LEVINAS:
I do not see God in the stars, nor in abstract theorems.
I see God in the widow,
in the orphan,
in the trembling hand that reaches for bread.
The Face is not a metaphor.
It is a commandment.
It says to me,
“Thou shalt not remain indifferent.”
The Ark is made of broken tablets.
The covenant is born of failure.
Do you understand?
Oh, but yes! The Divine Will loves to descend into littleness.
He chose a little girl — me! —
To write, to wait, to sigh with Him.
I lived only to let Him repeat His acts through me.
The sun, the stars, the wind — they obey His Will.
I? I am the littlest.
But He told me:
“In your littleness I find my throne.”
And so I lay still
That He may move in me.
All things restored. All creation dancing.
Ha! You speak of dancing?
I once saw the Messiah dancing alone on a mountaintop.
He danced and cried at the same time.
His feet made rivers.
His tears made trees.
There is no despair, my friends — but the road is long.
The world is full of weeping.
The Shekhinah walks barefoot through Auschwitz.
She sleeps beside the sick child in Warsaw.
You want joy? Go find it in her tears.
My soul magnifies the Lord.
But I am still
And my silence is filled with listening.
I saw the Word made Flesh.
Not in thunder, but in blood.
In my yes, all creation sighed.
I gathered the torn flesh of God at the foot of the Cross.
I carried Him again — this time, lifeless.
But I never stopped singing.
Even in the silence between breaths.
Even in the dark.
To sing in the dark —
This is the only holiness left to us.
The face shines most
when the world forgets how to see.
But in the Divine Will, even forgotten things are remembered.
Every tear, every grain of dust
Finds its proper place in the Eternal Fiat.
He told me:
“My Will shall reign again among men.”
It will be like Eden, but greater,
Because redeemed.
A Tikkun, then.
Yes. A healing deeper than the first innocence.
Not the Garden,
But the firelight in exile.
The song in the dark woods.
We must become fools for this joy.
Joy so radiant it burns.
The joy of a mother who has buried her son,
And still believes in spring.
This joy. This Fiat.
This yes.
This Temple.
Then the Temple is not a building.
It is the space between the faces
Where love refuses to die.
And it is filled with acts of Will —
Divine, repeated, sanctified.
Each heartbeat of a soul in the Divine Will
Is a tabernacle.
Each cry of joy is a curtain torn.
The cherubim still face each other.
Somewhere.
In a child’s laugh.
In the breath of a hidden tzaddik.
In the broken hallelujah.
Come, children.
Let me gather your voices.
Let me be Ark and Garden,
Mother and Tabernacle.
Do not fear the night.
I hold the Flame.
The Temple lives.
It is within us.
It is between us.
Let the Face shine.
Let the dance begin.
Let the Fiat rise like dawn.
