There are seasons when even the most observant heart feels barren. You light the candles, whisper the brachot, do the mitzvot, and yet—you feel distant from HaShem. If that resonates with you, take a deep breath. You're not broken. You're walking the authentic prophetic path, the one Maimonides describes through the metaphor of lightning flashes in the Guide for the Perplexed.
In his introduction to that sacred work, Maimonides teaches that even prophets did not dwell in constant clarity. Divine connection came like lightning: brief, brilliant moments that lit up the night. And then—darkness again. For some prophets, the lightning flashed more often. For others, just once in a lifetime. And for many, the rest of the journey was dim, quiet, filled with trust more than feeling. This wasn't punishment. It was the way the soul is trained to perceive what cannot be held by flesh.
This is good news for the woman who is praying through tears, for the one who is waiting without answers, for the one who has done all the "right" things and still feels dry inside. You—with your worn prayerbook and aching heart—are not outside of kedusha. You are in the same spiritual night that the prophets knew. HaShem is not absent. He is hidden. And the hiddenness is holy.
Many of us were taught to chase spiritual highs, to measure connection by how much we "feel". But real emuna doesn't grow in the light. It takes root in the dark. It's forged when the heavens feel closed and you still light the candles. When your soul is tired and you still whisper Shema. When nothing in you feels radiant, but you still show up. These are the moments that heaven records in gold.
Maimonides writes that the truth sometimes shines "as clear as day," and then "our nature and habit draw a veil over our perception." We return to darkness, not because we've failed, but because we're human. This ebb and flow, this alternation between clarity and confusion, is not a flaw. It is the very fabric of prophecy, of authentic divine relationship. It humbles us, sanctifies us, and teaches us to cling to HaShem even when the light is gone【7†Guide for the Perplexed】.
For the spiritually sensitive woman navigating grief, transition, or exhaustion, this teaching is lifeblood. It means you don't have to wait to feel holy in order to be holy. It means your mourning counts. Your silence counts. Your dry prayers are still incense in HaShem's courts. You are not less beloved because you don’t always glow. You are His, even in the ache.
And here is the tenderness of our faith: even the flicker of yearning is seen. Even the desire to desire HaShem is precious. The lightning flash may be rare, but the walking matters more. It is in the walking—the faithfulness in fog—that the deepest connection is forged. You don't need to force yourself to feel. You are allowed to be where you are. That place, too, is holy ground.
In fact, the very metaphor of lightning assumes darkness. It presupposes a night so thick, only a burst of divine brilliance could pierce it. But that flash—as fleeting as it is—changes everything. It imprints the landscape on your soul. Even when it vanishes, something in you remembers. You can walk forward in the dark because you saw, once, enough.
So let us ask, with gentleness and honesty: When was your last lightning flash? What clarity did you glimpse in that moment? Can you let that memory guide your next step?
Let this be your sacred permission slip: You don’t have to "feel" Hashem to be close to Him. You don’t need to manufacture ecstasy to be accepted. The prophets themselves walked long roads of silence. And in doing so, they taught us: the silence is not a void. It is a veil.
You are not behind. You are being rebuilt. You are not lost. You are mid-process. HaShem has not left you. He is training your eyes to see in the dark.
And even now, this very moment, is alive with potential. The night is deep, yes. But one flash of lightning can change everything. Be patient, kind soul. The light will come. And until it does, your every step is worship.
Reflection Prompt: When was your last lightning flash? What did it reveal? What does it still teach you, even now?
You don’t need to perform. You only need to continue. This, too, is holy. This, too, is love.
