Scientific and Kabbalistic View of Angels

 

Angels as Emanations: A Kabbalistic and Scientific View of Malachim

What if the common image of angels we've inherited—from artwork, religion, and folklore—is completely wrong? What if the truth about angels has been hidden in plain sight within the Hebrew Bible, encoded in the language of prophecy and mysticism… and only now are we beginning to understand it?

Recent discoveries in psychology, quantum theory, and ancient Jewish wisdom converge to reveal something astonishing about the nature of these mysterious beings. The answer may not lie in heaven—but much closer than you think. The following teaching and deep insight by Avraham Emuanah may very well change everything you thought you knew about angels.

The popular image of angels—winged, radiant beings descending from celestial realms—has long enchanted the religious imagination. But when we return to the Tanakh through the lens of Kabbalah, prophetic experience, and even modern scientific understanding, a far more sophisticated and spiritually resonant vision begins to emerge. In this view, angels are not an external species of divine messengers floating above us. Rather, they are intimate: emanations of Hashem’s will and reflections of our own higher soul. They are mirrors—appearing when the heart opens, when the consciousness elevates, and when the divine message needs a form the human vessel can receive.

In Psalm 99, we read that “Hashem is enthroned upon the cherubim,” immediately followed by “He is exalted above all peoples.” The juxtaposition is striking. The cherubim—those angelic figures atop the Ark of the Covenant—have often been read as literal heavenly beings. But from a Kabbalistic perspective, they represent something much closer to home: the human heart itself. The Ark was not just a container of stone tablets, but the inner sanctuary of the nation’s soul. And when that heart is open to the Divine, it becomes the throne of Hashem. Thus, the Divine does not hover far above; it rests within.

This understanding echoes throughout the Tanakh. The “angel of the Lord” frequently speaks in the first person as God—such as in Genesis 22, when the angel tells Abraham, “You have not withheld your son from Me.” Or in Exodus 3, where Moses sees the “angel of the Lord” in the burning bush, but the conversation seamlessly transitions to Hashem Himself. These figures are not intermediaries in the Greek sense of messengers delivering divine mail. They are interfaces—emanations of the Divine Mind, dressed in the language, form, or metaphor the receiver is prepared to understand.

Kabbalistically, the word malach, meaning "messenger," is not a character—it is a function. It is a channel through which divine force travels. The Zohar teaches that no angel acts independently; all are extensions of divine purpose. In the Tree of Sefirot, angels flow from Netzach, Hod, and especially Yesod—pouring into the physical world of Asiyah like filtered light. The malach is divine communication clothed in symbol and structure.

This structure harmonizes beautifully with modern science. In quantum field theory, all matter is the result of invisible fields excited into visible form. Particles are not entities, but pulses within an underlying wave system. Angels, then, are not external spirits—but pulses in the spiritual field, activated by human alignment with the Divine. In neuroscience, visionary and prophetic states are often the result of brain regions communicating in hyper-connected ways—creating vivid internal images that the mystic interprets symbolically. Kabbalah anticipated this long ago: a prophetic image, like an angel, is not a hallucination. It is a construct of the higher soul perceiving truth, made visible to consciousness through Da’at (the Divine Mind).

We see this clearly in the lives of the prophets. When Abraham opens his tent to three visitors in Genesis 18, we are told that “Hashem appeared to him.” But how? Through three men. Two may have been physical travelers; the third was something more: the Presence itself. Abraham, known for his radical hospitality, sees the Divine not in fire or cloud—but in human faces. He becomes the vessel for the angelic because his own soul reflects the kindness of Hashem. In this moment, the angel is not a visitor—it is a mirrored emanation of Abraham’s own heart.

Similarly, in Joshua 5, just before entering battle, Joshua sees a “man with a drawn sword” who declares himself captain of Hashem’s hosts. But he is not glowing or winged—he appears as a warrior, the very image of what Joshua must become himself. In this sense, the angel is not a messenger from outside—it is Joshua’s own higher archetype, descending to him as clarity and mission. The angel is Joshua himself, but elevated in his higher spiritual form, like a mirror, it’s reflecting itself back to the earthly Joshua. And thus Joshua sees himself, the leader of Hashem’s army.  

This same principle extends to the idea of “guardian angels.” Rather than a winged spirit assigned to you at birth, Kabbalah teaches that your true guardian is your Neshamah Elyonah—your upper soul. This part of you never fully descends into the body but remains rooted in the supernal realms. It gently guides the lower self in Asiyah, whispering through conscience, intuition, and inner knowing. What many perceive as a guardian angel is, in truth, the perfected echo of their own self, waiting for reunification.

And just as the angel reflects your divine potential, so too the demonic—the shedim or demons—reflect your shadow. The dark thoughts, egoic distortions, inner chaos: these are not foreign spirits, but projections of what remains unhealed in the human psyche. Just as righteousness projects angels, spiritual disorder externalizes as demons. The Zohar is clear: what you see above depends on who you are below.

Even in the prophetic visions of Daniel, which some cite as proof of separate angelic beings, this same principle I’m presenting here holds true. Daniel’s angels appear during moments of intense inner turmoil—when he is seeking understanding. The angelic figure is never fully separate from Daniel’s own yearning. And when one such angel is “delayed by the prince of Persia,” we might interpret this not as a cosmic battle in the sky, but as Daniel’s own struggle with external pressures, political fears, and the inner resistance to revelation. The “angel” arrives when his Da’at is clear enough to receive it. Daniel is simply toiling in Torah and meditating on prophecy, and the Angel appears to him as Daniel’s own mirrored self when he comes to revelation in his meditation and prayers. Daniel is having his prayers answered by the word of Hashem, and this is being portrayed symbolically as the appearance of an Angel (again, Daniel’s own upper consciousness delivering the message of God to Daniel’s lower self).  

Modern psychology supports this reading. Carl Jung’s concept of the Self, and the archetypes that live in the collective unconscious, align with the idea of spiritual images that appear during transformation. The Zohar teaches that when a tzaddik walks in truth, a spiritual image of him is formed above. The angel is thus a visible encounter with one’s own elevated form, filtered through spiritual symbolism.

Ultimately, this understanding of angels restores them to their rightful place: not as distant beings to fear or worship, but as living reflections of Hashem’s light and our own soul’s architecture. They are the light of the inner world projected into form, the visible speech of the Divine Mind, the intersection between Divine will and human readiness. To see an angel is not to meet a foreign being. It is to become a vessel so refined that your own higher self can appear before you—to guide, to instruct, and to confirm that the Divine is near.

The Rabbi Who Saw Two Thrones in Heaven

 

Resolving the Vision of “Two Thrones” Through the Sefirot

In the mystical journey of Jewish tradition, some visions are so profound that they risk being misunderstood when seen without the proper lens. One such vision is that of Elisha ben Avuyah, known as Aher, who reportedly saw “two thrones in heaven” and concluded there must be “two powers.” This led him down a path of heresy, becoming one of the most tragic figures in rabbinic history.

But what if the vision was not false—only misinterpreted? What if the problem wasn’t in what he saw, but in how he saw it? In this video, we’ll explore a new Kabbalistic understanding of this vision, one that draws from the structure of the Sefirot and reveals a deeper unity hidden within apparent duality. This teaching proposes that Aher’s vision was a glimpse into the secret of Keter and Malchut—what appears to be two thrones, but are in fact one. A single throne viewed from two ends of the same divine spectrum.

The Talmudic account of Elisha ben Avuyah (Aher) witnessing “two thrones in heaven”—which led him to believe in “two powers”—has long challenged theologians and mystics. Yet, when seen through the lens of the Sefirot and the inner structure of divine reality, this apparent duality dissolves.

In the Kabbalistic Tree of Life, there are indeed two crowns: Keter, the supernal crown—the highest Sefirah and source of all emanation; and Malchut, the lowest Sefirah, often called Keter she’b’Tachton—the crown below, the vessel into which all upper light flows. Both are referred to as thrones: one above, one below.

What Aher saw may have been a legitimate mystical vision—but misunderstood due to a linear perception of reality. He saw “two thrones,” but lacked the conceptual framework to realize they were reflections of one another: Keter Elyon and Malchut, the beginning and end of the same divine circuit.

When viewed from a two-dimensional perspective, the Sefirot appear as distinct and separate spheres—like dots on a flat diagram. But in truth, they are nested lenses, like a spiritual telescope, through which divine light passes and refracts in multiplicity, yet remains unified at its source.

Just as a telescope aligns many lenses to focus on a single reality, so too the Sefirot, when aligned in consciousness, reveal their oneness. What looks like “two thrones” from below—separation between the world of emanation and the world of action—is in fact one continuous Throne when seen from a higher vantage point.

This resolves the heresy: the two thrones were never separate entities, but a singular kingship manifesting at two poles of existence—Keter above and Malchut below. The final redemption will reveal this unity explicitly, as Malchut rises to Keter, completing the circle of divine will and consciousness. Then, the throne below and the throne above will be seen as one.

Shevirat HaKelim - Fractals and Not Fractures

 “Fractals, NOT Fractured vessels”: A New Kabbalistic idea of cosmology and spiritual alignment

In this article I’m presenting a radical reinterpretation (or re-imagination) of one of the central doctrines in Lurianic Kabbalah: Shevirat HaKelim, the Breaking of the Vessels. Traditionally understood as a cosmic catastrophe that scattered divine light into fragments requiring repair, I propose instead a model grounded in both mystical intuition AND scientific insight: which is that the vessels were not shattered in chaos but rather dispersed through a sacred “fractalization" (repeating fractals). This reframing transforms our perception of the “fall” of creation not as a breakage and trauma requiring restoration, but as a patterned and recursive diffusion of divine form. What looks to us like a broken reality is in fact a misalignment of fractal layers, a temporary distortion of a deeper sacred geometry.

In classical Lurianic Kabbalah, the Infinite Light (Ohr Ein Sof) poured into the primordial vessels of the world of Tohu, vessels which were unable to contain the light and thus shattered. This rupture scattered divine sparks into the lower worlds, where they became embedded within layers of concealment and impurity. Humanity’s mission, according to this view, is to enact Tikkun Olam by retrieving these sparks and reassembling the broken vessels, thereby restoring divine harmony.

However, the new model I am suggesting is that the vessels did not break randomly, but rather underwent a process of structured diffusion. They fractaled, not fractured. Divine form did not collapse or break apart, but echoed itself into a recursive, self-similar pattern that is visible in all levels of creation. From afar, the result may appear chaotic, as in the world of Tohu, but upon closer examination reveals embedded symmetry, order within order, and patterns reflecting their divine source.

This reframing has profound implications. It transforms Shevirah from a cosmic fall to a cosmic unfolding. Sparks are not scattered debris, but self-similar nodes of divine light. Tohu is not meaningless disorder, but the illusory complexity of a misperceived pattern. Tikkun is not about gluing fragments together, but about recognizing and realigning the sacred geometries that were never truly broken.

Modern science lends powerful support to this idea. Fractal geometry, evident in the structures of trees, rivers, lungs, galaxies, and even human DNA—reveals that nature itself is recursive. What appears random or chaotic is often a higher-dimensional symmetry. Systems are scale-sensitive: disruption at one level cascades through the entire structure. This is precisely the nature of the fractalized Shevirah: the Ein Sof projected itself as a fractal field, and creation emerged not as a descending ladder, but as a multi-dimensional unfolding. Each world, each soul, each aspect of reality echoes the root pattern of Adam Kadmon. When one layer is misaligned, the entire system vibrates out of sync.

With this in mind, we can return to Genesis 1:2, which states: "And the earth was Tohu vaVohu, and darkness was over the face of the deep..." While this verse is traditionally seen as a poetic reference to post-Shevirah chaos, the fractal model allows us to reinterpret Tohu not as devastation, but as unrecognized order. To the surface mind, the world appears fragmented. But from the standpoint of divine consciousness, what appears as chaos is in fact complexity waiting to be decoded. Tohu becomes not the aftermath of destruction, but a pre-aligned fractal field awaiting calibration.

This idea is not without precedent in the tradition. The Zohar (I:15a) teaches that "the lower worlds are formed in the likeness of the higher ones," a clear affirmation of recursive cosmic design. Sefer Yetzirah tells us that "the end is embedded in the beginning," a statement of recursive time and self-similar emergence. Even the concept of Tzimtzum, the withdrawal of divine presence to make space for creation, is not a negation, but a reframing: the Infinite light retracts to allow a layered revelation of itself. Tzimtzum does not erase; it configures. Shevirah, too, need not imply destruction, it may simply describe the recursive expression of the Infinite through the prism of multiplicity.

From this emerges a new vision of Tikkun. Rather than a world that needs to be pieced back together like shattered glass, we live in a reality that is simply misaligned, like a fractal whose recursive branches have twisted out of sync. In a fractal system, each node contains the whole. A distortion in one layer throws off the resonance of the entire system. Tikkun, then, is not the labor of gluing shards back together, but the work of alignment. Our role is to realign the disoriented geometries of existence to their root pattern.

Here, Torah takes on a central, even cosmic role. The Zohar tells us that "Hashem looked into the Torah and created the world." Torah is not merely a set of laws, it is the original algorithm of divine alignment. Each mitzvah is a micro-adjustment that recalibrates some aspect of reality. Shabbat aligns time with eternity. Kashrut aligns the body with higher sensitivity. Speech laws align consciousness with truth. The commandments are tuning mechanisms in the great instrument of creation. Aligning the seemingly misaligned fractals over space and time.

The ultimate goal is Devekut, often translated as cleaving to God. But in the framework I’m presenting here, Devekut is not spiritual adhesion—it is spiritual resonance/alignment. Just as tuning forks resonate when struck in harmony, or photons form coherent laser light, or atoms settle into crystal lattices, so too does the soul enter Devekut not by fusing with God, but by vibrating in precise alignment with Him. And the Torah is the tuning fork, mitzvot are the resonators, and consciousness is the instrument.

Thus, the Messianic future is not about reassembling broken parts, but about restoring global coherence. The exile is not dispersion, but distortion. Redemption is not repair, it is realignment. Prophecy becomes the art of pattern recognition. Tikkun Olam becomes the act of returning all things to phase coherence with the divine source. The final Tikkun is the full restoration of the fractal Tree of Life, which is then re-aligned from root to tip, all levels harmonized in their proper recursive relationship.

This new theological model synthesizes the deepest currents of Lurianic Kabbalah with insights from fractal mathematics, systems theory, and Torah consciousness. It proposes that the vessels were never truly broken, they were expressed in nested form. The world is not damaged, it is misaligned. Our task is not to fix the Infinite, it never broke, but to align the recursive echoes of its light. The Infinite did not fall apart. It unfolded. What we call redemption is not repair, it is recognition. This is the Torah of Alignment. This is the true Tikkun. This is the inner path of Devekut.

This insight emerged for me through my deep engagement with the school of the Vilna Gaon, particularly its emphasis on the redemption of the lower wisdoms. The Gra taught that the sciences and secular disciplines are not alien to Torah, but rather expressions of Torah clothed in outer garments. Following this path, I turned to the language of fractal geometry and complexity theory, asking not how science contradicts Kabbalah, but how it might serve it. I sought to redeem the patterns of mathematics and the architecture of nature into the supernal wisdom of Sod. From this inquiry arose the realization that the vessels did not shatter randomly, but unfolded recursively. The world is not fragmented chaos, but a fractal revelation of the Divine Mind. In my attempt to redeem the wisdom of the lower world, I discovered a deeper light of the upper world–expressed in the wisdom and “science” of Kabbalah.

Why Moses Could Not Enter the Promised Land — And Why He Will Return

 

Have you ever wondered why Moses, the greatest prophet in history, the one who spoke face to face with God, was denied entry into the Promised Land? Was it really just because he struck a rock in frustration? Or is there a deeper, more mysterious reason, one that reaches into the very soul of Israel, and even into the blueprint of redemption itself?

Most of us have heard that Moses was barred from entering the Land because of the incident at Merivah, where he struck the rock instead of speaking to it. But in Deuteronomy 3:26 and 4:21, Moses gives us another reason, one far more profound. He says plainly: “The Lord was angry with me because of you people.” He connects his exclusion not to his own failure, but to Israel’s sin, especially the Golden Calf. This wasn’t just about broken tablets, it was about a shattered spiritual potential that Israel failed to live up to. This is why Moses was not allowed to enter the land. The quote from the Torah says specifically: “And the Lord was angry with me because of you, and He swore that I should not cross the Jordan, and that I should not enter the good land”.

At Sinai, Israel stood on the edge of something miraculous. Had they remained faithful, they would have received not only the external Torah—Chokhmah and Binah—but also the inner Torah: Da’at Elyon, the higher knowledge, the Divine Mind. In that state, Moses, who carried this supernal light, could have entered the Land with them. The journey would have been complete. Redemption could have happened then. But the Calf revealed something painful: the people weren’t ready. They couldn’t yet see the Divine hidden within the Torah. They couldn’t recognize Moses and the Torah as the living mirror of God’s Name.

This is why God says specifically to Israel after the golden calf incident, in Exodus 33:3, “I will not go up among you along the way into the land.” This was not merely divine disappointment, it was a cosmic rupture. The indwelling Presence that was meant to journey with Israel withdrew. And that very withdrawal plays out in Moses’ fate. This verse was technically fulfilled in that Moses himself did not go among Israel into the promised land. And “Moses” here is the emissary and mirror of Hashem himself. How is this so?

Here’s the hidden gem: Moses (spelled with the hebrew letters “mem” “shem” “heh”) is the exact same as the term Hashem (which is the letters “heh” “shem” “mem”) spelled backwards. This is no linguistic coincidence, it’s a spiritual reality. It's the same gematria value of 345 as well. So, Moses is the mirrored expression of the Divine Name within creation. He is the earthly vessel through which Hashem was meant to walk with Israel. So when God said, “I will not go among you,” it wasn’t just Hashem who stepped back. It was also Moses, the reflection of that Name in human form who did not enter.

This is why Moses could not enter the Land. It wasn’t punishment, it was prophecy. It was the word of Hashem himself. The people had rejected the inner connection between God and His human reflection, his emissary. So the mirror shattered. Hashem remained above, Moses stood outside the land, and Israel wandered forward without the fullness of Divine “Da’at” among them. Let’s remember from my previous videos that “Da’at” is the hidden sefirot of divine knowledge, known by Kabbalists as “the mind of Moses”.

Now, this fracture isn’t permanent. The prophets saw the repair. In Zechariah 14:9, it says: “On that day, Hashem will be One and His Name One.” That’s not just theology, that’s the healing of the split between the Infinite and His Name, between the Source and its mirrored expression in this world. The prophet Malachi in chapter 3 adds: “The Master whom you seek will suddenly come to His sanctuary... the messenger of the covenant.” That “messenger” is Moses, the embodiment of the covenant, the Name returned to the sanctuary, when the people are finally ready.

When Mashiach-consciousness awakens, when humanity becomes a true vessel for Da’at (Divine Knowing) then the sanctuary will open again. Then Moses will enter the land and the sanctuary forever. The one who could not walk into the Land because of the people's unreadiness, and propensity towards earthly knowledge, will return with them, not just to lead, but to complete the entire journey.

So Moses’ exclusion wasn’t the end of his story. It was the delayed beginning of his final mission, to return, to dwell, to unify the Name. And when that day comes, we will say not just with our mouths, but with our being and our inner knowing: “Hashem is One, and His Name is One.” And the Name will no longer be backwards, As Moses at that time will be revealed as having come to the sanctuary. May it be so, and may it come speedily and in our own day!

The Serpent tempted Eve to be like him-- Not like God

 

The Serpent’s Gospel: How the Knowledge of Good and Evil Separated Man from God

The story of the Tree of Knowledge in the Garden of Eden is perhaps the most misunderstood passage in the entire Torah. It is often read as a moral fable, warning of disobedience and sin. But beneath the surface lies something far more profound—a mystical initiation into duality, consciousness, and the human condition itself. The eating of the fruit was not merely an act of disobedience, it was the first step into self-awareness and the beginning of humanity’s exile from the Divine.

The Torah says the serpent told Eve, “You shall be like God, knowing good and evil.” On the surface, this sounds like a temptation to become divine. But here is the paradox: Eve was already divine. She was created in the image of God. Her soul radiated purity. She walked in unity with the Infinite. There was nothing she lacked—so what was the serpent truly offering?

The answer lies not in becoming divine, but in knowing the contrast between the Divine and the non-divine. What the serpent really offered Eve was a new form of consciousness—a dualistic awareness, a human perspective instead of a purely divine one. He was saying, “You can be like God in that you will now know what it is like to be not God. You will gain the ability to see contrast—to perceive what it means to be separate from God and to not be merely a divine being but be an animal soul.” This wasn’t a lie, it was a truth twisted into a trap.

And in that offer was hidden the serpent’s deeper agenda: to drag humanity into his own realm. The serpent is called cunning, subtle, and is described as “the most cunning of all the beasts of the field.” He was offering Eve not godhood, she was already divine and made in God’s image, but instead he offered her beast-consciousness an animal soul. He was saying, in effect, “You are already like God, but wouldn’t you like to know what it’s like to be like me? To know what it is to be finite, to be instinctual, to be self-aware in your separation?”

Eve desired not rebellion, but understanding. She wanted to know where the boundary lay, where God ended, if possible, and where she began. She wanted to “be like God,” not in power or pride, but in awareness of contrast. And so she took the fruit, not in sinful evil, but in an existential yearning to understand the world. That moment was the birth of da’at—not intellectual knowledge, but experiential awareness of good and evil, of divine and non-divine, of God and man, of unity and fragmentation. “And their eyes were opened, and they knew they were naked.”

This was not shame about their bodies, it was ontological exposure. For the first time, they saw themselves as other, or as human rather than divine. They perceived their separation from God. They recognized the line between the Eternal and the temporal, between the Infinite and the dust from which they were formed. This is what the Torah calls “evil”, or the hebrew word “Ra”, not wickedness, but simply being “not-God”. In this deeper language, “good” is the Divine Essence, and “evil” is anything outside that unity of divinity. Evil here is Not immorality, but incompleteness. Not sinful, but fragmented existence. Good and evil in this context is simply the same as saying, God and “not-god”, or divine and not divine or God and man. 

This is the real meaning of the Tree of Da’at Tov vaRa—the tree of “knowledge of good and evil.” It was not about moral laws, but about perceiving the existential divide between Creator and creation. Eve desired to know it. Adam joined her in that knowing. And the moment they did, they fell, not because they became wicked, but because they entered duality. This is not a story of morality for kindergarten lessons. This is a deep metaphysical esoteric mystery being taught here by Moses. And in this teaching, we see this is the first exile. The exile of consciousness. The collapse of consciousness. The fall of Adam and Eve from their divine nature separated from their unified connection with Hashem. Their fall was into an animal consciousness rather than divine consciousness they had.

Before the fall, Adam and Eve lived in perfect unity. After the fall, they lived in havdalah—distinction. And it was in that distinction that shame and fear were born. “They heard the sound of God walking in the garden… and they hid.” Why did they hide? Because they now knew they were separate. Their innocence was gone. The illusion of being one with the Infinite was shattered, and they experienced the terror of being other. They experienced being a human being rather than a divine being made in the image of God.

But here’s the deepest layer: this fall was not a failure. It was the beginning of a journey. In Kabbalistic thought, every descent is for the sake of ascent. The sages teach that Adam fell in order that Mashiach might rise. The serpent tempted Eve not only to separate from God, but to begin the very exile that would one day culminate in a return to unity, but now with full awareness (having experienced separation and unity, humanity and divinity). Before the fall, unity was a gift. After the fall, it must now be earned, but the reward is now greater.

What happened in the fall? The serpent introduced beast-consciousness. Humanity chose it. And now, we walk through history, not to remain in separation, but to transcend it. This is the journey of tikkun, the rectification of duality, the repair of the world, the elevation of the sparks, the return of divine consciousness into vessels strong enough to hold it. The ascent back up the ladder of unity with Hashem.

And in the end, we are told that Mashiach will come, not as someone who avoids the serpent, but as someone who defeats it. He will “slay the Leviathan,” the great serpent of ego and illusion, and reveal a world where duality collapses into unity. Where man is not separate from God, but a vessel that shines with divine light, with full consciousness. With Mashiach Consciousness.

And so, the serpent’s gospel—the gospel of separation, the gospel of becoming beast-like or non divine, was necessary. For only by falling can we know what it means to rise. And now Adam can rectify both the lower world of humanity to which he fell, and connect it to the upper world of divinity to which he returns anew. It was only by tasting exile that we long for redemption. And only by becoming aware of our nakedness, our humanity, can we one day be clothed again in garments of light.

Is Adam Mashiach in Disguise ?

 

What if the Messiah has already come—not in the way religion has popularly imagined, but in a form hidden in plain sight? What if the first man, Adam himself, was not just the archetype of humanity but also the original archetype of Mashiach? What if the story of the Garden, the Fall, and the exile from Eden was not merely the beginning of human history, but also the first act in a cosmic drama of redemption that began long before Sinai and ends only in the dawn of a world we’ve yet to see?

In the Kabbalistic view of reality, everything that exists in the lower worlds is a fractal echo of a higher-dimensional pattern. The Torah we study in this world is a shadow of the supernal Torah of Atzilut. The soul we know as Mashiach—often imagined as a future redeemer—is actually an eternal principle, a spiritual force that was embedded into creation from its very inception. As the sages teach, “The thought of Mashiach preceded the world.” If that is true, then it must have appeared in the very beginning—in the form of Adam.

Adam HaRishon, the “first man,” was not simply a biological starting point. He was a cosmic vessel, fashioned in the image of the divine, placed at the center of creation, and endowed with the soul-root of all humanity. In fact, the Zohar and writings of the Ari teach that every soul is a fragment, a spark, of Adam’s soul. And if Mashiach is the soul that rectifies all others, how could he not be present in the one who contained them all? 

But here lies the tension: Adam fell. He disobeyed. He ate. He descended. If Adam is the Mashiach, does that mean Mashiach fails?

This question haunts the spiritual imagination—but the answer is more profound than a simple yes or no. In truth, every great redeemer in Torah stumbles. Abraham, despite his towering faith, takes Hagar and fathers Ishmael—relying on his own strength to fulfill the promise, rather than waiting for the miraculous child through Sarah. Jacob deceives and wrestles with his identity. Moses strikes the rock and is denied entrance to the Land. David falls with Batsheva. And yet, not one of them is disqualified. In fact, their imperfections are not signs of failure—they are part of a divine pattern. The fall is the descent into the world that needs redemption. The redeemer must enter the exile to heal it from within.

Kabbalah teaches that the worlds of Tohu—primordial chaos—preceded the world we now live in. These chaotic worlds collapsed under the weight of divine light, their vessels shattered, and their fragments fell into the lower realms. The world we inhabit now is called Olam HaTikkun, the world of repair. But what if Adam did not emerge as the first man in a vacuum, but as a remnant from that destroyed world of Tohu? What if he was the redeemer of a prior cosmic cycle, pulled from the ashes of an ancient apocalypse, and placed into a paradise as a kind of final sanctuary?

Genesis says, “And God formed the man from the dust of the earth.” But which earth? If this took place after the collapse of Tohu, then Adam was formed from the ruins of that world. He was not created in innocence, but born from a world already broken. He was the Noah of his age, taken from destruction and placed into a Garden—a dimensional realm that was not merely beautiful but messianic, a taste of the Seventh Day, the Millennial Age of that primordial world.

Adam, then, was not just the first to fall—he was the first to carry the burden of tikkun. His mission was to guard the Garden, to elevate the sparks, to serve as king-priest of a sanctified world. But the ego arose. The serpent whispered. The self fractured. And Adam fell—not as an accident, but as part of the plan. The descent was necessary. The divine light had to shatter further so it could be gathered and elevated over time.

This descent—for the sake of ascent—is the essence of redemption. In mystical language, the redeemer does not rescue from the outside—he becomes part of the brokenness in order to heal it. As the Zohar puts it, “Mashiach sits among the lepers at the gates of Rome.” He is broken with the broken, disfigured with the disfigured, unseen and misunderstood. So too was Adam. And so too, in each generation, is the spark of Mashiach.

But in the end, that spark does not remain buried. The final form of Mashiach does not fall. He rises—not by crushing the world, but by crushing the Leviathan, the primordial serpent, the ultimate ego. In the book of Job, Leviathan is called “king over all the proud”, and in the Talmud (Bava Batra 75a), it is taught that in the days to come, Hashem will slay the Leviathan, and the righteous will feast upon its flesh. This isn’t just a fantasy—it’s a parable of inner transformation. The Leviathan is the final illusion, the cosmic ego that even Adam couldn’t overcome. But Mashiach will.

And when that happens—when the ego is transcended not just by individuals but by humanity as a whole—the cycle of sevens will end. No longer will history repeat in 7-year cycles, 7,000-year epochs, 7 millennia of rise and fall. We will leave the pattern of time itself.

We will enter the 8th Day.

This is the true meaning of the verse: “The harp of Mashiach will have eight strings.” (Arachin 13b). David's harp, the song of Israel, was seven-stringed—just like the days of creation. But Mashiach will play a new melody, one never heard before. Eight is not just the number after seven. It is the symbol of infinity, the breaking of cycles, the birth of something wholly new.

In Torah, the 8th day is the day of circumcision, the covenant beyond nature. It is the day the Mishkan was inaugurated, the day the clouds of glory returned. And in the cosmic sense, it is the day when Olam HaZeh ends and Olam HaBa begins. A world beyond death, beyond struggle, beyond even tikkun.

A world not built on fixing what was broken—but on creating what has never been.

So perhaps Adam was Mashiach in disguise. Perhaps his fall was not failure, but the first step in a journey that leads us all home. A journey that will pass through every shadow, every exile, every death—until the final soul, the final spark, rises… and the harp of eight strings is heard at last.