Creation Impossible

Introduction: Location and Place

Becoming acquainted with the mystical teachings of the Chabad chassidic school is a bit like getting to know the great cities of the world. New York, Paris and Beijing are not locations on a map, but living cities. To grasp the unique character of any of these places you need to do more than walk the streets and see the sights. You must immerse yourself in the locality, drawing in all the diverse aspects of its character and assimilating something of its atmosphere. To know New York is not to know where New York is, but to know what New York is like.

The same principle applies to the mystical concepts that are drawn from kabbalistic literature and which figure prominently in the chassidic teachings of the Chabad school. It is quite common to see visual representations pinpointing the locations of particular spheres and attributes on the celestial map. Verbal descriptions of these concepts are often phrased in terms that set forth their relative “positions,” and rarely articulate the conceptual contours they embody. We are told that “atzilut is higher than briah,” and that “chesed is on the right side, while gevurah is on the left.” But what is atzilut like?

As a student, this question bothered me for two full years before any kind of answer became accessible. I studied many chassidic texts and gained an ever increasing knowledge of the cosmic map. Yet I felt as though I was juggling codes and symbols in a system that had internal theoretical coherence, but no relationship with anything outside of its own metaphysical realm.The more I struggled with these mysteries the more convinced I became that these concepts were meant to be grasped in a more fundamental and more relevant way. The more I struggled with these mysteries the more convinced I became that these concepts were meant to be grasped in a more fundamental and more relevant way.

Although I expressed my frustrations to my instructors on the Yeshiva faculty, the explanations I received did not satisfy my curiosity. I learned something about the limits of language and the difficulty of describing the intangible, but my attempts to probe deeper than strictly necessary were not always encouraged.

In the summer of 2007 I began attending the lectures of Rabbi Elimelech Zweibel (“Reb Meilich”), lead instructor in chassidic thought and practice, at Yeshiva Tomchei Temimim Lubavitch in Morristown, New Jersey. Suddenly, an entire world of insight opened before my eyes. He challenged us with questions, laid bare the inadequacy of a merely superficial understanding and articulated an altogether deeper—and more tangible—sense of how these concepts should be considered. He would often repeat something he had heard from the Lubavitcher Rebbe, Rabbi Menachem M. Schneerson, of righteous memory, “every concept in chassidic thought can be explained in terms that even a child can relate to, if only you understand it correctly.”1

The class Reb Meilich taught on tzimtzum forced me to forget everything I had previously learned about the mystical concepts described in Chabad literature; it became clear that I would now have to relearn and rethink these concepts in an effort to uncover their real import.

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The Tzimtzum Narrative - Take One

Tzimtzum is a narrative explanation of how an infinite G‑d ‘made room’ for the emanation of finite forms and created beings, first articulated by Arizal (Rabbi Isaac Luria, 1534-1572) and transcribed by his foremost student, Rabbi Chaim Vital (1543-1620), in Etz Chaim.2 In this text, and in others, tzimtzum is described in metaphorical terms that would normally describe a physical event located in time and space.

Although my main objective in this article it to get beyond such devices, and reframe these ideas in more direct terms, the metaphors employed by the Kabbalists are actually very helpful. The essence of the divine self (atzmut) remains entirely elusive, but G‑d is revealed—and can be perceived and conceived of—in many different ways. So long as we remember that the analog needs to be abstracted from its physical analogy, these metaphors offer us a simple way to visualize concepts that would otherwise remain elusively esoteric.

The Kabbalists often used the image of light, which reveals the sun to the inhabitants of the earth, to describe the relationship between G‑d (the luminary) and creation. The term “light” (ohr) does not refer to the divine self or “essence” (atzmut), but to the way the divine self is manifest. The light emanating from the sun is not to be confused with the sun itself. Chabad chassidic literature often draws on the human psyche to better illustrate such concepts; a single individual can reveal different facets and degrees of their inner self, and be perceived in different ways by different people. Similarly, the essence of the divine self (atzmut) remains entirely elusive, but G‑d is revealed—and can be perceived and conceived of—in many different ways.

In the tzimtzum narrative, which describes three general phases in the unfolding of the divine relationship with creation, the image of light plays a central role. Any reading of the relevant passages is bound to raise many difficulties, but before we start taking the concepts apart, it is important to get the different phases of the narrative clear:

Phase one: “Before” the tzimtzum, “there was a celestial and simple light that filled all existence, and there was no empty room... Rather all was filled with simple infinite light, which did not have either beginning or end, but all was one simple light, all the same and equal... this is called infinite light (ohr ayn sof).”

Phase two: “Then... this light was contracted (tzimtzum is the Hebrew word for contraction)... and drawn aside... leaving empty room, a hollow space (chalal)... After this tzimtzum there was now space where emanations and creations could [potentially] be formed and made.”

Phase three: “Then was drawn forth from the infinite light a single straight line (kav), [drawn] from the surrounding light... successively descending into the hollow. The top of this line is drawn from the the infinite light itself and touches it... and through this line the infinite light is drawn and spread out below. Thus, in that hollow space, all the realms were emanated, created and made.”

The resemblance between physical light and ohr ayn sof, is that both of them reveal their source—the luminary (ma’or) or the divine essence (atzmut). The first phase of the narrative is a description of a facet of divine revelation that reflects the utter simplicity and infinitude of G‑d’s essential self (ohr me’eyn ha-maor). In the face of such a revelation, not only could nothing other than G‑d exist, G‑d could not even be manifest as wise, kind, just or in any other conceivable way. In the face of such a revelation, not only could nothing other than G‑d exist, G‑d could not even be manifest as wise, kind, just or in any other conceivable way. Tzimtzum refers to the constriction of this infinite manifestation of the divine self, providing a “space” in which the divine self could be manifest in a more finite form, and ultimately, in the creation of finite beings.

* * *

A useful way into the conceptual import of this narrative is a question posed in Etz Chaim by Rabbi Chaim Vital himself:3

According to the above description, two changes occur in two separate phases. First the infinite light is contracted and entirely withdrawn from the hollow space, and only afterwards is the line drawn forth to successively descend into the hollow. Wouldn’t it have been simpler—Rabbi Chaim Vital asked—if the infinite light was only partly withdrawn, leaving the narrow line in place to begin with?

This might seem like semantics, but this question goes to the very heart of what the tzimtzum narrative is about. In answer, Rabbi Chaim Vital asserts that if the infinite light would not have been withdrawn entirely, G‑d could never be manifest in any conceivable form and finite creations could never have come to be. But this assertion itself begs the question; why does a partial withdrawal not leave sufficient room for the appearance of finite forms of divine revelation, and ultimately the creation of beings other than G‑d?

* * *

Rabbi Elimelech Zweibel

By this point in the class Reb Meilich had us hanging on to his every word. But now he stopped talking, and scanned the faces of his students expectantly. Astonishingly, he appeared to be waiting for one of us to furnish an explanation.

“What does it mean,” he probed, “when we say that there is ‘no room’ for something?”

At first we were intimidated, but his gentle manner and patient encouragement gave us confidence. We racked our brains for some kind of clue to the conundrum that he had laid before us, and in my mind something flashed. I glanced across at my study partner and saw his brow furrowed in concentration, and then something flashed in his eyes too, and they turned to meet mine. What it was I couldn’t say, but one thing I did know, and my friend knew it too—if we were to satisfy Reb Meilich we would need to address the question in the same way that we would discuss an issue of Talmudic legal theory.

In Chabad yeshivot, seven hours of the day are spent studying Talmudic texts and commentaries, and a little more than three hours are devoted to the study of chassidic texts. Talmudic legal theory is a complex field in its own right, but it falls squarely in the realm of real-world knowledge and sensibility. When undertaking a legal case study, it is of vital importance that you have a clear understanding of the circumstances, as well as the ability to coherently define those circumstances and explain why those circumstances call for the application of a particular legal principle. Talmudic theory is a science; each line of reasoning can be measured on a scale of applicability and logical coherence. Reb Meilich wanted us to rethink mystical concepts within a similar frame of reference. Talmudic legal theory is a science, and each line of reasoning can be measured on a scale of applicability and logical coherence.

Reb Meilich wanted us to find a way to rethink the mystical concepts we were discussing within a similar frame of reference. Our suggestions would have to stand up to scrutiny by a measurable standard of relevance and sound reason.

Reb Meilich’s glance landed on us, and he repeated the question in Yiddish, this time in more general terms, “vos meint men az men zogt az a zach hot nisht kayn ort? What do we mean when we say that there is no room for something?”

The answer slipped out of my friend’s mouth, “s’opgefregt. It’s out of the question.” The phrase, “there is no room for x,” means that “x is out of the question—impossible.”

Reb Meilech’s face underwent an almost imperceptible change, he had heard what he wanted to hear. Now he only needed to expand on the kernel of truth that he had extracted.

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Three Degrees of Impossibility

Impossible is impossible is impossible, or so you might think. But as every yeshiva student worth his salt knows, there are many degrees to which a given line of reasoning may be out of the question. For the purposes of this discussion, we need to identify three different degrees of impossibility, going from less impossible to more impossible:

1) Often enough, a new solution offered to explain some Talmudic conundrum seems quite sound; the theory itself seems sensible, and if it is accepted as correct the conundrum will be resolved. As every yeshiva student worth his salt knows, there are many degrees to which a given line of reasoning may be out of the question. But then the Talmud refers to an authoritative source which clearly indicates that the solution offered is unacceptable.

In one example, the Talmud offers a distinction between damage perpetrated in a public space while performing a religious mandate and damage perpetrated in the course of personal business. In the first case you are not liable for any damage unintentionally caused, in the second case you are. This suggestion seems sensible and, if accepted, would resolve a conflict between one statement made by Rabbi Yehudah and another made by a Mishnah. But the distinction is rejected on the basis of another statement made by Rabbi Yehudah himself: “In all cases that you are permitted to use public space, if you cause unintentional damage you are not liable.” While the proposal itself was logically coherent and persuasive, an authoritative source provides a decisive verdict; there is no room for such a suggestion.4

Let’s call this a “technical impossibility.”

2) In other instances, a potential line of reasoning might be shown to be unacceptable due to an internal flaw. In such cases, the suggestion initially appears to be coherent and correct, but when subjected to closer analysis it is revealed to be erroneous.

Instead of forcing your head round another Talmudic entanglement, just think about someone tackling a mathematical problem. Sometimes the initial reckoning appears to be correct, but when scrutinized and reconsidered it is discovered to be off the correct mark by a couple of digits. You can even pinpoint the earlier error and explain precisely where the calculation went wrong, and it becomes clear that the solution initially suggested is out of the question. In this case, there is no need to appeal to an outside authority; the rejection of the suggested conclusion is entirely due to the discovery of an internal flaw in its logical structure.

Let’s call this an “inherent impossibility.”

3) For the purposes of our third case study, let’s return to the legal issue of the private use of public space, which we discussed earlier. Suppose that, in an attempt to resolve an apparent conflict between two statements, the Talmud distinguished between the use of blue objects in a public space and the use of red objects in a public space; in the first case you are not liable for any damage unintentionally caused, in the second case you are.

Needless to say, such a suggestion would be completely nonsensical; there is no room whatsoever If a colleague of mine made such a suggestion, I would reject it out of hand; if they persisted, I would begin to think they had gone mad. for the notion that a legal question of liability should be dependent on something as arbitrary as color. If I came across such a suggestion in the Talmud (rest assured, I never have) I would be sure that my eyes are deceiving me. If a colleague of mine made such a suggestion, I would reject it out of hand; if they persisted, I would begin to think they had gone mad. My reaction would be the same if someone suggested a color as a solution to a mathematical problem. Such an irrelevant suggestion is no less than plain gibberish; no one would consider it a legitimate line of reasoning at all.

Let’s call this a “ludicrous impossibility.”

* * *

Now lets take a minute to analyze the similarities and differences between these three situations. We’ll begin with the first two:

In examples one and two we are presented with legitimate attempts to find a solution; both attempts address the relevant problem with logic and coherence. But in both cases we subsequently find that the solutions initially suggested are actually unacceptable.

The difference lies in the way these solutions are rejected. A “technical impossibility” is only rejected after the introduction of a new piece of information. But in the initial absence of that information, a theoretical vacuum did exist in which there was room to consider the proposal as acceptable. In the second case, on the other hand, there was never room for the proposed solution, it is an “inherent impossibility.” The difference lies in the way these solutions are rejected... the first is torpedoed by the introduction of a new element, and the second is found to be inherently wanting. There was certainly room for human error, but the solution initially offered was always conceptually untenable. By the same token, the error can be discovered simply by rechecking the original figures; no additional information is required.

While both of these initially represent coherent attempts to follow a legitimate line of reasoning, the first is torpedoed by the introduction of a new element, and the second is found to be inherently wanting.

Example three, however, is an entirely different kettle of fish. There is nothing coherent or logical about this suggestion, and it is not a legitimate attempt to address the problem at all. As a distinction that has no relevance to the subject at hand, it is more than erroneous; it is ludicrous. Unlike the mistake made in example two, this is not an error that needs to be evaluated and reconsidered, and there is no way to explain how or why such a mistake could have been made. A suggestion of this type is utterly inexplicable.

Before the tzimtzum, the suggestion that G‑d should be manifest as a creator, and bring other beings into existence, is ludicrous, inexplicable, unfathomable.

This doesn’t mean that creation is beyond G‑d’s capacity. Nothing is. This is not a statement about what G‑d can or can’t do, but a statement about G‑d’s essential nature. This is not a statement about what G‑d can or can’t do, but a statement about G‑d’s essential nature. Although G‑d is most often thought of as the “creator and ruler of heaven and earth,” the tzimtzum narrative asserts that such a conception is extremely limited, and extremely superficial. G‑d’s essential being is absolutely transcendent, and no human conception, including the loftiest conception we might have of a divine creator, can grasp anything of that transcendence.

Creation, therefore, is technically not impossible; but in a very deep sense it is far more than impossible. In relation to the divine self, creation is so far off the radar that it isn’t even banal.

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The Tzimtzum Narrative - Take Two

The real function of the tzimtzum narrative is to make a radical statement about the absolute transcendence of G‑d’s essential self.

This statement has nothing to do with any particular event that unfolded in time and space. But the designation “before” the tzimtzum is used to help us conceive of how the primal manifestation of the divine essence—signified in Arizal’s narrative by the infinite light that preceded the tzimtzum—The designation “before” the tzimtzum helps conceive of how the primal manifestation of the divine essence bears no relationship to G‑d’s role as creator. bears no relationship to G‑d’s role as creator. The revelation of the divine self in the role of creator—signified in Arizal’s narrative by the line (kav) that extends from the infinite light into the hollow—is likewise described as taking place “after” the tzimtzum, in order to emphasize that it expresses nothing of G‑d’s essentially transcendent self. Spatial and temporal terms are employed to provide a conceptual framework that utterly divides the “primal” mode of divine self expression (transcendent, essential, and exclusive) from the far narrower facet of divinity expressed in G‑d’s relationship with the created realms.

Despite the cosmic disparity between these two modes of divine self expression, both are referred to as ohr ayn sof (infinite light) and both are indeed expressions of divine infinitude. Without Arizal’s tzimtzum narrative, the terminology used to describe them might lead us to think that they are one and the same. The tzimtzum narrative drives home the truth that they are not the same; the manifestation of G‑d in the role of creator (henceforth ohr ha-kav) is distinguished from the primal manifestation of the divine essence (henceforth ohr she-lifnei ha-tzimtzum) by an unbridgeable gap.

It was to answer the question, “what is that gap like?” or “what is tzimtzum like?” that Reb Meilich invoked the three degrees of impossibility earlier described: The gap between the more benign degrees of “impossibility” (examples one and two) and what we labeled “ludicrous impossibility” (example three) is immeasurable. It was to answer the question, “what is that gap like?” or “what is tzimtzum like?” that Reb Meilich invoked the three degrees of impossibility earlier described. The earlier category allows some room for theoretical validity, or—failing that—for error, but the latter category allows absolutely none at all.

That the same term is used to describe such disparate situations, is truly a crime, and leads to the unfortunate misconception that any degree of impossibility embodies a quantifiable measure of absolute impossibility. But this is not the case! The gap is not quantitative but qualitative. Absolute impossibility cannot be reduced by degree.

So it is when we talk about the impossible prospect of otherness in the presence of G‑d. The more benign degrees of impossibility correlate with G‑d in the role of creator (ohr ha-kav). From this perspective we can discuss whether the creations really are beings other than G‑d, or whether they are actually opaque manifestations of divinity. The third example, however, correlates with the absolute transcendence of the divine essence (ohr she-lifnei ha-tzimtzum). From this perspective, it would be absolutely meaningless to have a discussion about otherness and creation. It would be like having a conversation about colorful mathematical legalities, but worse. There is no degree to which anyone would know what you were talking about.

This understanding of “what tzimtzum is like” explains why Etz Chaim insists that tzimtzum had to unfold in two separate phases. The essential manifestation of divinity (ohr she-lifnei ha-tzimtzum) could not be reduced by degree to enter the role of creator (ohr ha-kav) because it is qualitatively removed from any notion of creation. In order for form, finitude and otherness to exist as viable possibilities, the absolute manifestation of divine exclusivity must be completely withdrawn. G‑d, so to say, needs to make an entirely fresh start; only then can the divine self be manifest in the role of creator. Only after the ohr she-lifnei ha-tzimtzum is utterly removed, can the ohr ha-kav be drawn forth.

* * *

As I listened to Reb Meilich’s soft-spoken exposition—intently absorbing every word, and trying to twist my mind around the conceptual abstractions he was articulating—something shifted in my head. What I had long been seeking seemed to be unfolding itself in my mind. In assimilating his explanation of the tzimtzum narrative, I felt that I was discovering a methodological approach that could be applied on a far broader scale.

Here was a concept which, in kabbalistic and chassidic literature, is expressed in terms of time and space, but which clearly referred to an altogether transcendent reality. Reb Meilich had delved beneath the surface of the words and unearthed the conceptual import that they were intended to express. Then he rearticulated the same concept in completely different terms; where the text had borrowed from the contours of time and space, he borrowed from the contours of human conception and logic. In later classes he drew further examples from other elements of human experience and interaction, further illustrating how the contours of an abstract concept can be replicated across a wide spectrum of genres.

As soon as we start talking about G‑d, we step beyond the bounds of empirical experience; the language we use to describe all our other interactions suddenly becomes inadequate. In a sense, the entire corpus of kabbalistic and chassidic literature can be seen as an extended struggle to overcome this difficulty. Ultimately, we are left with no alternative but to use the limited vocabulary available to us, overstretching its application to articulate transcendence. This allows us to draw the intangible closer to our perception and subject the concept to rigorous examination. At the same time, however, our perception is colored by the temporal, spatial and conceptually limited properties of the tangible things they usually refer to.

In order to overcome this difficulty, and accurately articulate these abstract theosophical ideas, Reb Meilich sought to highlight the essence of the idea, isolating it from the specific terms via which it is initially expressed. He achieved this is by demonstrating how the same idea can actually be expressed using several different frames of reference. This allowed us to to perceive something of the fluid essence of the idea, which is transferred from one medium to another, leaving behind the rigid properties that do not apply in the analogue.

I later discovered that the better one understands the essentiality of an idea, the better you are able to discern its application in a wider variety of scenarios. I also discovered that certain contours of a transcendent concept can be better highlighted via one form of empirical illustration, while others contours of the same concept are better highlighted when placed in a different frame of reference. The key is to find a legitimate point of view from which an idea’s bounds and expansion can be carefully analyzed. By approaching an elusive abstraction via more than one medium, you can slowly strip away extraneous contingencies and gain an ever clearer perception of an idea that lies beyond the bounds of what can usually be grasped. The more you get to the core of an idea, the better you can understand how far it can be expanded and abstracted.

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A Matter of Contention

The tzimtzum narrative is not the description of an event that unfolded in time, but a statement about the very fabric of reality. The event that G‑d chooses to be manifest as creator, and project our universe into being, represents not a revelation but a concealment of G‑d’s essential nature; creation is a mode of expression that represents nothing of the divine core. In some chassidic texts, the relation of the ohr ha-kav to the ohr she-lifnei ha-tzimtzum is compared to that of a hair to the head. Tzimtzum is the crossing of a qualitatively unbridgeable gap; absolutely inconceivable infinitude and transcendence is abandoned for an imminent relationship with a created realm.

Indeed, this was a radical statement. Arizal was not the first to assert that G‑d transcends the role of creator, Tzimtzum is the crossing of a qualitatively unbridgeable gap; absolutely inconceivable infinitude and transcendence is abandoned for an imminent relationship with a created realm. but he was the first to state it in such absolute terms, and the full import of what he meant soon became a matter of contention. In subsequent generations some students of Arizal’s teachings insisted on a more literal reading of the narrative, while others advocated a more complex interpretation. About two hundred years after Arizal’s passing in 1572, this debate became a seminal bone of contention between Rabbi Eliyahu—the Gaon of Vilna, and Rabbi Schneur Zalman of Liadi—who bore the brunt of mitnagdic opposition to the chassidic movement.

Related article: Immanent Transcendence: Chassidim, Mitnagdim and the debate about tzimtzum