the Ark,
Yet You abide beyond space, beyond light and dark.
You are praised by Your hosts
But all praises You surpass.
The sphere of heaven cannot contain You,
Temple chambers, how much less!
Upon Throne most exalted
Over all things You preside.
Yet You remain closer to the living
Than their bodies and their lives.
That we have no Maker but You,
Faithful tongues declare.
Who shall not fear You
And the yoke of Your dominion bear?
Who shall not cry out to You
Who provides their daily fare?
Your Presence I have sought,
Calling out from the depths of the heart.
When after You, I went forth resolutely
There I found You, on Your way to me.
In Your wondrous might, in the holy place,
You allowed me to envision Your face.
That he has not seen You, who can say?
The heavens and their legions proclaim Your dread,
But their voices forever remain unheard!
Can the Infinite One dwell within finite creation?
What can human minds conceive, creatures of humble station?
Yet You, Holy One, make Your home amidst their adoration.
Living angels at the summit of the universe
Your awesome paradox proclaim.
Above their heads Your sublime Throne rests,
Yet all existence is borne by Your Name!
Where Shall I Find You?
Yehudah HaLevi
Translated by Dovid Sears
God, where shall I find You?
Your place is lofty and concealed.
And where shall I not find You?
The whole earth is full of Your Glory!
Though present within the heart’s inner core,
The ends of earth You fixed of yore.
The stronghold of those who draw nigh,
You are hope and trust of those faraway.
Enthroned on the Cherubim above the Ark,
Yet You abide beyond space, beyond light and dark.
You are praised by Your hosts
But all praises You surpass.
The sphere of heaven cannot contain You,
Temple chambers, how much less!
Upon Throne most exalted
Over all things You preside.
Yet You remain closer to the living
Than their bodies and their lives.
That we have no Maker but You,
Faithful tongues declare.
Who shall not fear You
And the yoke of Your dominion bear?
Who shall not cry out to You
Who provides their daily fare?
Your Presence I have sought,
Calling out from the depths of the heart.
When after You, I went forth resolutely
There I found You, on Your way to me.
In Your wondrous might, in the holy place,
You allowed me to envision Your face.
That he has not seen You, who can say?
The heavens and their legions proclaim Your dread,
But their voices forever remain unheard!
Can the Infinite One dwell within finite creation?
What can human minds conceive, creatures of humble station?
Yet You, Holy One, make Your home amidst their adoration.
Living angels at the summit of the universe
Your awesome paradox proclaim.
Above their heads Your sublime Throne rests,
Yet all existence is borne by Your Name!
"A STILL, SMALL VOICE"
From Rabbi Avraham Greenbaum, Tzaddik (English translation of Chayei Moharan, compiled by Reb Noson; Breslov Research Institute, 1987), “His Attainments,” sec. 241, p. 254.
“A Still, Small Voice”
I was told that the Rebbe [Rabbi Nachman of Breslov] once said: “When do I have my meditation? When everyone is standing around me, and I am sitting there in the middle. That is when I seclude myself with God. I know how to cry out in a ‘still, small voice’ (I Kings 19:12)! And my voice is heard from one end of the world to the other.”
I myself once heard the Rebbe say something to the same effect – that he had a “still, small voice,” and he could stand in a great throng of people and still cry out in this “still, small voice” from one end of the world to the other. And none of the people round about would hear anything at all.
The Rebbe said something similar with regard to dancing. He said that when he was sitting with other people he could dance the most wondrous dance.
I once heard him say that he could be sitting among other people and “I am like someone who is surrounded by all the people in the world, and he dances and dances.” As the Rebbe was saying this, a number of musicians passed by with their instruments on their way to a wedding.
On another occasion, the Rebbe elaborated on this idea, teaching us how it is possible to be among people and still cry out with a “still, small voice” (see Rabbi Nachman’s Wisdom, sec. 16).
“A Still, Small Voice”
I was told that the Rebbe [Rabbi Nachman of Breslov] once said: “When do I have my meditation? When everyone is standing around me, and I am sitting there in the middle. That is when I seclude myself with God. I know how to cry out in a ‘still, small voice’ (I Kings 19:12)! And my voice is heard from one end of the world to the other.”
I myself once heard the Rebbe say something to the same effect – that he had a “still, small voice,” and he could stand in a great throng of people and still cry out in this “still, small voice” from one end of the world to the other. And none of the people round about would hear anything at all.
The Rebbe said something similar with regard to dancing. He said that when he was sitting with other people he could dance the most wondrous dance.
I once heard him say that he could be sitting among other people and “I am like someone who is surrounded by all the people in the world, and he dances and dances.” As the Rebbe was saying this, a number of musicians passed by with their instruments on their way to a wedding.
On another occasion, the Rebbe elaborated on this idea, teaching us how it is possible to be among people and still cry out with a “still, small voice” (see Rabbi Nachman’s Wisdom, sec. 16).
TIME TO THINK
From Rabbi Aryeh Kaplan, “Rabbi Nachman’s Wisdom” (English translation of Shevachey HaRan and Sichos HaRan, authored by Reb Noson; Breslov Research Institute, 1973), “His Wisdom,” sec. 47, pp. 150-151.
Time to Think
You must be very worthy to be able to meditate for a given time each day and regret what you must.
Not everyone can have such mental tranquility each day. The days pass and are gone, and one finds that he never once had time to really think.
You must therefore make sure to set aside a specific time each day to calmly review your life. Consider what you are doing and ponder whether it is worthy that you devote your life to it.
One who does not meditate cannot have wisdom.
He may occasionally be able to concentrate, but not for any length of time. His power of concentration remains weak and cannot be maintained.
One who does not meditate also does not realize the foolishness of the world. But one who has a relaxed and penetrating mind can see that it is all vanity.
Many desire to travel widely and become famous and powerful. They do not have enough perception to realize that this is vanity and striving after wind (Ecclesiastes 1:4, 2:11). It is all the more folish because it does not actually result in pleasure even in this world. The main result of such fame is suffering and insults.
One of the Rebbe’s followers once had a strong desire to become a renowned religious leader. The Rebbe told him, “You cannot even say the prayer after meals sincerely! Everything you do must be acceptable to others. Never once do you do something for the sake of G-d alone.”
Time to Think
You must be very worthy to be able to meditate for a given time each day and regret what you must.
Not everyone can have such mental tranquility each day. The days pass and are gone, and one finds that he never once had time to really think.
You must therefore make sure to set aside a specific time each day to calmly review your life. Consider what you are doing and ponder whether it is worthy that you devote your life to it.
One who does not meditate cannot have wisdom.
He may occasionally be able to concentrate, but not for any length of time. His power of concentration remains weak and cannot be maintained.
One who does not meditate also does not realize the foolishness of the world. But one who has a relaxed and penetrating mind can see that it is all vanity.
Many desire to travel widely and become famous and powerful. They do not have enough perception to realize that this is vanity and striving after wind (Ecclesiastes 1:4, 2:11). It is all the more folish because it does not actually result in pleasure even in this world. The main result of such fame is suffering and insults.
One of the Rebbe’s followers once had a strong desire to become a renowned religious leader. The Rebbe told him, “You cannot even say the prayer after meals sincerely! Everything you do must be acceptable to others. Never once do you do something for the sake of G-d alone.”
THE LESSON OF ELIJAH'S CAVE
From Rabbi Shmuel Horowitz’s collection of Breslov oral traditions, Avaneha Barzel, sec. 24. Translated by Dovid Sears.
The Lesson of Elijah's Cave
At the time Rabbi Nachman delivered the lesson later published as Likkutei Moharan I, 66, he had a discussion with Reb Noson about the Cave of Elijah. [There the biblical prophet had secluded himself from the world in order to commune with God.] Reb Noson was given to understand that Elijah had only reached his lofty spiritual level through hisbodedus (secluded meditation and prayer). This so inspired him that he went to the women’s section of the synagogue nearby (knowing that it would not be in use at that time) and began to recite psalms and speak to God in his own language with intense fervor.
In the meantime, someone in the town announced that he wished to celebrate an engagement party and wanted to invite Reb Noson. The man searched for him, but couldn’t find him. However, he figured that his friend was probably engaged in hisbodedus. So he began to cry out in the streets, “Reb Noson! Reb Noson!” At this, Reb Noson left his place of seclusion and went along with his friend to the engagement party.
The Lesson of Elijah's Cave
At the time Rabbi Nachman delivered the lesson later published as Likkutei Moharan I, 66, he had a discussion with Reb Noson about the Cave of Elijah. [There the biblical prophet had secluded himself from the world in order to commune with God.] Reb Noson was given to understand that Elijah had only reached his lofty spiritual level through hisbodedus (secluded meditation and prayer). This so inspired him that he went to the women’s section of the synagogue nearby (knowing that it would not be in use at that time) and began to recite psalms and speak to God in his own language with intense fervor.
In the meantime, someone in the town announced that he wished to celebrate an engagement party and wanted to invite Reb Noson. The man searched for him, but couldn’t find him. However, he figured that his friend was probably engaged in hisbodedus. So he began to cry out in the streets, “Reb Noson! Reb Noson!” At this, Reb Noson left his place of seclusion and went along with his friend to the engagement party.
October 29, 2009
THE ESSENCE OF JEWISH MEDITATION
Originally posted on BBC's website, reproduced here by permission of Professor Les Lancaster, Liverpool John Moores University.
The essence of Jewish meditation
By Professor Les Lancaster
What is Jewish meditation?
'Meditation' is a word used extensively today, and it has connotations that do not sit easily with Jewish mystical practices. If you think of meditation simply as a means of relaxation, then you will not understand why Jewish mystics follow practices that can be highly complex. The typical Jewish meditation appears far from relaxing.
A deeper grasp of the term meditation paves the way for my discussion of Jewish mystical practices. We must recognise that there are, in broad terms, two different ways of thinking. The first is normal, everyday rational thought - thinking about things you have to do, or about ideas, or about people around you. The second is, by comparison, less logical and less oriented to immediate everyday goals. This second is a more penetrating kind of thinking.
It involves shifting the centre of gravity of the mind away from the sense of 'I' which normally dominates our goals. Like all meditative practices, Jewish mystical techniques are directed towards enhancing this second form of thinking. At the same time, these practices cultivate an awareness of the divine presence in all things.
In fact, the first type of thinking is simply a surface layer of thought. If you imagine the mind as a sea, then rational thought is simply the surface level of waves on the water. The major currents operate at the deeper levels of the ocean. The objective of meditation is to engage with these deeper currents.
One of the major texts of Kabbalah, the 12th-century Bahir, writes that the biblical prophet Habakkuk 'understood God's thought.' It tells us:
"Just as human thought has no end, for even a mere mortal can think and descend to the end of the world, so too the ear also has no end and is not satiated."
Jewish mystical practices enable us to use thought to 'descend to the end of the world', that is, to plumb the depths where mind and physical reality are no longer separate.
The goals of Jewish meditation
Within the overall framework of Judaism, meditative practices are intended to deepen the individual's engagement with all aspects of the religion. Meditation and techniques of concentration can:
-heighten one's understanding of the Torah
-develop an understanding of ritual and other religious observances
-give direction to prayer
-increase one's awareness of others' needs
More generally, Jewish meditation is understood as:
- promoting a greater closeness to God
- disciplining the mind, so that one has greater ability to focus mentally
- bringing an awareness of those regions of the mind that had previously been 'unconscious'
Examples and exercises
Examples of Jewish meditation
One of the oldest texts that describes Jewish meditation practices is the Sefer Yetsirah. Consider the following extract:
"Ten dimensions of nothingness. Their measure is ten to which there is no end.
A depth of beginning, a depth of end; a depth of good, a depth of evil; a depth of above, a depth of below; a depth of east, a depth of west; a depth of north, a depth of south.
The unified Master - God faithful King - rules over all of them, from His holy dwelling place, until eternity of eternities."
The meditation based on this passage entails consciously building up a deep sense of your place in relation to the dimensions.
We begin with 'depth of beginning'. You could ask yourself: what first triggered the situation in which you presently find yourself? As the mind arrives at answers (perhaps you are reading this because a friend thought you would be interested), continue by dismissing the idea that the answer might be definitive and final; there is always a further root (what is it about you that might have led the friend to think you would be interested; where did that quality in you develop from, and so on?).
When you can no longer put the answer in words (perhaps some ineffable intimation of a root in your soul), begin to move forwards in time.
What seem to be the likely consequences of your immediate situation? Again, continue to go beyond the immediate answers and stretch the bounds of your mental representations. In relation to the depth of good, the question to address concerns that which connects you to the larger whole - to God. And, for evil, what leads to a sense of disconnection? Always, you must stretch the bounds of the answers which pop into the mind.
The meditation continues with the first of the six directions of space. What is immediately above you? Air... the ceiling... other rooms... the roof... birds... sky... vastness of space... the infinite that cannot be formed in the mind...
It is as if you generate a beam of light from within that is gradually extended further and further whilst, at the same time, maintaining your awareness of the centre, the heart as the source of light... And then continue into the remaining directions. You may glimpse your inner core suspended at the heart of a web of infinite interconnections.
Ultimately, the objective is for you to experience a sense of meaning that can only be described as witnessing your self as a centre within a network of interconnections which plunge into an infinite nothingness.
The use of Hebrew in meditation: Visualising the Hebrew letters
The example on the previous page can be attempted without any specific background. However, most Jewish meditations require at least a basic knowledge of Hebrew, the sacred language of Judaism.
Jewish mystics view the Hebrew letters as the agents of creation. There are many techniques for visualising and working with the letters. The Sefer Yetsirah states that God engraved the letters, carved them, weighed them, permuted them, combined them, and formed with them all that was formed and all that would be formed in the future. Each of these processes is mirrored in a kabbalistic practice of visualisation.
Preparation for visualisation requires closing or half-closing the eyes. Normally, when you close the eyes you automatically turn the visual sense off inwardly as well. For this kind of a practice, however, you must remain acutely aware of the visual sense even whilst being closed to outward seeing. It is as if you are seeing the screen made by the insides of your eyelids.
Engraving means outlining the letter in the mind's eye; as the outline is built up, you must hold a clear intent to operate with a specific letter.
Carving entails establishing the letter as a powerful presence in visual consciousness; energy is focused on the letter until it blazes like fire on the inner screen of the mind.
The intent behind weighing is that of allowing the letter's qualities to impress themselves upon you; a receptive state must be cultivated, in which you might, for example, find meaning in the letter's shape, its constituent parts, its relations with other letters, and so on.
This is followed by permuting the letter with other letters; maybe, having focused on the letter's constituent lines, other letters using those lines arise in the mind.
Letters are then combined, enabling them to enter into relationships one with another.
The final stage concerns the meaning of those combinations; what kind of a presence is formed when those specific letters come together? It is not simply a matter of knowing the word (and, in fact, not all combinations produce words), but rather you should attempt to discern the nature of the entity depicted by the specific combination of letters. What tensions arise between the letters, or do they share a more harmonious relation?
Another meditation with the Hebrew letters introduces their sounds, as indicated in the following audio extract. These kinds of practice open up regions of meaning that extend beyond the reach of the everyday rational mind. As quoted earlier from the Bahir, they begin the process of forging deep links with 'God's thought'.
The essence of Jewish meditation
By Professor Les Lancaster
What is Jewish meditation?
'Meditation' is a word used extensively today, and it has connotations that do not sit easily with Jewish mystical practices. If you think of meditation simply as a means of relaxation, then you will not understand why Jewish mystics follow practices that can be highly complex. The typical Jewish meditation appears far from relaxing.
A deeper grasp of the term meditation paves the way for my discussion of Jewish mystical practices. We must recognise that there are, in broad terms, two different ways of thinking. The first is normal, everyday rational thought - thinking about things you have to do, or about ideas, or about people around you. The second is, by comparison, less logical and less oriented to immediate everyday goals. This second is a more penetrating kind of thinking.
It involves shifting the centre of gravity of the mind away from the sense of 'I' which normally dominates our goals. Like all meditative practices, Jewish mystical techniques are directed towards enhancing this second form of thinking. At the same time, these practices cultivate an awareness of the divine presence in all things.
In fact, the first type of thinking is simply a surface layer of thought. If you imagine the mind as a sea, then rational thought is simply the surface level of waves on the water. The major currents operate at the deeper levels of the ocean. The objective of meditation is to engage with these deeper currents.
One of the major texts of Kabbalah, the 12th-century Bahir, writes that the biblical prophet Habakkuk 'understood God's thought.' It tells us:
"Just as human thought has no end, for even a mere mortal can think and descend to the end of the world, so too the ear also has no end and is not satiated."
Jewish mystical practices enable us to use thought to 'descend to the end of the world', that is, to plumb the depths where mind and physical reality are no longer separate.
The goals of Jewish meditation
Within the overall framework of Judaism, meditative practices are intended to deepen the individual's engagement with all aspects of the religion. Meditation and techniques of concentration can:
-heighten one's understanding of the Torah
-develop an understanding of ritual and other religious observances
-give direction to prayer
-increase one's awareness of others' needs
More generally, Jewish meditation is understood as:
- promoting a greater closeness to God
- disciplining the mind, so that one has greater ability to focus mentally
- bringing an awareness of those regions of the mind that had previously been 'unconscious'
Examples and exercises
Examples of Jewish meditation
One of the oldest texts that describes Jewish meditation practices is the Sefer Yetsirah. Consider the following extract:
"Ten dimensions of nothingness. Their measure is ten to which there is no end.
A depth of beginning, a depth of end; a depth of good, a depth of evil; a depth of above, a depth of below; a depth of east, a depth of west; a depth of north, a depth of south.
The unified Master - God faithful King - rules over all of them, from His holy dwelling place, until eternity of eternities."
The meditation based on this passage entails consciously building up a deep sense of your place in relation to the dimensions.
We begin with 'depth of beginning'. You could ask yourself: what first triggered the situation in which you presently find yourself? As the mind arrives at answers (perhaps you are reading this because a friend thought you would be interested), continue by dismissing the idea that the answer might be definitive and final; there is always a further root (what is it about you that might have led the friend to think you would be interested; where did that quality in you develop from, and so on?).
When you can no longer put the answer in words (perhaps some ineffable intimation of a root in your soul), begin to move forwards in time.
What seem to be the likely consequences of your immediate situation? Again, continue to go beyond the immediate answers and stretch the bounds of your mental representations. In relation to the depth of good, the question to address concerns that which connects you to the larger whole - to God. And, for evil, what leads to a sense of disconnection? Always, you must stretch the bounds of the answers which pop into the mind.
The meditation continues with the first of the six directions of space. What is immediately above you? Air... the ceiling... other rooms... the roof... birds... sky... vastness of space... the infinite that cannot be formed in the mind...
It is as if you generate a beam of light from within that is gradually extended further and further whilst, at the same time, maintaining your awareness of the centre, the heart as the source of light... And then continue into the remaining directions. You may glimpse your inner core suspended at the heart of a web of infinite interconnections.
Ultimately, the objective is for you to experience a sense of meaning that can only be described as witnessing your self as a centre within a network of interconnections which plunge into an infinite nothingness.
The use of Hebrew in meditation: Visualising the Hebrew letters
The example on the previous page can be attempted without any specific background. However, most Jewish meditations require at least a basic knowledge of Hebrew, the sacred language of Judaism.
Jewish mystics view the Hebrew letters as the agents of creation. There are many techniques for visualising and working with the letters. The Sefer Yetsirah states that God engraved the letters, carved them, weighed them, permuted them, combined them, and formed with them all that was formed and all that would be formed in the future. Each of these processes is mirrored in a kabbalistic practice of visualisation.
Preparation for visualisation requires closing or half-closing the eyes. Normally, when you close the eyes you automatically turn the visual sense off inwardly as well. For this kind of a practice, however, you must remain acutely aware of the visual sense even whilst being closed to outward seeing. It is as if you are seeing the screen made by the insides of your eyelids.
Engraving means outlining the letter in the mind's eye; as the outline is built up, you must hold a clear intent to operate with a specific letter.
Carving entails establishing the letter as a powerful presence in visual consciousness; energy is focused on the letter until it blazes like fire on the inner screen of the mind.
The intent behind weighing is that of allowing the letter's qualities to impress themselves upon you; a receptive state must be cultivated, in which you might, for example, find meaning in the letter's shape, its constituent parts, its relations with other letters, and so on.
This is followed by permuting the letter with other letters; maybe, having focused on the letter's constituent lines, other letters using those lines arise in the mind.
Letters are then combined, enabling them to enter into relationships one with another.
The final stage concerns the meaning of those combinations; what kind of a presence is formed when those specific letters come together? It is not simply a matter of knowing the word (and, in fact, not all combinations produce words), but rather you should attempt to discern the nature of the entity depicted by the specific combination of letters. What tensions arise between the letters, or do they share a more harmonious relation?
Another meditation with the Hebrew letters introduces their sounds, as indicated in the following audio extract. These kinds of practice open up regions of meaning that extend beyond the reach of the everyday rational mind. As quoted earlier from the Bahir, they begin the process of forging deep links with 'God's thought'.
October 23, 2009
THE CELESTIAL FIRE
From The Penguin Book of Hebrew Verse, edited by T. Carmi, pp. 87-88 (biographical note) and 221 (poem). However, we have slightly modified the translation here.
Yannai (sixth century), the first paytan (liturgical poet) of the classical period, lived in the Holy Land. He was virtually unknown until the 20th century, when I. Davidson discovered several of his compositions among the manuscripts in the Cairo Genizah. Subsequently, the research of M. Zulay led to the publication of over eight hundred poems, remarkable for their force, originality, and variety (from Editor’s Introduction). We have chosen this poem for its evocation of the mysteries of the prophetic experience.
The Celestial Fire
“Now an angel of the Lord appeared to Moses
In a blazing fire…”
A fire that devours fire
A fire that burns in things dry and moist
A fire that glows amid snow and ice
A fire like a crouching lion
A fire that manifests itself in many forms
An absolute fire that never expires
A fire that shines and roars
A fire that blazes and sparkles
A fire that flies in a storm wind
A fire that burns without wood
A fire that renews itself every day
A fire that is not fanned by fire
A fire that billows like palm branches
A fire whose sparks are flashes of lightning
A fire black as a raven
A fire curled like the colors of the rainbow!
Yannai (sixth century), the first paytan (liturgical poet) of the classical period, lived in the Holy Land. He was virtually unknown until the 20th century, when I. Davidson discovered several of his compositions among the manuscripts in the Cairo Genizah. Subsequently, the research of M. Zulay led to the publication of over eight hundred poems, remarkable for their force, originality, and variety (from Editor’s Introduction). We have chosen this poem for its evocation of the mysteries of the prophetic experience.
The Celestial Fire
“Now an angel of the Lord appeared to Moses
In a blazing fire…”
A fire that devours fire
A fire that burns in things dry and moist
A fire that glows amid snow and ice
A fire like a crouching lion
A fire that manifests itself in many forms
An absolute fire that never expires
A fire that shines and roars
A fire that blazes and sparkles
A fire that flies in a storm wind
A fire that burns without wood
A fire that renews itself every day
A fire that is not fanned by fire
A fire that billows like palm branches
A fire whose sparks are flashes of lightning
A fire black as a raven
A fire curled like the colors of the rainbow!
THE MOMENT
From The Penguin Book of Hebrew Verse, edited by T. Carmi, pp. 98 (biographical note) and 285 (poem)
Samuel HaNagid (993-1056), the first major poet of the “Golden Age,” was born in Cordoba and was amongthose who fled the capital when the Berber hordes destroyed it in 1013. A reknowned Talmudist and statesman, he was the first Spanish Jew to be granted the title “Nagid (Prince)” (Editor’s Introduction). We have chosen this poem for this website because, echoing the Book of Ecclesiastes, it expresses the ephemeral nature of worldly existence and the existential primacy of the moment – hence its title. This, too,was an important theme in Rabbi Nachman of Breslov’s mystical works some seven centuries later.
The Moment
She said: “Rejoice
For God has brought you
to your fiftieth year in the world!”
But she had no inkling
That , for my part, there is no difference
Between my own days which have gone by
And the distant days of Noah
In the rumored past.
I have nothing in the world
But the hour in which I am.
It pauses for a moment, and then
Like a cloud
Moves on.
Samuel HaNagid (993-1056), the first major poet of the “Golden Age,” was born in Cordoba and was amongthose who fled the capital when the Berber hordes destroyed it in 1013. A reknowned Talmudist and statesman, he was the first Spanish Jew to be granted the title “Nagid (Prince)” (Editor’s Introduction). We have chosen this poem for this website because, echoing the Book of Ecclesiastes, it expresses the ephemeral nature of worldly existence and the existential primacy of the moment – hence its title. This, too,was an important theme in Rabbi Nachman of Breslov’s mystical works some seven centuries later.
The Moment
She said: “Rejoice
For God has brought you
to your fiftieth year in the world!”
But she had no inkling
That , for my part, there is no difference
Between my own days which have gone by
And the distant days of Noah
In the rumored past.
I have nothing in the world
But the hour in which I am.
It pauses for a moment, and then
Like a cloud
Moves on.
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