The coldest, darkest days of winter have a way of seeping into our bones, bringing an inner chill that mirrors the world outside. It's a time when many of us feel an emotional heaviness, a tendency toward irritability or a desire to retreat. We hunker down, waiting for the light to return, often viewing this period as something to be endured rather than embraced.
Yet, what if this harsh season held hidden gifts? Imagine for a moment that this inner coldness is not an obstacle, but an invitation. Ancient wisdom surrounding the Hebrew month of Teves, which falls at the peak of winter, offers a surprising and profound lens through which to view these very challenges. This tradition suggests that the difficult energies we experience—from the flash of anger to the complexities of our closest bonds—are raw materials for a deeper, more meaningful engagement with ourselves, with others, and with the Divine.
This article explores four of the most counter-intuitive and impactful ideas from this spiritual tradition. They are insights that invite us to look beneath the surface of our experiences and discover the potent sparks of holiness hidden in the dark.
1. Becoming Angry Is a Form of Idol Worship
In a startling reframing of a common emotion, the Zohar, the foundational text of Jewish mysticism, teaches that the act of getting angry is spiritually equivalent to worshipping an idol. This isn't a metaphor about being "hot-headed"; it's a precise diagnosis of a spiritual condition.
The reason is rooted in the ego. Each of us carries a fixed, internal narrative of how life is supposed to unfold—how others should behave, how events should play out, and how we should be treated. Anger erupts when reality dares to deviate from this script. This act of placing our personal story above the actual, unfolding flow of life is a rejection of Divine Providence. It's a declaration that our will, our expectation, is sovereign. In that moment, we are bowing to the idol of our own ego.
This teaching makes a crucial distinction: there is the raw, neutral sensation of anger, and then there is the destructive narrative we attach to it. The sensation itself is just a physiological mobilization of energy. It is the story we tell ourselves about that energy—the story of violation, injustice, and personal offense—that turns it into a destructive force. The ultimate master of this discipline was Joseph. After being sold into slavery by his brothers, he had every reason to be consumed by a narrative of rage. Yet when he finally reunited with them, he saw past his personal story to a higher, Divine purpose, recognizing that their betrayal was part of a plan to ultimately save them all.
"Whoever becomes angry is like an idol-worshipper."
2. Your Liver Is the Physical Seat of Your Anger
This spiritual state of egoic attachment is not just an abstract concept; ancient wisdom teaches that it has a physical anchor, a specific seat of power within the body. The month of Teves, the primary sense of anger, and a particular organ are all deeply intertwined. That organ is the liver, or Kaved in Hebrew.
The linguistic link itself is revealing: the word Kaved also means "heavy." According to this tradition, when the liver is not functioning properly on a spiritual level, it makes a person physically and emotionally "heavy." This isn't just sluggishness; it's a spiritual state that causes one to take their personal narratives too seriously, cementing the ego's grip and providing fertile ground for anger to grow.
The liver is associated with the raw, impulsive energy of Tohu—a primordial state of creation characterized by "self-centered clashing." This chaotic force is embodied by the archetype of Esau, who is described as being "full of blood" like the liver, covered in red hair, and impulsively demanding red lentils. Unchecked, this energy leads to self-gratification and brute force. However, the liver also holds the incredible power to process and transform these very energies. When directed by a higher consciousness, the liver can alchemize the raw force of Tohu into some of the most positive human expressions: passionate generosity, holy intimacy, and compassionate power.
"The liver is the seat of anger"
3. There Are Five Levels of a Relationship (And Most of Us Get Stuck)
The raw, self-centered energy of Tohu that is processed by the liver finds its clearest expression in how we relate to others. The journey from chaos to connection is mapped out in a profound model of five relationship levels. Most relationships, this wisdom suggests, operate only on the first few rungs of this ladder. These levels are not just psychological stages, but are seen as reflections of cosmic worlds of consciousness in Kabbalah.
The first three levels describe a journey out of the self:
i: This is a state of pure self-absorption. The 'other' person doesn't truly exist as an independent being; they are merely an extension of oneself.
i-it: Here, others begin to exist, but only in a utilitarian sense. They are perceived as objects that can be used to fulfill one's own needs and desires. This corresponds to the Kabbalistic world of Yetzirah, the realm of emotion.
i-you: This is the beginning of all authentic relationship, corresponding to the world of Beriyah, or intellect. One finally recognizes the other as a real, separate person with their own inner world of feelings, desires, and needs.
The two highest levels represent a transcendent connection:
No i: A state of profound absorption in the other, where one's personal needs and desires fall away entirely in total dedication to the beloved.
I-I: The ultimate and most mature level of relationship. It is a paradoxical state of being simultaneously aware of 'oneness' and 'two individuals.' It is a true 'seeing eye-to-eye,' recognizing the single, essential identity that unites you.
This framework is so important because it asks us to distinguish between loving someone for 'what' they are or do—their accomplishments, their appearance—and loving them for 'who' they are: their unchanging, essential self. The highest expression of this is to pray for another person as if you have the very same need, because in that state of unity, you recognize their loss is your loss.
4. Why Accessible Knowledge Can Be a Dangerous Illusion
Just as the 'i-it' mindset reduces a person to an object for our use, a similar danger exists in our relationship with knowledge, where sacred wisdom can be reduced to a mere object for the intellect. This teaching is crystallized in a surprising historical event associated with Teves: the first translation of the Torah into Greek, which the sages described as a "darkness" descending upon the world, an event as damaging as the worship of the Golden Calf.
How could making a holy text more accessible be a bad thing? Here we're invited to consider a deep nuance. The problem was never translation itself; Moses himself translated the Torah, and the Sages permitted certain translations. The catastrophe of the Greek translation was the philosophical shift it enabled—the illusion that anyone could pick up the text and fully understand its depths without the guidance of a teacher and without being part of the living, oral tradition (Mesorah) that carries its soul.
This is dangerous because it leads to the worship of intellect alone. It reduces a living, breathing, divine path into a mere text to be analyzed and debated like any other human philosophy. This attempt to replace the integral, spiritual, and dialogic path to the Divine with a purely intellectual one was the "real exile of the Greeks." It severed knowledge from its lifeblood, creating a brilliant but hollow shell.
Looking Beneath the Surface
The wisdom of Teves, born from the darkest time of the year, consistently asks us to do one thing: look beneath the surface. It urges us to see past the initial story of our anger to the ego's idolatry beneath. It asks us to feel past the physical organ of the liver to the raw spiritual energy it contains. It calls us to love beyond the 'what' of a person to the eternal 'who' they are. And it warns us that true knowledge is never just information, but a living connection that must be nurtured.
The central work of this season, then, is the transformation of the raw, chaotic, self-centered energy of Tohu—whether it manifests as anger, possessiveness, or intellectual pride—into the integrated, connected consciousness of Tikkun, or rectification. By embracing this perspective, the harshness of winter becomes an invitation. It is a call to finally begin the transformative work of engaging with the deeper truth of our existence.
As we move through this season, this teaching leaves us with a question to carry into the returning light: What is one raw energy in your life that, if you could gently look past the initial story you tell yourself, might be transformed from a source of chaos into a wellspring of strength and connection?
