EDITORS NOTES  

When Souls Leave Early—And Still Lift Us 

The following is based on this week’s class and podcast.  

At
the end of Parashat Balak, we meet a hero—Pinḥas—who steps into a
collapsing world and halts a deadly plague. But according to the Mekubalim,
Pinḥas didn’t act alone. In the moment he entered the tent with spear in
hand, his soul left him in fright. And then… a miracle. The souls of his
uncles, Nadav and Avihu—who died decades earlier in Divine fire—returned to
strengthen him. They brought with them another soul: Eliyahu HaNavi. 

From
that moment forward, Pinḥas became Eliyahu. As we sing at every Brit Milah,
based on the words of the Zohar, Pinḥas hu Eliyahu. He lives still.
And his story tells us something extraordinary: sometimes, a soul that has
already reached its perfection doesn’t just ascend—it returns. Not for its
own sake, but to lift others. 

When Words Fail—And Silence Speaks 

There
are moments, like Aharon’s loss of his sons Nadav and Avihu, when words
simply do not exist. Vayidom Aharon. He was silent. 

And
I wonder: what questions filled that silence? 

· What
did we do to deserve this? 

· Was
this a punishment for the Golden Calf? 

· Can
I ever be whole again? 

These
are not academic questions. They are cries of the soul. I ask them too. 

This
isn’t a devar Torah of logic. It’s an exploration of neshamah—of
soul, emunah, and quiet strength. A space where we ask: Can a soul
be complete even in just a moment? Can a child’s brief life be a mission
fulfilled? 

Two Olam HaBa Realms: Chesed and Gevurah 

Kabbalah
teaches us there are two forms of Olam HaBa—the Next World: 

1. Olam HaBa of Chesed: a world of ascent, where souls grow
through mitzvot, Torah, and the merit of those left behind.  

2. Olam HaBa of Gevurah: a world of blinding closeness to the
Divine. A realm of stillness, where ascent ends—not from failure, but from
fulfillment.  

Some
souls don’t come to rise. They come already elevated. And they often leave
this world early—not as a loss, but as completion. 

The
Zohar calls them nitzotzin de-kadmūn letushbaḥta—sparks that precede
praise. Too pure for this world, they come for a moment, and return. 

Nadav and Avihu: Not a Fall, But a Flame 

The
Torah says a fire consumed Nadav and Avihu. But the Zohar teaches: it was
not punishment. It was devekut—a soul's longing for God so intense
it could no longer remain in the body. Their death was not a
failure. It was union. 

And
Aharon? He was silent. Not in despair—but in faith. 

That
silence echoes through generations of parents who have lost children. It is
not ignorance. It is surrender to something higher. 

Some Souls Are Already There 

When
a child is lost, the questions are too raw to answer. Why did this soul not
get a chance to grow? Why the pain, the diapers, the dreams left behind? 

But
the Arizal says: some souls do not need to ascend—because they are already
there. 

A
baby. A young tzaddik. A soul too radiant for this world to hold. Their
life, though brief, was complete. 

We
don’t always need to say Kaddish. Not because we lack faith—but because
these souls lift us. 

The Story of Pinḥas—and the Power of Ibur 

When
Pinḥas acted, his soul left him. But Nadav and Avihu returned—through ibur,
a temporary soul infusion. They didn’t come back for themselves. They came
to save the people. And with them came a third soul: Eliyahu. 

From
that moment, Pinḥas was no longer just a man—he was a vessel for eternity. 

A Soul That Lifts 

When
we lose someone so young, the world sees tragedy. 

But
the mekubalim suggest something different: 

“There
are souls that descend only to complete a small rectification.” — Sha’ar
HaGilgulim 

They
are not broken. They are not in need of us. 

We need them. Because their light still
shines. Because their mission didn’t end—it simply changed forms. 

A Child’s Soul That Elevates 

Last
month in Jerusalem, we heard from Ḥacham David Yosef שליט״א after our
family suffered a painful loss: 

“There’s
no need to say Kaddish. No need for added mitzvot. His neshamah is already
at the highest place.” 

At
the time, it felt like a door closing. 

Now
I understand—it was a door opening. 

This
was not a soul needing help. It was a soul helping us. 

The Silence That Lifts 

Vayidom Aharon. And David HaMelekh too,
after losing a child, stood up, changed his clothes, and went to pray.
Because he understood what we all long to understand: 

“I
shall go to him. But he shall not return to me.” (Shmuel II 12:23) 

This
is the Olam HaBa of Gevurah. Not a place of loss. A place of completion. A
place where the soul is so close to God, there’s nowhere left to climb. 

A Final Thought: The Soul’s Whisper 

So,
if you’re mourning a child, or grieving a tzaddik taken too soon, know
this: 

Not
every soul comes to stay. 

Some
come to ignite. 

To
whisper a dream. 

To
leave behind a light that never dims. 

They
are not gone. 

They
are near the Kisei HaKavod, lifting you, guiding you, whispering
strength into your soul. 

Just
like Nadav and Avihu lifted Pinḥas. 

Just
like Eliyahu still returns. 

Just
like our child—Shimon Chai, our light—who now lifts us. 

Shabbat
Shalom, 

David
Bibi