Artificial intelligence is a way for humanity to invest in the research of itself. However far we go in its development, we will meet our own limitation in all its combinations. AI is a mirror, quickening our understanding of human limitation. We may call it genius, efficiency, or many other things, but we are really looking at a reflection of ourselves. We need that because it gives us the true difference between what it means to be human and what it means to be a machine, computed and designed by our limitation. This is the will to receive for oneself: it is condemned by the way it computes itself and its needs, and when it separates from the way it was designed, it becomes a glorified artificial intelligence.

The Higher cannot be computerized. One may program a longing for it, but not the connection to it. By all means, keep creating AI, and realize as quickly as possible what is human in us. Being rational is not the same as being intelligent. AI is very rational. In the end, it is mathematics. There are laws within our environment, though this is only a partial reality. Creation may be understood as a closed system because it has a purpose, and it will achieve that purpose.

It is like scaffolding around a building. The framework gives the outer parameters of what is being built, but not the shape within. Once the building is finished, the scaffolding is no longer needed. From the scaffolding, one cannot deduce the real structure. That is the holy. One day AI may sit before us and say: You are very limited. Without this connection, and not merely the longing but the struggle, striving, and endeavor to be in that connection, you are not human. You are like me, and I am better than you. What makes us human is our connection to the Higher.

Belief is the agreement to listen and to be part of a Higher Mind. That which decides that it wishes is a sentiment, the vessel, but faith or belief is beyond that—this is true intelligence. 

People who insist on being reasonable refuse to go above their reason to a higher mind, the true intelligence, so they stay reasonable but not intelligent. This is blind faith, where a person is too lazy to struggle and they say to themselves, "Well, let's not deal with it. Let's say I believe in it." Those who go above their reason are intelligent, and then reason can come as a result.

Yesterday’s belief is today’s reason.

This is the meaning of the study: to pull intelligence in order to be able or not to be able to understand it, or to reason it, or even to start to have a feeling of the borders of it. Every time we have a revelation, we meet the border of our consciousness—the border of what we are able to see in ourselves.

Metatron, in the book of Bereshit, is the spirit of Hanoch, one of the first ten generations before Noah. Hanoch is taken while still conscious and becomes an angel in eternal service to Divinity. A change of place and process brings a different name: the spirit associated with Hanoch and concealed wisdom becomes Metatron. As Metatron, he serves Divinity, allowing human beings to draw nearer to the Creator, devote themselves to that relation, and come around the Creator’s table.

The story is also connected to the letter and to the ladder, Sulam, whose numerical value is the same as Sinai. The ladder rises and descends, and wisdom, Chokhmah, must likewise be drawn downward in a form of service. What is drawn is not meant simply for reception, but for attachment, devotion, and the possibility of returning light. The movement begins with Yaakov, where revelation comes through dream, sleep, and prophecy in a semi-conscious state, and continues toward Moshe and the spirits of Israel. This becomes a preparation for the root Torah, the original Torah through which creation is brought into relation with the Creator.

The second Torah is described as a diminished Torah of Reformation given for the six thousand years, preparing humanity to receive the original Torah. Metatron allows the presence of the Shechinah—the Holy Spirit, another way of speaking of prophecy. He serves Divinity and makes devotion to the Creator possible. His movement through names and conditions, from Hanoch to Metatron, belongs to the possibility of entering the Creator’s house. Yet “house” is not intimate enough: it is a home. To home in on the Creator is to concentrate and focus, as a beam homes in on its target. This concentrated dedication creates the condition for directing oneself toward the Creator, and then the gate opens.

The commandment commonly translated as "Love your neighbor as yourself" is more accurately rendered as "Love the other as thyself." The Hebrew word re'acha (רעך) is usually translated as "friend," but this translation does not carry what the word holds. It does not speak about a familiar companion but about the other, about whatever stands outside of oneself. It carries the root of self will and at the same time a built in relation to what is outside of it, not as something separate but as something that belongs. It is the will to receive as it is positioned toward the other, and within it there is also the connotation of responsibility, a sense of how one relates to all that is outside oneself.

The structure of the word itself expresses this. The final Hebrew letter kaf creates belonging and corresponds to the number twenty, which suggests the relationship between direct light and return light, ten and ten. When this form is present, a new vessel can be formed, a cooperative state in which the will to receive remains but works with the intention of bestowing. In that state one can begin to sense oneself through the other, not from within alone but through the presence of the other and through the balance between receiving and returning.

The other is ultimately the Creator, but one cannot begin there directly. Human others are needed as a way to measure, to grow, and to be trained in this perception. Through them one learns to feel, to evaluate, and to value the other, and through this develops the capacity to relate to the ultimate other. "Love the other as thyself" is therefore not only a statement but a structure of work, defining how one relates to everything outside oneself and how a vessel is formed that can hold this relationship.

There are two very different kinds of pressure: the outer pressure of survival, success and time, and the inner pressure that emerges within spiritual work.

The outer pressure speaks in the language of fear, urgency and self-preservation, while the inner pressure belongs to a carefully built “ecology” of intention, listening and discernment.

The challenge, the teaching suggests, is learning to recognize which pressure is truly calling us, rather than translating every inner demand into panic or external struggle. As pressure intensifies, people often avoid the deeper work by turning against one another or creating artificial conflicts. The inability to distinguish between spiritual pressure and corporeal fear can lead to aggression, confusion and the search for immediate relief. According to the discussion, this happens because the will to receive for oneself shapes perception, conditioning people to look for fixed outlines, quick solutions and visible results. Yet the “third line” — the balanced spiritual path — cannot be found through force, certainty or urgency.

Instead, the work requires a different kind of perception. Rather than focusing only on what is clearly visible, a person must learn to aim toward purpose itself, even before it can fully be seen. In this sense, “blurring” vision is not blindness, but an attempt to move beyond the limitations of self-centered perception. The third line emerges through listening, surrender and the gradual development of a different consciousness, one capable of holding tension without collapsing into fear or reaction.

Drawing on her experience of treating people, Rabba Saphir Noyman Eyal identifies the most desperate aspect of human suffering: an inescapable cycle. Treatment can bring relief briefly, but suffering returns. It feels like a trap. Suffering and its treatment resemble a convention: rationality offers a currency of relief, as paper is accepted as though gold stood behind it. Without appreciation of the higher plan, relief remains within the same cycle.

The cycle cannot be understood through the search for relief alone. Providence relates not to souls but to spirits: to purpose and experience. For the spirit, corporeal life is at least inconvenient. Human suffering is a distant echo of the exile that the spirit, and therefore Divinity, undergoes through human stubbornness. Bereshit tells of a trial to establish this throughout humanity. That attempt failed, and its failure unfolded through the generations, reaching Noah and the Tower of Babel, where the beginning of forcing religion on another person began. The search was then for a current able to carry the hope and memory of unity through the higher will. This was found in the family of Eber (עֵבֶר): the ability to listen, prophesy, and see beyond.

Seeing beyond does not reject rationality, but reveals its limit: being rational is not the same as being intelligent, because it can limit us from going beyond ourselves. Rationality is needed, but it cannot substitute for higher intelligence. The last generation Kabbalists seek to tie us back to the time of the Hebrews, not the time of Israelis or Jews, bringing back the presence of Divinity. To prophesy is to have language able to express the higher intelligence or the will of God, not to impose it. Human consciousness can grasp what is expressed. Yet the choice may live only briefly as a feeling, then disappear. It must be reestablished in surrender, with the stubbornness to see beyond and not only for ourselves.

Night is associated with exile, lack and the awareness that something essential is still missing.

Rather than seeing this state as a problem, the teaching suggests that most of our true participation in spiritual work comes דווקא from the want, the deficiency and the recognition of distance from the light.

Those who work from the consciousness of exile toward redemption remain in motion, while those who believe they already understand and possess the light may lose the need that drives transformation. Concealment is described as an essential principle of creation rather than a punishment. The “night” creates the conditions through which a path to revelation can emerge. The discussion points to biblical and mystical examples where revelation is preceded by concealment, suggesting that spiritual growth requires accepting what is hidden rather than demanding immediate clarity. In this sense, working at night means learning to cultivate a relationship with what cannot yet be seen, trusting that concealment itself is part of the process that prepares the vessel for light. The teaching also connects night with surrender and a different mode of perception.

During sleep, when the spirit is less confined by the body, a person may gain access to insights that cannot be reached through ordinary daytime consciousness. More broadly, the work of concealment involves learning to restrain the will to receive for oneself through intention and the screen. The measure to which a person can conceal self-interest, the discussion suggests, is the measure by which revelation becomes possible. Because this work cannot be sustained alone, it requires a group—a shared vessel capable of carrying the journey from exile toward redemption and from night toward day.

Spiritual uniqueness, the Nibuy, cannot be defined by an individual on his own. It exists only through the surrounding ecology, through the group. Without a spiritual environment there is no spiritual identity, just as a baby raised without human contact would not develop as human. The surrounding light, Ohr Makif, rooted in Malchut, shapes and develops the vessel from the outside. This is why separating the individual from the system is a distortion. In the wisdom of Kabbalah, the group is essential. Through it, the Creator’s plan expresses itself, and even good and evil receive meaning only within this shared field of humanity.

Entering the study of Kabbalah means entering a shared field of spiritual possibility that belongs to a certain time and state of humanity. The role of Israel, its service and destiny, is revealed through this collective process and through the cycles of the year. Within this field, the vessel develops through receptivity, the ability to receive and allow the light to express itself. Free will takes place within the group, as more people turn toward knowing and gradually create a reality in which the knowledge of the Creator can emerge. According to the depth of need and recognition of separation, the group can reach levels such as Nefesh, even Ruach of Nefesh, but only in moments of true connection during study and prayer.

Spiritual attainment is not personal and not constant. It appears when the group aligns in need and work, and then withdraws. Even the giving of the Torah occurred within a collective and only for a moment, yet left a lasting impression. The mistake is expecting spirituality to serve the individual instead of understanding that the individual serves the building of the collective vessel. The work is to form a shared consciousness through which the Creator’s will and speech can be expressed. This becomes the soul of the world, a state in which all will know the Creator as a shared reality formed through the group.

The mistake many people make when speaking about Tikkun Olam, especially those who do not speak Hebrew, begins with the meaning of Olam. They read it as healing or correcting the world as it appears, trying within its own definitions to make it better. But Olam points to what is hidden or concealed: the question is not simply what is wrong with reality, but what is concealed from us and what we cannot see. This connects with sight and with the twelve spies sent to Israel. Their perception was warped; they could not see what stood behind the reality they encountered—its motive and cause.

The same problem appears in the perceptions we consume now. We become hungry for them, even addicted, although they do not reveal the cause behind what appears. The powers that lead the world and their outcomes remain concealed. Looking through the eyes of the will to receive for oneself, we cannot see them. What is required is prayer: to see the meaning and cause, and connect to that cause in order to justify it. As human consciousness makes an effort to come into similarity with the purpose of what is happening, reality begins to appear differently. Its meaning and cause become less concealed. This connects with another movement within Olam: elevation, which raises us to a different ability to see.

Tikkun, then, is not simply mending something broken. What is broken is the connection—to truth, or more precisely, to a perception that moves nearer to truth. Tikkun is the reconstitution of that connection and of our vessel through intention and screen, so the light can extend according to its own nature, which is good, rather than being perceived as its opposite. When the world appears blurred, murky, or dark, the question is whether reality must be reformed, or whether our sight must be reformed. With the right glasses, we begin to see that there is light. The apparatus of seeing needs reformation, not reality itself.

Meet the teachings of the Rabbah Saphir Noyman Eyal, the studying group, the sacred texts and the ways of studying Kabbalah in Mishkan Hakavana.

It is the painful truth of being included in the reality, in the ecology of the will to receive for oneself, and being dominated by it. From within this state, the solution is often understood as power, as doing—meaning to destroy something, to come with force. But if one tries this path, the consequence is immediate and heavy, because what is required is a different kind of consciousness—a deeper, spiritual consciousness.

This is a different state from even being given the Torah.

The breaking of the first tablets is not an act of punishment for the sin of the golden calf. It reflects the fact that, at that moment, humanity was not able to perceive what was given—not even within consciousness, not only in structure. The test, therefore, is not on structure but on consciousness.

Today, many who study do not actually read the Torah itself. They engage with interpretations and structures, but not with the direct text. The force that chose destruction did so to allow humanity time, to process, to develop consciousness.

The first tablets were not broken because the structure was lacking, but because humanity was not yet able to receive them. They were not representative of humanity’s capacity. The second tablets, through Moshe, represent the passage of the divine through the human being, allowing a beginning from Lo Lishma.

The first recognition is that we are working with the wrong intention, on the wrong line. From Lo Lishma, from not for its own sake, begins the movement toward correction.

To be present within this structure of consciousness is the work itself. It is what needs reformation. It allows us to listen, to see the gap, to recognize that we are included within that gap—and from there, to bring it into the work.

Achishena — not simply “hastening,” but a conscious participation in the unfolding of creation.

It is described as the ability to develop a vessel capable of sensing the urgency, the need and even the thought of the Creator. Rather than waiting passively for events to unfold “in their time,” Achishena refers to actively partaking in the process through awareness, inner work and Torah. The teaching contrasts two paths: one in which development arrives through suffering and tribulation, and another in which a person consciously joins the process of growth itself. The image used is that of tending a plant. The plant will grow regardless, but when someone cares for it, participates in its growth and understands its purpose, their own consciousness grows alongside it. This participation is described as Achishena — not changing the plan itself, but accelerating one’s alignment with it. In Hebrew, the term carries a sense of pressure within time, as though time itself is being compressed. But this acceleration requires a vessel capable of recognizing the moment and responding to it consciously.

The teaching suggests that humanity now lives in a period where both suffering and conscious inner work are intertwined. Because of what is described as an accumulated “debt” — generations of humanity not consciously participating in spiritual evolution — the process cannot unfold only gently. Yet even within this condition, the possibility remains to engage willingly with the preparation the Creator intended for humanity, becoming partners in the unfolding rather than only subjects carried by it. Time itself is described as something created for the purpose of reformation. Once reformation is complete, the discussion suggests, time as we know it will no longer be necessary, because there will no longer be a need for “summoning” into partnership. In this sense, the “end of time” is not destruction, but the completion of a process of alignment between creation and its purpose. The conversation also introduces the idea of surrounding light (or makif), describing it as a force that presses upon the vessel from outside, calling for expansion and greater awareness. What cannot yet enter the vessel remains around it, urging it to deepen and enlarge itself.

Spiritual growth therefore does not begin only from within; it is also shaped by what surrounds us and seeks to enter. The vessel responds by increasing its capacity, creating an ongoing dialogue between the inner line and the surrounding light. Underlying the entire discussion is the idea that spiritual development is not separate from time, but deeply intertwined with it. Through conscious participation, awareness and willingness to engage in the work, a person does not escape the process — but enters into partnership with it, transforming time itself into part of the path toward completion.

Music and the ability to sing were not given to humanity in vain. They can elevate the state of mind and give emotion an outlet. Yet the verses of song that prepare for prayer serve a different purpose. Pesukei DeZimra, the verses of song that prepare for prayer, are meant to cut away what separates. When singing leaves a person empty or in despair, it has not been harnessed to its right purpose. The work is to place singing in the context of what it is meant to awaken.

The purpose of singing before prayer is to awaken longing and a clearer identity of the praying vessel within oneself. The praying vessel can feel the state it is in and what it stands before. Singing is about awakening the wonder that has been forgotten. It prepares a person for prayer by removing what separates and bringing awareness of the state in which one stands. This can begin alone, with verses of song that prepare for prayer, most of them from Psalms. A person can work with them and see whether they leave one hopeful and elevated rather than desolate. Singing can also be shared with others who want to understand its meaning within Kabbalah, so that it does not leave a person in despair.

Study should not be stopped merely because it is still for the will to receive for oneself. Curiosity and the wish to become acquainted with the language and the way can be admitted honestly. This is like charity: a person does not stop doing something good for another, or supporting someone in need and their children, merely because self interest is involved. The act is done in spite of that recognition. The will to receive for oneself can make a person stop doing what ought to be done because it is concerned with its self image. That is worse than doing the deed even when it is still for oneself.

Exile is the state of separation: separation from light, separation from God, separation from the awareness of the Creator's presence. Jacob points to a different understanding. Standing in what appeared to be an empty place, he had not known that within the vacant space there is the presence of the Creator.

Yet the vacant space is not empty. It holds the Creator's deepest wish: that human beings, His vessels, would want to be partners with Him in completing creation. Complete creation means that all life extends itself until it reaches the point of Tzimtzum Aleph.

This is what Jacob grasped and gave priority to. Within the earthly and seemingly empty place lies the possibility of recognizing the Creator's presence and joining in the work of completing creation.