How Two Kings Share One Crown

Diminishment, Silence, and the Healing of the Moon

The Torah says (Bereshit 1:16): וַיַּעַשׂ אֱלֹקִים אֶת־שְׁנֵי הַמְּאֹרֹת הַגְּדֹלִים אֶת־הַמָּאוֹר הַגָּדֹל לְמֶמְשֶׁלֶת הַיּוֹם וְאֶת־הַמָּאוֹר הַקָּטֹן לְמֶמְשֶׁלֶת הַלַּיְלָה וְאֵת הַכּוֹכָבִים (And G‑d made two great lights, the greater light to rule the day and the lesser light to rule the night, and the stars). At first, they are two great lights, but in the end, one is greater than the other. What happened between these two halves of the same pasuk?

R' Shimon ben Pazi reveals the hidden dialogue. The moon turned to her Creator and asked (Chullin 60b): רִבּוֹנוֹ שֶׁל עוֹלָם אֶפְשָׁר לִשְׁנֵי מְלָכִים שֶׁיִּשְׁתַּמְּשׁוּ בְּכֶתֶר אֶחָד (Master of the world, is it possible for two kings to make use of one crown?) It was a piercing question, pregnant with consequence. The moon's question exposes the core tension of existence: two lights, two wills, two potentials for kavod – and the risk of rivalry between them. Hashem replied: לְכִי וּמְעַטִּי אֶת עַצְמֵךְ (Go and diminish yourself). Hashem's solution was elegant. He established hierarchy: one ultimate source of light and another to receive and reflect it. Through this act of diminishment, the universe gained its rhythm – the pulse of ratzo v'shov [רָצוֹ וָשׁוֹב], running and returning, ascent and descent – and the moon began her lifelong journey of waxing and waning.

In truth, the moon's diminishment was necessary. It was not punishment, but tikkun. Reality cannot sustain two independent sources of light; one must shine as the giver and the other must reflect as the receiver – the sun as the constant source of revealed kavod, the moon as the vessel of hidden kavod, cycling through fullness and concealment. The diminishment made room for a dynamic relationship, and the constant rhythm of waxing and waning gave birth to time itself and the potential for growth. Without lack, there is no longing; without descent, no ascent. A world of static perfection would leave no room for becoming – no space for humility, love, or teshuvah. The moon's cry therefore created history itself, ushering in dialogue between Creator and creation. Without her voice, existence would have remained silent, frozen in unchanging light.

But if the moon's diminishment was necessary, what do we make of her words? When Hashem told her to diminish herself, she responded: הוֹאִיל וְאָמַרְתִּי לְפָנֶיךָ דָּבָר הָגוּן אֲמַעֵיט אֶת עַצְמִי (Since I said a proper thing before You, I should diminish myself?) Her statement was true – two kings cannot share one crown. Yet within that truth lay a trace of ego. The content was technically correct, but the consciousness behind it was not pure. What was missing was bitul – self-nullification in the presence of Divine will. Her question hovered somewhere in the nebulous zone between innocence and complaint. And it was only after Hashem replied, "Go and diminish yourself," that her question about the two kings sharing one crown crystallize into protest, for now she felt the decree as personal loss. Still, Hashem did not rebuke her. Instead, He affirmed her truth while revealing the path of healing – not rivalry, but humility and trust.

Had she answered instead, "Then I will reflect Your light in love," her words would have become the song of creation – truth merged with bitul, clarity joined to surrender. But because self-will remained, the truth fractured into dissonance, and her speech, though honest, gave birth to longing and lack – the rhythm of ratzo v'shov.

But wouldn't remaining silent have been an even better response? Silence was not even an option, for the moon is malchut – and malchut is mouth – the voice of creation. She had to speak. Although her cry birthed lack, it also revealed her inner longing. And this tension speaks to her – and our – existential wound. Although truth must be spoken, only words born of faith heal. Truth voiced with resistance becomes complaint, which leads to fracture. How we speak determines whether our words heal or wound.

Yet, Hashem offered consolations: the moon would rule by day and night, guide Yisrael's months and festivals, and lend her name to the righteous – yet none of these gifts eased the sorrow of her loss. Eventually, Hashem spoke the unimaginable: הָבִיאוּ כַפָּרָה עָלַי שֶׁמִּיעַטְתִּי אֶת הַיָּרֵחַ (Bring atonement [kapparah] for Me since I diminished the moon). Atonement for Hashem?

Our Sages have struggled with this, but in keeping with our theme we can provide an answer. Each Rosh Chodesh, when Yisrael brings a korban for Hashem (Bemidbar 28:15), we acknowledge the Divine sorrow woven into creation. It is not kapparah in the traditional sense, i.e. atonement for having sinned, chas v'shalom. Hashem doesn't sin. Rather, the root k‑p‑r [כ־פ־ר] itself means to cover. Therefore, the kapparah here refers to a covering of pain, a merciful concealment that allows healing to take place beneath the surface – a shared responsibility for the ache born of necessary diminishment. Though the world required hierarchy, it came at the cost of instantaneous wholeness. In His infinite mercy, Hashem chooses to carry the pain of that wound with His creation. The korban becomes Divine solidarity with all that feels small and hidden, sanctifying the wound and transforming it into the seed of healing. It is as if Hashem declares: "Your concealment is Mine as well. I will dwell with you in the shadows and await the day when all light will be restored."

But this story is not only cosmic in nature; it is also the story of every soul. Each of us carries within us the root of this drama: a longing to shine, yet a call to humility – a desire for recognition, yet an invitation to reflect rather than radiate. When we release our hunger for personal kavod, endure humiliation in silence, and keep yearning upward even as we bow low in surrender, we become vessels through which the sun and moon reunite. For the moon's blemish was never in her loss of light – after all, Hashem Himself told her to diminish – but rather in her complaint, however subtle. The tikkun must therefore mirror the wound: the speech that resisted humiliation must become silence that accepts it. And this is why silence in the face of disgrace is the deepest form of teshuvah – it transforms the pain of diminishment into light.

R' Nachman teaches in Likutei Moharan 6 (his psychological commentary on R' Shimon ben Pazi's drashah) that one who remains silent in the face of bizyonot draws down the light of kavod, which is keter. By refusing to defend our own honor, we make space for Hashem's honor to fill the world. Silence becomes the inner offering – a surrender of self-will that invites Divine harmony. Each insult borne in silence and each moment of quiet humility reenacts Hashem's kapparah, healing the ancient fracture and aligning our inner moon with the sun so that Divine light can pass through unimpeded. By doing so, we become partners in Hashem's compassion and co-healers of the existential wound that runs through us all.

This avodah of silence is not only ethical but structural. It repairs the very architecture of the soul. Within the soul, the sun is the mind – da'at, expanded consciousness, emunah, vision. The moon is malchut – heart, emotion, speech. When misaligned, the mind knows truth the heart cannot feel, and lips speak words that deeds cannot fulfill. Through humility and faith, the heart learns to mirror the mind, deeds align with understanding, and we become whole – no longer two kings vying for one crown, but a single kingdom of light. This is authentic shiflut and true humility – not despair, but surrender.

The prophet promises a day when the rift will close (Yeshayahu 30:26): וְהָיָה אוֹר־הַלְּבָנָה כְּאוֹר הַחַמָּה (And the light of the moon will be as the light of the sun). The moon's humility will be complete; her mirror flawless. She will shine with the same brilliance as the sun – not by seizing his crown, but through total bitul. But that is not the end of the story, for the pasuk continues: וְאוֹר הַחַמָּה יִהְיֶה שִׁבְעָתַיִם כְּאוֹר שִׁבְעַת הַיָּמִים (and the light of the sun will be seventyfold, like the light of the seven days [of creation]). At first glance, this seems to restore inequality, but it does not. The true explanation lies in Hashem's kapparah – His willingness to share in the moon's pain. When she dimmed, He dimmed with her. The source could not shine in fullness while the vessel was diminished, lest its brilliance shatter her. The seventyfold increase is therefore restoration, not inequality. As the moon becomes capable of receiving more, the sun unveils more of its hidden light.

This is the secret of the Ohr ha-Ganuz – the primordial light concealed since creation, hidden away until the vessels are ready to receive it. It is not lost, only waiting. In the soul, this hidden light appears as the alignment of heart and mind, when emotion becomes a clear reflection of consciousness and action flows from da'at without distortion. Then every deed becomes a mirror of Divine radiance, every word a channel for Hashem's kavod, free of self-seeking. What once felt like galut – distance, concealment, fragmentation – is revealed as part of the music of yichud, the harmony of all opposites.

So why not create her diminished from the start? Because the soul needed to bear the imprint of its first fullness – a memory of light once given. Our soul remembers standing beside the sun's awesome light, and every soul feels the ache of smallness. We long to shine, yet are called to reflect. We yearn for kavod, yet must release it. We want to speak, yet healing begins in silence. When we bear insult and remain quiet, we draw down the light of kavod – the light of keter. That humility heals the cosmic fracture – our fractured soul. Our silence becomes participation in Hashem's own kapparah, and each act of bitul draws the inner lights closer, turning them panim el panim – face-to-face. In this holy dialogue between Creator and creation, concealment itself becomes the dwelling place of kavod, for the world was never imposed from above but formed through partnership – a story woven of Divine will and human response. Through endless cycles of ratzo v'shov, the soul is polished until it mirrors Divine light without distortion.

This is the path of redemption, both cosmic and personal. In the end, there will be no rivalry, no fracture – only one crown, one kavod, one shining glory filling heaven and earth. And we will discover that the crown we sought was never lost; it merely awaited a soul humble enough to wear it.