Rabbi Yinon Kalazan

Life After Life

We are going to explore one of the most fundamental principles in Judaism: life after life.

As we know, one of the Thirteen Principles of Faith, reflected in the prayer Yigdal, is the belief in Techiyas HaMeisim, the resurrection of the dead. When a person reaches the end of his life in this world and the neshama separates from the body, that is not the end of his existence. The body and neshama separate, but the neshama continues to exist, awaiting the eventual time of Techiyas HaMeisim, when body and soul will ultimately be reunited.

What happens to the neshama after it leaves the body? Where does it go? What does it experience?

This subject is far more than merely fascinating. It is fundamental to the way we understand life itself. When a person truly appreciates what the Torah teaches about the neshama and what happens after our years in this world come to an end, his entire perspective on life begins to change. The choices we make, the things we value, and even the way we understand our own identity take on an entirely different meaning.

Let us begin with the Torah's description of the creation of man.

The first explicit reference to the neshama appears in the second chapter of Sefer Bereishis. The Torah tells us:

“Vayitzer Hashem Elokim es ha'adam afar min ha'adamah, vayipach b'apav nishmas chayim, vayehi ha'adam l'nefesh chayah—Hashem formed man from the dust of the earth, and He breathed into his nostrils the breath of life, and man became a living being” (Bereishis 2:7).

Contained within this single Pasuk is a profound description of the human being.

Man is a combination of two entirely different dimensions: the physical and the spiritual. On the one hand, “Afar min ha'adamah,” the human body is formed from the dust of the earth. It is physical, material, and ultimately returns to the earth. But Hashem then placed within that physical body something altogether different: “Nishmas chayim,” a Divine breath of life. The neshama is not merely another component of the human being. It is the source of his life. The body is alive because the neshama resides within it.

There is another fundamental point that emerges from the opening chapters of the Torah.

When Hashem created Adam HaRishon, death was not presented as his inevitable destiny. Adam was created for life. Hashem gave him a commandment: he was not to eat from the Eitz HaDaas Tov VaRa and Hashem warned him, “B'yom achalcha mimenu mos tamus—On the day you eat from it, you shall surely die” (Bereishis 2:17).

In other words, death entered the human condition as a consequence of Adam's sin. Had Adam fulfilled Hashem's command and not eaten from the tree, death as we know it would not have become part of the human experience. And even after death entered the world, death did not mean annihilation.

This is crucial. Death is not the end of the person. Death is a separation.

What is life? Life, as we experience it in this world, is the union of body and neshama. The physical body and the spiritual soul exist together as one human being. What, then, is death? Death occurs when these two components separate. The neshama leaves the body. The body ceases to live, but the neshama itself does not cease to exist. We know what happens to the body because we can see it. The body is buried and, in time, returns to the earth from which it was originally formed.

But what happens to the neshama?

That question is fundamentally different, because even while a person is alive, we cannot see his neshama. I cannot see my neshama, and I cannot see yours. No one has ever looked at another person and physically observed his neshama. We know that it is there because it is the spiritual life within us, but it is not accessible to our physical senses. And when a person's life in this world comes to an end, we still see only the body. The neshama that had been within the body has now departed from it. But the fact that we cannot see where it has gone does not mean that it has ceased to exist.

The body has died, but the neshama has not. So where does it go? What happens to the neshama at the moment it separates from the body? What does it experience? What is its existence like after leaving this physical world? And what happens to it as it awaits the ultimate reunion of body and soul at Techiyas HaMeisim?

These are the questions we will begin to explore.

The Return to Earth

Let us now turn to another passage in Tanach, found near the conclusion of Sefer Koheles. In the final chapter, Shlomo HaMelech describes what happens when a person's life in this world comes to an end:

“V’yashov he’afar al ha’aretz k’shehayah, v’haruach tashuv el haElokim asher nesanah—The dust returns to the earth as it was, and the spirit returns to God Who gave it” (Koheles 12:7). What is this Pasuk telling us?

The body returns to its source—the earth—but the neshama does not die. It returns to Hashem, the One Who originally gave it. But what exactly does that mean? What does it mean for a neshama to “return to Hashem”?

This opens the door to some fascinating questions. When the neshama separates from the body, does it retain the memories of the life it lived? Does it remember the people it knew, the experiences it had, the things it loved, the choices it made? Does the neshama maintain any connection with this world? Does it remain aware of its children, its family, and the people it left behind? Does it know what is happening to them? Is it concerned with what takes place here after its departure? And perhaps the most basic question of all: where exactly is the neshamah? What does its existence outside the physical body actually mean?

These are profound questions, and in order to begin answering them, we first need to understand something fundamental about the Torah itself.

The Torah contains different dimensions of knowledge. There is the revealed dimension, known as nigleh, and there is the concealed dimension, known as nistar. More broadly, our tradition speaks of Pardes: peshat, remez, derash, and sod—the simple, allusive, interpretive, and hidden dimensions of Torah. Generally speaking, the revealed dimension of Torah addresses the world in which we live and instructs us how to conduct ourselves within it. It tells us what Hashem asks of us, how we are to live, and what we are to do.

The deeper spiritual realities of existence, however, are often only hinted at in the Torah's revealed text. A word, a phrase, or a Pasuk may contain an entire world of meaning that is developed more fully in the hidden dimension of Torah.

Consider the very first words of the Torah. “Bereishis bara Elokim es hashamayim v’es ha’aretz—In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth” (Bereishis 1:1).

What is Shamayim? When the Torah speaks of Shamayim, we should not imagine merely the blue sky above us. Shamayim represents a reality beyond the physical world accessible to our senses—the spiritual dimension of creation. Aretz, by contrast, represents the physical realm in which we live. And how much do we actually know about Shamayim? Through our ordinary physical senses, very little.

There is a beautiful way of understanding the very word Shamayim. The word contains sham—“there.” What is “there”? “There” does not necessarily mean somewhere geographically distant. It can describe something beyond the reach of our immediate perception. “Here” is the world that we can see, touch, measure, and experience through our physical senses. “There” is the dimension of existence that lies beyond those senses. In effect, the Torah is teaching us: do not assume that the reality you perceive is the entirety of reality. What you see is only one dimension of creation. Beyond the world accessible to your senses lies an entire realm that is sham—“there.” It exists, even though you cannot see it.

That is the challenge we face whenever we speak about spiritual reality. Our senses give us access to the physical world, but the fact that our senses cannot perceive something does not mean that it does not exist. It simply means that it belongs to a dimension beyond the reach of those senses.

The same idea can help us appreciate the nature of the neshama. A human being contains both a guf, a physical body, and a neshama, a spiritual soul. Interestingly, the word neshama itself contains the letters of sham—“there.” The neshama belongs to that dimension of reality which cannot be perceived through ordinary physical senses. That is why I cannot see my neshama and I cannot see yours. The neshama is not physically distant from us while we are alive; it is within us. Yet it remains sham in another sense: beyond the reach of physical perception.

This helps us understand why the Torah's revealed text gives us relatively little detail about what happens to the neshama after death. We are asking physical human beings, living within a physical world, to understand a reality that is fundamentally spiritual. The information is there, but much of it belongs to the deeper dimension of Torah, that of nistar, and particularly to the teachings of Kabbalah. And it is within those sources that we begin to discover a remarkable amount of information about the journey of the neshama.

The Souls Destined to Be Born

Let us now turn to a fascinating passage in the Gemara. The Gemara in Maseches Yevamos (63b) teaches:

“Ein Ben David ba ad sheyichlu kol haneshamos shebaguf— The son of David will not come until all the souls in the Guf have been exhausted.” This statement requires explanation, because the word guf here does not mean what we ordinarily understand it to mean.

First, let us understand the broader context.

We are all waiting for Mashiach. Hashem has promised that a descendant of David HaMelech will ultimately come and bring redemption not only to Klal Yisrael, but ultimately to the world. The coming of Mashiach represents the transformation of human history and the beginning of an entirely different era. Yet the Gemara tells us that there is a prerequisite to his arrival: “Ein Ben David ba ad sheyichlu kol haneshamos shebaguf.” Mashiach will not come until all the neshamos contained within something called the Guf have been brought forth.

What is this Guf? Ordinarily, of course, guf means the human body. But that is not what it means here.

The body can be understood as a covering; a container surrounding something within it. The language of Chazal uses related terminology for something that encloses or covers. In the language of the Mishnah, for example, we encounter terms such as megufas hachavis, the covering or stopper of a barrel (Shabbos 124b), and achar hagafah, referring to an enclosed or protected area (Bava Metzia 25b).

In that sense, the human guf can be understood as the outer covering of the person. And that changes the way we think about ourselves.

When you look into a mirror, you naturally think that you are looking at yourself. But in a deeper sense, you are not seeing yourself. You are seeing the guf, the physical covering in which the real, spiritual self is clothed. The neshama is within. But in the Gemara's statement about Mashiach, the word Guf has an even more specific meaning.

The same teaching appears in Maseches Niddah (13b), where Rashi explains: “Guf—cheder shem hamakom hameyuchad laneshamos ha'asidim lihiyos noladim.” The Guf, Rashi explains, is a cheder, a chamber, a designated place for the souls that are destined to be born.

This introduces us to an extraordinary concept. There is a spiritual repository, so to speak, containing the neshamos that are destined to enter this world. These souls exist before they are joined with the physical bodies through which they will live their lives on earth. Each neshama awaits the time when it will descend into this world and become joined with a human body.

This is what the Gemara means by “haneshamos shebaguf”—the souls that are in the Guf. Here, Guf is not a human body. It is the name given to this spiritual chamber containing the souls destined to enter the world. And now we can understand the Gemara's remarkable statement.

“Ein Ben David ba ad sheyichlu kol haneshamos shebaguf.” Mashiach will not come until all the souls destined to enter this world have done so. Each neshama that is meant to descend into this world must have its opportunity to enter a body and live its life here. Only when that process has been completed can history reach the stage of Mashiach.

This gives us another important piece of information about the neshama.

Until now, we have been speaking primarily about what happens after a person's life in this world: the body returns to the earth, while the neshama returns to Hashem. But this Gemara takes us in the opposite direction. It tells us something about the neshama before life begins. Before the neshama enters the body, it already exists. There is a spiritual reality that precedes our physical existence. The neshama does not begin when the body begins, just as it does not end when the body dies. It exists before entering this physical world, it enters a body for the duration of a person's earthly life, and when that life reaches its conclusion, it leaves the body and continues its existence.

The life we experience between birth and death is not the entire story of the neshama. It is one stage in a far greater journey. The neshama exists before it enters this world. It descends and becomes joined with a guf. For a period of time, body and soul live together and constitute the human being as we know him. Then, at death, the two separate. The body returns to the earth, while the neshama returns to the spiritual realm. And ultimately, as noted, body and neshama will once again be reunited at Techiyas HaMeisim.

The question we now need to investigate is: what can the Torah tell us about the neshama during these different stages of its journey?

Where Do Souls Reside in Heaven?

As explained, Rashi explains the Guf as a cheder—a chamber, a special place designated for the souls that are destined to be born. That is his explanation in Maseches Niddah.

In Maseches Yevamos (63b), however, Rashi gives us additional information.

Rashi writes: “Guf—pargod shechotzetz bein Shechinah lamalachim, v’sham ruchos uneshamot nesunos, shenivreu mi’sheishes yemei Bereishis, ha’asidos l’hinasein bagufim ha’asidim lehibar’os.”

Rashi describes the Guf as a pargod—a curtain or partition separating between the Shechinah and the malachim. There, he says, are the spirits and souls that were created during the Six Days of Creation and are destined eventually to be placed into bodies that will be born into this world. Obviously, when Rashi speaks of a “curtain,” we are not speaking about a physical curtain. We are discussing a spiritual reality, and human language can describe such realities only through concepts that are familiar to us. A curtain represents a boundary, a separation between one realm and another.

But what exactly are these realms? What is the Shechinah? Where are the malachim? And what does it mean for there to be a division between them? To begin understanding this, we need a very basic introduction to an important Kabbalistic concept.

Imagine, purely as an analogy, a building with four levels. Each level represents a different dimension of existence. These four dimensions are commonly referred to by the acronym ABYA, formed from their Hebrew names: Atzilus, Beriah, Yetzirah, and Asiyah.

At the highest level is Olam HaAtzilus, the World of Atzilus. Beneath it is Olam HaBeriah, the World of Creation. Beneath that is Olam HaYetzirah, the World of Formation. And finally, at the lowest level, is Olam HaAsiyah, the World of Action. When we speak of “higher” and “lower,” we are not describing physical locations. Olam HaBeriah is not somewhere geographically above Olam HaAsiyah. These are different levels or dimensions of reality. “Higher” means more spiritual, further removed from physical existence.

This provides us with a deeper framework for understanding the Torah's opening words: “Bereishis bara Elokim es hashamayim v’es ha’aretz—In the beginning, G-d created the heavens and the earth.” As we discussed earlier, Shamayim is not simply the blue sky above our heads, nor is aretz merely the planet Earth. On a deeper level, they represent two fundamental dimensions of existence: the spiritual and the physical.

The Four Worlds allow us to refine that distinction further. The higher realms—Atzilus, Beriah, and Yetzirah—belong entirely to spiritual existence. Physical matter as we experience it belongs to the lowest realm, Olam HaAsiyah. We live in Olam HaAsiyah. We possess physical bodies and we interact with physical objects. We experience the world through physical senses. Anything that is physical necessarily belongs to this dimension of existence.

Above Asiyah—“above” in a spiritual rather than spatial sense—is Olam HaYetzirah. Olam HaYetzirah is associated with the realm of the malachim, the angels. Beyond Yetzirah is an even higher spiritual realm, Olam HaBeriah. Within the Kabbalistic description of Olam HaBeriah are realities that are increasingly removed from anything we can perceive through ordinary human experience. Among the concepts associated with this realm are what are known as shorshei hakochos, the spiritual roots of the forces that ultimately manifest themselves within creation. And beyond Beriah is Olam HaAtzilus, an even more elevated level of spiritual reality.

With that framework, Rashi's words begin to take on greater meaning.

Rashi tells us that the Guf is a pargod, a boundary within the spiritual order of creation. On one side are the malachim; beyond it lies a still higher spiritual realm associated with the Shechinah. And within this spiritual structure are the neshamos that were created during the Six Days of Creation and are waiting to descend into the physical world.

We are therefore beginning to locate, conceptually, the Olam HaNeshamos within the much larger spiritual architecture described by our tradition. And this will become crucial as we try to answer our original question: where is the neshama before it enters this world, and where does it go when its life in this world comes to an end?

Exploring the Spiritual Realms

The neshamos are associated with Olam HaBeriah. Olam HaBeriah is also known as Olam HaKisei, the World of the Throne, because it is associated with the Kisei HaKavod, the Throne of Hashem.

When Yeshayahu HaNavi describes his extraordinary prophetic vision, he says, “Va’ereh es Hashem yoshev al kisei ram v’nisa— I saw Hashem sitting upon a throne, high and exalted” (Yeshayahu 6:1). This vision relates to Olam HaBeriah, the realm associated with the Kisei HaKavod.

The Zohar (Tzav 29b) teaches that the neshamos of Klal Yisrael are “Chatzuvos mitachas Kisei HaKavod—Hewn from beneath the Throne of Glory.” In the Kabbalistic structure we have been describing, the neshama has its spiritual root in this elevated realm. Each of the Four Worlds is itself understood as containing ten levels corresponding to the Ten Sefiros. Thus, even within Olam HaBeriah, there are different degrees of spiritual elevation. The roots of the neshamos occupy an extraordinarily elevated position within this realm.

Now we can return to Rashi's words and understand them more clearly.

We described Olam HaBeriah as a realm above Olam HaYetzirah, while Olam HaYetzirah is associated with the malachim. The boundary between these spiritual realms is what Rashi describes metaphorically as a pargod, a curtain or partition: “Pargod shechotzetz bein Shechinah lamalachim, v’sham ruchos uneshamot nesunot.” It is a partition separating between the Shechinah and the malachim, and there the souls are situated.

But Rashi then adds another remarkable detail:“Shenivreu mi’sheishes yemei Bereishis—These souls were created during the Six Days of Creation.” What exactly does that mean?

Let us return to the Torah's account of the sixth day.

It was on the sixth day of Creation that Hashem created Adam HaRishon: “Vayitzer Hashem Elokim es ha’adam afar min ha’adamah, vayipach b’apav nishmas chayim—Hashem formed man from the dust of the earth and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life” (Bereishis 2:7).

Here, for the first time, the Torah explicitly introduces the neshama: nishmas chayim. Adam's creation therefore contains two distinct elements. First, Hashem formed the body “Afar min ha’adamah,” from the dust of the earth. Then Hashem breathed into that body the nishmas chayim. Later that same day, Hashem declares: “Lo tov heyos ha’adam levado—It is not good for man to be alone” (Bereishis 2:18). Hashem then causes Adam to fall into a deep sleep: “Vayapel Hashem Elokim tardemah al ha’adam.” And from Adam himself, Hashem creates Chavah: “Hashem took from Adam and fashioned what He had taken into a woman” (Bereishis 2:21–22).

Notice the difference between the two descriptions.

When Adam is created, the Torah explicitly describes both dimensions: the formation of his physical body and the infusion of nishmas chayim. When Chavah is created, however, the Torah describes the formation of her body from Adam, but does not separately describe Hashem breathing a new neshama into her.

Why? The deeper sources explain that just as Chavah's physical existence emerged from Adam, her neshama was rooted in the original spiritual reality contained within Adam as well. The original human creation encompassed both Adam and Chavah; their subsequent separation produced two distinct human beings whose spiritual roots had originally been united.

This gives profound meaning to Adam's declaration when he first sees Chavah:“Zos hapa’am etzem mei’atzamai uvasar mib’sari—This time, it is bone of my bones and flesh of my flesh” (Bereishis 2:23). Their connection was not merely that two unrelated people were brought together. At the root of their existence, they emerged from a single human creation.

And this brings us back to Rashi's statement that the neshamos were created during the Six Days of Creation.

The creation of the human neshama was not something that began anew with each subsequent generation. The spiritual roots of the souls that would ultimately enter human bodies were already established within Creation itself. They exist within the spiritual realm and descend into this world when the appropriate body is created for them.

This is what Rashi means when he says,“Ha’asidos l’hinasein bagufim ha’asidim lehibarei—The souls destined to be placed into bodies that are yet to be created.”

The body may not yet exist and the person may not yet have been born. His parents may not even have been born yet. And even so, on the spiritual plane, the root of the neshama that will one day enter that body already exists.

This adds another remarkable dimension to our understanding of human life. The neshama does not suddenly come into existence at birth. Its story precedes its arrival in this world.

The body is new, but the neshama comes from somewhere far older.

Where Do Neshamos Come From?

Where, then, did all the neshamos of all the people who would ever live throughout human history come from? To understand that, we need one more piece of information.

Hashem commanded Adam and Chavah not to eat from the Eitz Ha’Daas, warning them that if they did, death would enter the human experience. Yet they ate. When Adam and Chavah sinned, something changed not only in the physical condition of humanity, but in its spiritual condition as well. The human being who sinned was not merely a body. Adam was a guf and a neshama, joined together as a single human being. His choice therefore had consequences for the entirety of his existence.

The Kabbalistic sources describe what followed in extraordinary terms. The original neshama of Adam HaRishon contained within it the spiritual roots of all the souls that would ultimately enter the world. Following the sin, that great collective neshama became divided into an immense number of spiritual sparks, known in Kabbalistic terminology as nitzotzos nishmas Adam HaRishon, the sparks of the soul of Adam HaRishon.

Think of an enormous spiritual whole that has now become fragmented into countless individual parts. Each spark contains something of that original neshama. And each carries a particular dimension of the spiritual imperfection created through Adam's sin that must ultimately undergo tikkun, rectification. Adam and Chavah themselves could not complete that entire process during their lifetimes. They would eventually die. How, then, could the spiritual consequences of their sin ultimately be repaired?

The answer takes us to the generations that would descend from them. Hashem created within humanity the capacity to reproduce. Chazal express this through a remarkable teaching in Maseches Kiddushin (30b): “Sheloshah shutfin ba’adam—There are three partners in the creation of a human being: the father, the mother, and Hakadosh Baruch Hu.” The father and mother contribute to the physical formation of the child. In contemporary language, we might say that the biological information from the father and mother combines to form the genetic blueprint from which the child's body develops. But the neshama does not come from the parents. The neshama comes from Hashem. And where was that neshama before the child was born?

This brings together everything we have learned.

The spiritual roots of the neshamos that would enter human history were already present within the original creation of Adam HaRishon. Following the sin, those spiritual roots became differentiated into the many individual sparks destined to enter human bodies throughout the generations. These are the neshamos that Rashi describes as existing in the spiritual realm, awaiting the time when they will be placed into bodies destined to be created.

This means that there is an extraordinary difference between the age of your body and the spiritual origin of your neshamah. Your body began relatively recently. It was formed through your parents and developed within this physical world. But the root of your neshama is far older. Its origin reaches back to the beginning of human existence itself. The neshama that you carry today has its root in that primordial spiritual reality of Adam HaRishon. It awaited the particular moment in history when it would descend into this world and become joined with your particular body.

And now we arrive at a crucial idea. Not every neshama has the same tikkun. If the original neshama fragmented into many individual sparks, then each spark represents a different aspect of the larger spiritual reality that requires rectification. Each neshama therefore enters this world with its own particular spiritual task.

This begins to explain something profound about human individuality. Why does one person struggle with one challenge while another person struggles with something completely different? Why does one person feel naturally drawn toward a certain mitzvah, while another finds that same mitzvah difficult? Why are our circumstances, abilities, weaknesses, opportunities, and challenges so different?

They are not necessarily random. Each neshama comes into this world with its own history and its own tikkun. And that is the next piece we need to understand.

The Tikkun of Your Neshama

And now we arrive at a word that many people have heard: tikkun. People often ask, “What is my tikkun? What am I here to accomplish? What is the tikkun of the world?” Based on what we have learned, we can begin to understand the concept.

Every neshama enters this world at a particular time, and Hashem determines the circumstances into which that neshama will enter. None of us was asked whether we wanted to be born. We did not choose our parents, the country in which we would be born, the century in which we would live, the family into which we would enter, or the circumstances with which our lives would begin. Those things were chosen for us. Why?

Because the neshama comes into this world for a purpose. It enters a particular body, at a particular moment in history, within a particular set of circumstances, in order to accomplish its tikkun. Hashem knows precisely the conditions in which that particular neshama can fulfill its purpose. Each person is therefore placed within the circumstances appropriate for the mission of his or her neshama. And that means that the circumstances of our lives are not incidental to our spiritual work. They are part of it. The family into which I was born, the abilities I possess, the opportunities I encounter, and even the difficulties with which I struggle can all become part of the setting in which my tikkun must be accomplished.

Of course, this does not mean that every painful event can be neatly explained by saying, “This is your tikkun.” We do not possess the Divine perspective necessary to explain why a particular event happens to a particular person. But in the broader spiritual framework, our task is to recognize that life has purpose and that our choices within the circumstances Hashem has given us matter. Hashem has also given the human being the ability to think, investigate, and search for truth.

Avraham Avinu is the great example. He did not inherit an environment in which everyone around him taught him the truth about Hashem. Quite the opposite. Yet he looked at the world, thought deeply about existence, and pursued the truth until he recognized the Creator. That responsibility belongs, in some measure, to every human being. Why are we here? What is this world? How did it come into existence? Is there a Creator? And if there is a Creator, does creation have a purpose? And if it does, the next question is: how are we supposed to know what that purpose is?

For the Jewish people, the answer begins with Matan Torah. Hashem revealed Himself at Har Sinai and gave us the Torah. Through the Torah, we are given the framework through which to understand what Hashem asks of us and how we are meant to live. The most direct path toward fulfilling one's tikkun, therefore, is not to speculate endlessly about some mysterious hidden mission. It is to seek truth and then live in accordance with it. And very often, the place where doing the right thing is particularly difficult is precisely where some of our most important spiritual work can be found.

When patience is difficult, that struggle may become an arena of growth. When generosity is difficult, that may be where we are being asked to stretch ourselves. When emunah, humility, forgiveness, or self-control requires tremendous effort, we should not automatically assume that the difficulty means we are on the wrong path. Sometimes the difficulty is the work. That is one way to understand tikkun: taking the particular life Hashem has given us and using it to bring our neshama closer to the purpose for which it entered this world.

Now we can return to the larger picture.

The spiritual roots of the neshamos of humanity go back to Adam HaRishon. Those neshamos await their appropriate time to enter this world. Each descends into a particular human life and is given the opportunity to fulfill its purpose. There is, however, an additional complication.

A neshama may enter this world more than once. This is the concept of gilgul neshama, reincarnation. Once we introduce gilgul, many new questions arise. Why would a neshama need to return? What remains unfinished from its previous life? How does one life relate to another? What does the neshama retain? These questions have answers within the deeper sources of Torah.

For now, let us return to the statement of Rashi.

Rashi tells us that the neshamos destined to enter human bodies were created during the Six Days of Creation. Where does Rashi derive this idea? To appreciate that, we need to see a remarkable Midrash.

On the Pasuk in Iyov (9:10), “Oseh gedolos ad ein cheker, v’niflaos ad ein mispar—He performs great deeds beyond investigation and wonders beyond number,” the Midrash teaches an extraordinary idea. The souls destined to exist throughout the course of human history were already rooted in the original Creation. And the Midrash adds another remarkable statement concerning the Jewish people:

“Kulan hayu b’Matan Torah—All of them were present at the giving of the Torah.” In other words, Matan Torah was not merely an event experienced by the generation physically standing at Har Sinai. At the spiritual level, the neshamos of Klal Yisrael throughout the generations were connected to that moment.

This gives us an important foundation for understanding Rashi. When Rashi speaks of souls created during the Six Days of Creation and awaiting their entry into human bodies, he is drawing upon a much broader tradition in Chazal concerning the preexistence and spiritual roots of the neshama.

Every Jew was there. Not necessarily in the physical body in which he or she lives today, of course, but at the level of the neshama. When Klal Yisrael declared “Naaseh v’nishma—We will do and we will hear” (Shemos 24:7), our connection to that declaration was not merely inherited from distant ancestors. Our neshamos themselves were bound to the covenant of Sinai. A Jew therefore cannot simply say, “Why should I be bound by something my ancestors accepted thousands of years ago?” At the level of the neshama, you were there too.

Now let us gather the information we have learned and organize it.

Based on these sources, we can speak of three basic states of the neshama.

The First State: Before Entering the Body. The first state is the neshama before it enters this physical world. At this stage, the neshama exists independently of a physical body. It has not yet entered the particular human life for which it is destined. It exists entirely within the spiritual realm, awaiting the time Hashem has determined for it to descend into this world. The body with which it will eventually be joined may not yet exist, but the neshama already does. This is the first state: the neshama before embodiment.

The Second State: The Neshamah Within the Body. Then comes the moment when the neshama enters this world and becomes joined with a physical body. The parents contribute the physical dimension of the developing human being, while Hashem provides the neshama. This partnership begins with the emergence of a new human life. From there, the developing child grows in the womb, is born, and begins the life for which that neshama entered this world. The person may live seventy years, eighty years, or, as we traditionally express our blessing, until 120. Throughout those years, the body and neshama are joined together. That union is what we call life. This is the second state: the neshama embodied within a human being and carrying out its purpose in this world.

The Third State: After Separation From the Body. Eventually, Hashem determines that the neshama’s time within its present body has reached its conclusion. The body and neshama then separate. As we saw in Koheles (12:7): “The dust returns to the earth as it was, and the spirit returns to God Who gave it.” The body returns to the physical world from which it came. The neshama, however, continues to exist within the spiritual realm. It has now entered its third state: existence after its separation from the body. Ultimately, this period continues until Techiyas HaMeisim, when body and neshamah will once again be reunited.

The Fourth State: Techiyas HaMeisim. The fourth state is Techiyas HaMeisim, the resurrection of the dead. What happens at Techiyas HaMeisim?

The neshama returns to the body.

And this is important: resurrection means the restoration of the person who lived before. If an entirely unrelated body were simply created, that would not be resurrection; it would be a new creation. Techiyas HaMeisim means that the person who died is restored to life. Our tradition speaks in this context of the etzem luz, a particular bone element of the body from which the body will ultimately be reconstructed at the time of resurrection. The body that had returned to the earth will be restored, and the neshamah will once again become joined with it. Body and neshama, which had been separated by death, will be reunited. That is the fourth state.

The Fifth State: Olam Haba. There is an important point here that is often misunderstood. Within the framework we are discussing, Olam Haba is not simply the place where disembodied souls go after death. The ultimate Olam Haba is the perfected existence of the human being—neshama and body together. To understand why, consider the famous teaching of the Mishnah in Pirkei Avos: “HaOlam hazeh domeh laprozdor bifnei Olam HaBa; haskein atzmecha baprozdor k’dei shetikanes latraklin—This world is like a corridor before the World to Come; prepare yourself in the corridor so that you may enter the banquet hall” (Avos 4:16).

This world is the prozdor, the corridor. Olam Haba is the traklin, the great hall. The corridor is where the preparation takes place. During our lives in this world, body and neshama work together. Together they confront temptation and together they perform mitzvos. Together they make choices and carry out the purpose for which the human being was created. The body is therefore not merely an obstacle that the neshama must escape. It is a participant in the human being's spiritual achievement. And if body and neshama participated together in the work, ultimately the perfected human being—body and neshama together—participates in the reward. This raises an obvious question.

How can a physical body exist forever? The bodies we know deteriorate. They age and they become ill. Their systems weaken, and eventually they can no longer sustain life. But that, our tradition teaches, was not the original condition of Adam HaRishon.

As we discussed earlier, Adam was not originally created with death as his inevitable destiny. Death entered the human condition through the sin of the Eitz HaDaas. The mortality and deterioration with which we are familiar belong to the diminished physical condition that followed the sin. Techiyas HaMeisim therefore involves more than simply restarting the biological systems of the body. The resurrected body will exist in a transformed and perfected state, no longer subject to the limitations that characterize our present physical existence.

We find glimpses within Torah of human existence transcending ordinary physical limitations.

Moshe Rabbeinu spent forty days and forty nights on Har Sinai without eating bread or drinking water. Eliyahu HaNavi departed this world in an extraordinary manner, ascending in the se’arah (storm) rather than undergoing ordinary death. These episodes remind us that the relationship between spirituality and physical existence need not always conform to the limitations we presently experience. The ultimate human condition, therefore, is not the destruction of the body. It is the perfection of the body.

We can now return to the question with which we began. We want to understand life after life. What actually happens during that third stage—the period after the neshama leaves the body and before Techiyas HaMeisim? What does the neshama know? What does it remember? What does it experience? And what connection does it retain to the world—and to the people—it left behind?

That is where we turn next.

Near-Death Experiences

We have a remarkable body of information on this subject. We find sources throughout Tanach, the Mishnah and Gemara, the Midrash, the Zohar, and the writings of the Arizal. Before we do so, I want to approach the subject from another direction as well.

There is a fascinating area of modern scientific and medical research that examines experiences reported by people who have come extremely close to death. These experiences are generally known as near-death experiences, or NDEs.

The terminology is important.

In Hebrew, NDE is sometimes translated as mavet klini, “clinical death.” But that expression can be misleading. A near-death experience does not necessarily mean that a person underwent irreversible biological death and subsequently returned to life. Rather, it refers to experiences reported during a severe medical crisis in which a person came very close to death. For example, during cardiac arrest, a catastrophic accident, or a life-threatening medical procedure.

Modern medicine can sometimes restore circulation after cardiac arrest. A person may therefore pass through an extraordinary physiological state in which the heart has stopped and consciousness, as ordinarily measured, has been profoundly disrupted, yet resuscitation remains possible. And some people who survive such events report remarkable experiences.

One of the individuals most responsible for bringing public attention to this phenomenon was the American physician and philosopher Dr. Raymond Moody. During the 1970s, Moody collected accounts from people who had come close to death and subsequently recovered. In 1975, he published a book that would become enormously influential: Life After Life.

What interested Moody was the recurrence of certain patterns across different accounts.

Some people reported the sensation of leaving their physical bodies and observing themselves from an external vantage point. They described seeing their own bodies below them while medical personnel attempted to resuscitate them. Some claimed that they could later describe details of what had occurred around them, including the people who were present, conversations that took place, or actions performed while they themselves appeared to be unconscious. Others described the sensation of traveling through darkness, sometimes characterized as a tunnel, toward an intense light. Some reported encountering deceased relatives, friends, or other figures who seemed to approach or welcome them.

And many described what Moody called a “being of light,” an overwhelming luminous presence associated not with fear or physical discomfort, but with extraordinary warmth, acceptance, and love. When asked how they understood this presence, individuals interpreted it according to their own religious and cultural frameworks. Some associated it with G-d; others described it in less specifically religious terms.

The significance of Moody's work was not that he had scientifically demonstrated the existence of the neshama. He had not. Nor do near-death experiences, by themselves, constitute scientific proof of life after death. There remains considerable scientific debate over how such experiences should be interpreted and what neurological, psychological, physiological, or other mechanisms may contribute to them.

But Moody helped draw serious attention to an intriguing phenomenon: people approaching the boundary between life and death sometimes report strikingly vivid experiences with recurring features, including the perception that consciousness has somehow become distinct from the physical body. His book Life After Life became an international bestseller and helped establish the term “near-death experience” in popular discussion. For us, this becomes particularly interesting.

We have just spent considerable time examining Torah sources that describe the human being as consisting of two dimensions: a physical guf and a spiritual neshama. We have learned that death represents their separation and that the neshama continues to exist after leaving the body.

And now, entirely outside the classical Torah literature, we encounter reports from people who came extraordinarily close to death and describe something that, at least phenomenologically, sounds striking: the experience of existing independently of the physical body. Does that prove the Torah's account? No. We should be intellectually careful enough not to make a scientific study say more than it actually says. But does it raise fascinating questions about consciousness, the human being, and the boundary between physical life and whatever may lie beyond it?

Absolutely.

And what becomes especially interesting is what happens when we place some of these reported features alongside sources written in our tradition many centuries before modern researchers began systematically collecting NDE accounts.

The Deceased Knows

Several years after the extraordinary success of that book, Moody published another work, The Light Beyond, in which he continued examining near-death experiences and the accounts that had accumulated in the years since his original research.

And by this point, the phenomenon had become much larger than the work of one researcher. Over the decades, near-death experiences have been reported and studied in many parts of the world. People of different ages, cultures, educational backgrounds, and religious traditions have described experiences with certain recurring features: the perception of being outside the body, observing events from an external vantage point, movement through darkness or a tunnel, encounters with deceased individuals, and an extraordinary light.

We should remain careful about what conclusions can scientifically be drawn from these reports. But for our purposes, there is a fascinating question to consider.

What do people report—and what do our Torah sources say?

Long before Raymond Moody, long before modern resuscitation medicine, and long before anyone used the expression “near-death experience,” Chazal discussed what the neshama experiences as it begins separating from the physical world.

Let us start with a remarkable Gemara in Maseches Shabbos. The Gemara discusses the period immediately following a person's death and teaches that we must be conscious of what we say in the presence of the deceased. Rabbi Avahu states: “Kol she’omrim bifnei hameis yode’a, ad sheyisatem hagolel—Everything that is said in the presence of the deceased, he knows, until the grave is closed” (Shabbos 152b).

Think about what Chazal are telling us.

The person's body is no longer alive. From our physical perspective, the individual has died. And yet the Gemara describes the deceased as retaining an awareness of what is taking place around him. The body is no longer functioning as it did before, but awareness has not simply disappeared.

The Gemara then continues with an extraordinary exchange involving Rav, one of the greatest of the early Amoraim and a disciple of Rabbi Yehudah HaNasi. Rav spoke to his student, Rav Shmuel bar Shilas, about what should happen after Rav's own passing. Rav told him: “Achim li b’hespeda, dehasam ka’imna—Deliver a stirring eulogy for me, because I will be standing there.” In other words: when the time comes and you deliver my hesped, understand that I will be present.

That is a remarkable statement.

Rav was telling his student that death would not render him completely unaware of what was happening. His physical life would have ended, but in some sense he would still be present and cognizant of the words being spoken. This also helps us appreciate why a hesped carries such responsibility.

A eulogy is not an opportunity for empty exaggeration. We naturally want to speak positively about someone who has passed away, and a hesped is intended to articulate the genuine qualities of the deceased and inspire those who remain. But we must be truthful. We should not manufacture virtues or transform a person into someone he never was. The deceased himself, the Gemara suggests, is not simply absent from the proceedings. He is aware. And this brings us directly back to one of the questions we asked at the beginning.

When the neshama separates from the body, does it retain any awareness of this world? According to this Gemara, at least during the period immediately following death, the answer is clearly yes. The neshama does not leave the body and instantly become oblivious to everything it has left behind. There remains a degree of awareness of what is taking place here.

That information was recorded by Chazal many centuries before modern medicine made resuscitation after cardiac arrest increasingly possible and before researchers began collecting accounts from people who reported observing events around their apparently unconscious bodies.

Now we need to proceed carefully. A near-death experience is not identical to death, and a modern clinical report is not the same thing as a statement of Chazal. We should not collapse two very different categories into one. But we can place them alongside one another and ask an intriguing question.

People who have undergone near-death experiences sometimes report: “My body was there, but I was still aware of what was happening around it.” And centuries earlier, the Gemara tells us that after death, the deceased retains awareness of what is being said in his presence.

That parallel is certainly worth examining. And the Gemara has considerably more to say.

The First Three Days After Death

Let us examine something remarkable.

In The Light Beyond, Dr. Raymond Moody describes a case that reportedly took place on Long Island, New York. Before we look at the account itself, there is one detail that makes it particularly striking.

The patient was a seventy-year-old woman who had been blind since the age of eighteen. In other words, she had not been able to see for fifty-two years.

She suffered a heart attack and was resuscitated. Moody describes what she subsequently reported: “In Long Island, a seventy-year-old woman who had been blind since the age of eighteen was able to describe in vivid detail what was happening around her as doctors resuscitated her after a heart attack.”

According to Moody's account, she was able to describe not only the medical instruments being used, but even their colors. That was especially striking because many of those instruments had not existed more than fifty years earlier, when she had last been able to see. She also reportedly described the physician who began treating her, including the fact that he was wearing a blue suit when the resuscitation began.

Now consider what makes this account so intriguing.

The woman had been blind for more than half a century. After she was successfully resuscitated, she remained blind. Her physical eyesight had not suddenly been restored. And yet she reported a visual experience during the period of her medical crisis, including details of objects and circumstances around her. How should such an account ultimately be explained? That is a scientific question requiring careful investigation, and an individual case report should not be treated as proof of the survival of consciousness after death.

But from our perspective, it raises a fascinating possibility. Could perception exist, under certain extraordinary circumstances, independently of the ordinary functioning of the physical senses? Keep that question in mind as we turn back to Chazal.

There is a remarkable passage in the Talmud Yerushalmi (Moed Katan 3:5), describing the relationship between the neshama and the body immediately following death.

The Yerushalmi states: “Kol telasa yomin nafsha tayasa al gufa, savra dehi hadra legabei—For the first three days, the nefesh hovers over the body, thinking that it may return to it.” This is an extraordinary description.

The neshama has separated from the body, and yet it remains in proximity to it. The Yerushalmi describes it as tayasa al gufa—hovering over the body. And it is not merely present. It is aware. Indeed, the Yerushalmi portrays the neshama as not yet fully reconciled to what has occurred. It remains connected to the body with which it had identified throughout its earthly life and, in some sense, anticipates returning to it.

The Yerushalmi continues: “Keivan dehi chamya de’ishtani zivuyei d’apei, hi shavka lei v’azla—Once the neshama perceives that the appearance of the face has changed, it leaves and goes on its way.” The language is difficult, but the concept is striking.

For an entire lifetime, the neshama experienced this world through its connection with the body. Body and soul functioned together as a single human being. Then, suddenly, that relationship is broken. The neshama now exists without the body.

According to the Yerushalmi, there is a transitional period during which the neshama remains close to the body and has not yet completely disengaged from it. Only as the physical body begins visibly to change does the finality of that separation become manifest.

So what have we learned from this source?

First, the neshama remains aware of the body after separating from it.

Second, the Yerushalmi describes the neshama as being above or around the body rather than confined within it.

And third, the separation appears to involve a process. Death may occur at a particular moment, but the neshama's disengagement from its former physical existence is described as unfolding over time.

Now place that alongside the phenomenon we discussed earlier.

Some people who undergo near-death experiences report perceiving themselves from a vantage point outside or above their physical bodies. They describe seeing the body below them and observing events taking place around it. And approximately eighteen centuries before the modern study of near-death experiences, the Yerushalmi used its own striking language:

“Nafsha tayasa al gufa—The soul hovers over the body.”

Again, we should not claim that the two are necessarily describing precisely the same phenomenon. A near-death experience is not the same as actual death, and scientific reports and teachings of Chazal belong to very different categories. But the parallel is certainly remarkable.

The modern report says: I experienced myself outside my body, observing it from above. The Yerushalmi says: After separation, the nefesh remains above the body, aware of it.

And that brings us one step closer to answering our original question. When the neshama  leaves the body, does it remain conscious of what has happened? According to the sources we have seen so far, the answer appears to be yes. But this raises an even more fascinating question: If the neshama can perceive the body after leaving it, what else can it perceive?

The Form of the Neshama After Death

Consider another account described in the literature on near-death experiences.

A man who had suffered a catastrophic accident later recalled perceiving himself above the operating table. Looking down, he saw a severely injured body and initially felt pity for the person lying there. Only afterward did he come to the realization that the body he was observing was his own.

Whatever interpretation we ultimately give such an account, notice the two elements being described.

First, he perceived himself from a position outside and above his physical body. Second, there was initially a degree of disorientation. He did not immediately identify the injured body below as his own.

That is particularly interesting in light of the source we just saw in the Yerushalmi. Chazal describe the nefesh as remaining above the body following death and, for a period of time, not yet fully disengaged from or reconciled to its new condition.

Again, we should be precise. A near-death experience is not identical to the state after actual death, and anecdotal reports do not constitute scientific proof of the teachings of Chazal. But when descriptions recorded in very different contexts bear certain similarities, the comparison is certainly thought-provoking.

Now let us add another source—this time from the Zohar. The Zohar in Parashas Lech Lecha teaches: “Miyoma d’ibri alma, kol inun nishmasin da’asidin l’kayma bivnei nasha, kulhu kaimin kamei Kudsha Brich Hu, b’hahu diyukna mamash da’asidin l’mehevei b’alma—From the time the world was created, the souls destined to enter human beings exist before Hakadosh Baruch Hu in the very form in which they are destined to appear in this world.”

This adds a remarkable dimension to what we learned earlier.

We said that the neshamos exist before entering their physical bodies. The Zohar now teaches that although they do not yet possess physical bodies, they nevertheless possess a kind of spiritual form corresponding to the form they will eventually assume in this world. The Zohar then describes what happens at the other end of life. When a person leaves this world, the neshama ascends and is clothed in a spiritual form corresponding to the form in which it had been clothed during its physical life.

In other words, the Torah's mystical tradition does not necessarily portray the disembodied neshama as an entirely formless abstraction. There is a concept of a nonphysical levush—a spiritual form or garment through which the neshama retains a recognizable identity.

Keep that concept in mind as we return to Dr. Moody's descriptions.

In The Light Beyond, Moody reports that people undergoing near-death experiences sometimes describe themselves as conscious and aware of the conversations taking place around them. They may understand what physicians and nurses are saying despite being unable to communicate with them. They try to speak, but no one hears them. They try to attract someone's attention, but no one sees them.

And some report something even more unusual: attempting to touch another person and finding that their perceived hand simply passes through the physical body of the person they are trying to touch.

Moody recounts the case of a woman whom he says he personally helped resuscitate after cardiac arrest. According to his account, she later told him that while he was attempting to revive her, she perceived herself above her body, looking down. She did not want him to continue. From her perspective, she felt well where she was. The physical suffering had disappeared, and she attempted to communicate with him—to tell him to stop. But he could not hear her. She then tried to grab his arm as he worked on her. She reported that her hand passed through his arm. Yet she described experiencing some kind of sensation during that attempted contact.

Now notice what she believed herself to be experiencing. She did not experience herself as nonexistent. She experienced herself as conscious, as located somewhere and as possessing a form. Yet that form, in her perception, did not interact with physical matter in the ordinary way.

And that makes the language of the Zohar particularly intriguing.

The Zohar speaks of the neshama existing outside the physical body while nevertheless possessing a nonphysical levush or form. Modern near-death accounts sometimes contain phenomenologically similar descriptions: people experience themselves outside the body while retaining a sense of personal form and identity.

We should not say that modern science has proved the Zohar. That would go beyond what the evidence can establish. Near-death experiences remain the subject of serious scientific debate, and researchers offer neurological, physiological, psychological, and other explanations for various aspects of the phenomenon. But neither should we miss what makes the comparison so fascinating.

Long before modern resuscitation medicine, long before cardiac monitors, and long before researchers began interviewing survivors of cardiac arrest, our sources were already discussing questions that modern researchers are now asking: can consciousness exist independently of the body's ordinary functioning? Can a person remain aware after becoming physically unresponsive? Can there be perception without the ordinary use of the physical senses? Can the neshama retain identity and form outside the body?

Our tradition approached these questions not through medical experimentation, but through the spiritual knowledge transmitted within Torah. Modern research approaches them from an entirely different direction. And at certain points, the descriptions appear to intersect in remarkable ways.

That is not where our emunah begins. We do not believe in the neshama because someone reported seeing a tunnel or observing an operating room from above. Our belief is rooted in Torah. But these reports can give us something valuable: an opportunity to consider, from another perspective, the possibility that the physical dimension of the human being is not the entirety of the human being.

The neshama is.