Joseph Kingman stood on the balcony of his Jerusalem residence and watched the sun slowly rise like a giant orange-red pearl over the city that had been his home for the past twenty-one years. He had already been up for an hour and a half—first praying, then taking a brisk two mile walk, finally returning to the balcony to await the herald of day.
Normally, he would be eating a breakfast of dates, cereal made from whole grain oats, and skim milk. It was a routine he’d followed for the past seven years. But today was different. Today began his third day of fasting in preparation for the very special events that lay ahead of him. Even though he controlled his eating habits and engaged in a strict regimen of exercise every day since he’d learned of his brother’s death—just before Passover seven and a half years ago—he knew there was only so much he could do with an eighty-year old body. “Besides, Benjamin died of leukemia,” he told himself whenever he thought about his own mortality. “Calories and cholesterol have nothing to do with that. I’ve already outlived my younger brother by nineteen years.”
As the first golden-yellow rays of daylight broke the early morning chill and caressed his lined and weathered face, he thought about the ritual he had learned, perfected, and practiced over the past ten years.
Last night, in the quiet moments between wakefulness and sleep, he’d closed his eyes and cleared his mind so he would be ready for his nightly meditation. At midnight, he awakened, climbed out of bed, and washed himself. In the semi-darkness of his room, the moon his only light, he attached phylacteries to his forearm and forehead and spent an hour on his knees contemplating the spiritual substance of the Torah in the form of the bride of God, the female essence known as Shekhinah.
When he’d finished, he climbed back into bed and reflected on his first conversation with the old man, dead now for nearly three years, who would eventually become his mentor and teacher in the way of kabbalah. Rabbi Solomon Akiva Luria. It was a conversation that changed his life.
“Remember, Joseph,” intoned the rebbe as he stroked his long, black beard, “you are but a novice on the mystical path. If you are to succeed, you must work hard to prepare yourself for enlightenment.”
“And how do I do that,” he asked eagerly.
“By climbing the spiritual ladder—”
“What?”
The momentary glint of amusement that flickered in the old man’s obsidian eyes did not detract from the seriousness of his words. “The ladder,” continued the rebbe solemnly, “although rooted in the earth, will ultimately lead you to God. The rungs of the ladder are what mystics call madregot, or levels of understanding.” The older man gazed deep into his eyes, searching out the secrets hidden there. “A word of caution, however. You must fight the temptation to climb the ladder quickly, as others have done. You will benefit much more if you ascend slowly. If you pace yourself, according to your ability to absorb the knowledge imparted to you at each level, you will succeed where others have failed.”
“How will I know when I’m ready to go on to the next rung?”
“Purify your soul—and you will know.”
“How do I purify my soul?”
“Scrutinize every motive, every thought, even those behind apparent good deeds. Simply enacting the mitzvoth, the divine precepts, will be meaningless if you harbor a hidden desire for spiritual reward. Heed well the words of the great mystic, Moses Chayim Luzzatto: ‘Acquire a little today, and add a little tomorrow until you are so habituated to it that it is second nature with you.’“
“And the madregot?” he asked, eager to be taught.
The rebbe smiled for the first time. “When you experience the state called AWE, that is, coming into the continued presence of the Almighty, you will have arrived at the first rung. This is achieved by humbling your ego through undistracted observation of the commandments. From AWE you will proceed to LOVE, and from LOVE to CLEAVING. As the Book of Deuteronomy, or Instruction, commands us, we must fear the Lord our God, serve Him, cleave to Him, and swear by His name, because He is our praise, and He is our God.”
“I don’t know if I can achieve such discipline,” he said, revealing the uncertainty hidden in his heart.
Rabbi Luria stared at him with eyes that seemed a thousand years old, and once again Joseph thought he saw a glimmer of amusement in them. “If you are faithful,” the rebbe said, “and if you commit yourself to a diligent study of the TANAKH, you will not fail.” He reached down, with hands that looked as if they were made of leather instead of skin, and opened the Bible lying on the table between them. He slowly turned the pages of the well-worn book as he spoke, a ritual he’d performed often.
“Study Ecclesiastes, and learn to withdraw from sensory attachment,” he continued. “Immerse yourself in the Psalms as you confront the peaks and valleys of your own spiritual struggles. Finally, commit to memory the Song of Songs. It is the most beautiful, and perhaps the most poetic, of all the words penned by our fathers.” The rebbe paused. “You see, my friend, it is in the Song of Songs that man learns about the soul in union with its Creator.”
The older man closed his eyes, as if their conversation had exhausted him. He sat back in his chair and sighed, letting the well-worn Bible rest in his lap. The two of them sat that way—he staring at the old man breathing as if asleep—for what seemed like hours.
In reality, it was only several minutes.
Abruptly, the rebbe opened his eyes and continued their conversation as if it had never ceased. “If you truly desire to climb the ladder to God, Joseph,” his mentor said in a firm voice, “then you must immerse yourself in the process of bittul ha yesh, the total annihilation of the desiring self. You must do as the Maggeed of Mezeritch instructed his disciples to do—detach your ego from your body until you have passed through all the worlds. When you disappear entirely out of the bodiless world, then you will be one with God.”
“I’m not sure I understand. Are you speaking of some kind of out of body experience?”
A faraway look seeped into Rabbi Luria’s eyes. “Beyond devekuth lies the realm mystics call Holy Spirit. There, it is possible for a man to be mentally, and even sometimes, physically, transformed into a prophet. If, by the grace of God, you should ever achieve this level, then, like the great prophet Moses, you will truly have entered the Way of God—”
Now, as Joseph prepared to engage in his morning hitbodedut, or meditation, he closed his eyes and breathed deeply through his nose, savoring the musk odor of the Holy City. It was time to free his mind from everything distracting. Through years of practice and discipline he had developed the skill to induce AWE quickly. He imagined he was standing, not on his balcony in twentieth century Jerusalem, but in the inner court of Herod’s Temple nearly two thousand years ago. With a little effort, he could almost hear the sonorous chanting of the Levites as they sang the Great Hallel after the sacrifices. He even imagined that the unique aroma that now filled his lungs was ketoret, a special blend of spices including frankincense, galbanum, stactate, onchya, and myrrh.
Several minutes passed.
He closed his eyes even tighter and willed his thoughts to focus on the three patriarchs—Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. Part of him, the part he knew had kept him from going as far as he had desired in his study of kabbalah, relished the thought that his kavanna, or power of concentration, was nearly at its peak. He ignored the momentary lapse into prideful exaltation and patiently held the thick, rich desert air in his lungs until they begged for oxygen. Only when the burning in his chest became unbearable did he allow the stale air to leech out through his parched lips.
The discipline took nearly two full minutes.
Joseph relished the fact that even at eighty he felt in total control of his physical body.
Repeating the ritual, he took another deep breath.
This time, he smiled with satisfaction. He felt giddy, and enervated. He also felt a familiar tingling sensation. It coursed through his veins, racing from the top of his spine, downward to all his extremities, raising Goosebumps along the way.
He recalled the words he’d read in the Zohar, the Book of Splendor, a thirteenth-century Spanish mystic’s guide to the arcane rites of Jewish mysticism: Human breath is a mixture of subtle elements comprised of air, fire, and water. Without breath, we die. By learning and practicing the secrets inherent in the breath, King Solomon lifted nature’s physical veil from all created things and gazed upon the spirit within—
Ready for the next stage of his meditation, Joseph cleared his mind of all thought.
Gradually, his normal breathing pattern altered, and he began to recite the sacred Shema, the daily declaration of God’s unity with His Name. “SHMA, YISRAEL, YHWH, ELOHAYNU, YHWH, ECHAD. Hear, O Israel, the Lord our God, the Lord is One,” he chanted, remembering to prolong his utterance of the final word, echad. This was an important aspect of the ritual, because it reaffirmed, in his own spirit, how small he actually was when compared to the Divine One.
An image began to form in his mind’s eye—the cosmic tree of life—as Rabbi Luria’s words beckoned to him softly: “While a man’s mouth and lips are moving, his heart and will must soar to the height of heights, so as to acknowledge the unity of the whole—”
Joseph knew he was nearing the state in which the mystics of old could see sound and hear colors. His entire body trembled with ecstasy as a feeling of indescribable warmth flooded over him. This was the best hitbodedut he had ever experienced! It occurred to him that he was as close as he’d ever been to achieving devekuth, the highest state of the spirit.
The state of cleaving to God.
His ecstasy was short-lived, however, because something happened that was not supposed to happen.
He lost control.
“BARUCH A-TA A-DO-NAI E-LO-HAY-NU ME-LECH HA-O-LAM BO-RAY M’O-RAY HA-AYSH,” he cried out suddenly, passionately, relishing the fact that he felt so alive, yet disconcerted. Even though the words came through him, they had not come from him. It was as if he’d been compelled by some unseen, celestial force to speak them. His voice, strong and resonant, gave no hint of his age. “Blessed are you, O Eternal our God, King of the Universe, Creator of the radiance of the fire,” he repeated in English, flustered at his compulsive and unanticipated behavior.
Why was he reciting words usually reserved for the Havdalah Service?
This was the Day of Atonement!
Suddenly, he was buffeted by a strong gust of wind.
Then a second.
And a third.
And finally, a fourth, even stronger than the previous three.
The repeated gusts of wind whipped at him as if he was standing in the midst of a whirlwind. He thought about Elijah and the whirlwind that had whisked the aged prophet to Heaven as his faithful servant Elisha had watched in amazement.
With the wind came fear.
Not for his life, but because of his sudden lack of control.
In one brief instant, he’d lost the discipline over his body he’d spent ten years learning to exercise. The control he so proudly coveted, deep within his spirit. The control he used to measure character in the people he met.
He desperately wanted to open his eyes—but couldn’t.
Even more disconcerting, he was overcome with a powerful urge to continue reciting the Havdalah prayer. The fount of words rose up from deep within him and gushed forth from his mouth unbidden. “Blessed art thou, O Eternal, our God, King of the Universe, who has made a distinction between holy and not holy, between light and darkness, between Israel and the other nations, between the seventh day and the six working days,” he proclaimed to the heavens in a deep-throated, crystalline voice, resisting, yet relishing, the feeling he was experiencing. “You discriminated between the sanctity of the Sabbath day, and the sacredness of the festival; and you consecrated the seventh day in preference to the six working days; you separated your people Israel and sanctified them with your holiness.”
Shaking, Joseph paused to catch his breath.
What in the name of all that is holy is happening to me? he wondered.
In response to his silent cry, a strange, melodious voice from behind him began speaking to him in Hebrew. “BARUCH A-TA A-DO-NAI HA-MAV-DEEL BAYN KO-DESH L’KO-DESH”
At first he thought he was hearing some kind of odd echoing effect.
But as the musical voice continued, he realized that was not the case. Relieved he was not alone, and, suddenly, no longer fearful, he listened to the words.
“BARUCH A-TA A-DO-NAI E-LO-HAY-NU ME-LECH HA-O-LAM SHE-HE-CHE-YA-NU, V’KEE-Y’MA-NU, V’HEE-GEE-A-NU LA-Z’MAN HA-ZEH.”
Tears cascaded down his cheeks as he translated aloud the words he’d just heard, “Blessed are you, O Eternal, who makes a distinction between holy and holy. Blessed are you, O Eternal, our God, King of the Universe, who has preserved us alive, sustained us, and brought us to enjoy this season.”
When he finished, the wind stopped as abruptly as it had started.
With the sudden stillness came a gnawing silence.
Joseph opened his eyes.
He turned, anxious to see who it was that had intruded upon his privacy.
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a brief glimpse of an unusually tall man with silver-gray hair. The powerfully built stranger stood in the midst of what appeared to be a cocoon of pure white, pulsating light.
Light that shined brighter than the blossoming sunlight now filling the skies above Jerusalem.
Light that seemed to be alive.
Overwhelmed with emotions he didn’t understand, he cried out again, this time with only a guttural gasp. His eyes burned with the shimmering light and filled again with unbidden tears. He rubbed his stinging sockets, dizzy with confusion, then blinked several times.
When at last clear sight returned, he received yet another shock.
There was no sign of the silver-haired stranger.
Dumfounded, Joseph gaped at the empty balcony.