Between Sunset and the Stars

There is a moment in the day that belongs neither to daylight nor to night. The sun has already slipped behind the mountains, the sky glows first orange, then crimson, and finally deep blue, while the stars are still reluctant to appear. It is a suspended moment - delicate, elusive, impossible to grasp.

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The Sages call it ben hashemashot, literally "between the suns": the interval stretching from sunset, shkiyah, until the appearance of the stars, tzeit hakochavim.

To the casual observer it appears to be nothing more than a sunset, an ordinary transition of nature. Yet one who looks through the lens of Torah knows that within this brief interval lies an entire world of law, spirituality, and lived experience. For centuries, this fleeting moment has captivated the Sages of Israel. It is not merely a natural phenomenon; it is a threshold where halachah, mysticism, and daily life intertwine.

The Talmud records two opinions. According to Rabbi Yehudah, ben hashemashot is a measurable period, lasting the time it takes to walk three-quarters of a mil after sunset. Rabbi Yossi, however, describes it as the blink of an eye - it arrives and departs so suddenly that no one can say with certainty when day ends and night begins. From this tension emerges its halachic complexity: ben hashemashot is neither day nor night, remaining suspended in a state of uncertainty, a safek.

Many practical laws depend upon this interval. Shabbat and festivals begin before sunset and end only after the stars have appeared, avoiding any possibility of transgression. Fasts likewise begin early and conclude late, following the same principle of caution. The evening Shema and the counting of the Omer also depend on this boundary. Some recite them twice, accommodating both those who regard night as having already begun and those who prefer to wait a little longer.

One of the most sensitive applications concerns the mikveh. A woman who has completed the days of niddah may not immerse during ben hashemashot, since it remains uncertain whether it is still day. Immersion is valid only once night has fully arrived, after tzeit hakochavim. For this reason, communities generally maintain a substantial margin - often thirty-six or forty-two minutes after sunset - to eliminate any doubt.

Chumrah means stringency: extending the time and choosing the more cautious path. Kulah means leniency: shortening it when reliable opinions permit. One need not always be strict, nor always lenient. What matters is balance. Tradition teaches that both chumrot and kulot possess value when embraced thoughtfully and with integrity. As Rav Twerski zt"l often emphasized, genuine stringency grows out of love for a mitzvah, not out of anxiety over making mistakes.

Modern science describes the transition from day to night through three stages of twilight, determined by the sun's position below the horizon. During civil twilight, from 0° to 6°, enough light remains for ordinary activity. During nautical twilight, from 6° to 12°, outlines begin to fade, yet sailors and pilots can still distinguish the horizon for navigation. During astronomical twilight, from 12° to 18°, the sky becomes completely dark and all the stars emerge. Beyond 18°, true night begins.

Chazal did not speak in degrees, yet they too distinguished successive stages in the fading of light: first the disappearance of the sun, then the visibility of large stars, followed by medium-sized stars, and finally the smallest ones. It is remarkable that ancient wisdom and modern science, though speaking different languages, converge in their attempt to describe the same boundary between light and darkness. Perhaps this is because that primordial light has never entirely vanished. It continues to filter through, making its way into the human mind and heart. Every new insight, every thought born from a sincere desire to understand, opens a passageway through that hidden light and makes it available in the world, ready to be perceived by those who know how to recognize it.

Those who fly at high altitude know this unique spectacle: the sun seeming to glide beneath the aircraft. At thirty-three thousand feet, perspective reverses itself, and the curvature of the earth turns the horizon into a distant, living line. From above, the sun appears to set lower than it does from the ground - a play of perspective and light. The atmosphere itself creates this wonder. The scattering of sunlight paints the sky in shades of red, orange, and gold, while the diffusion of light through the air intensifies at altitude, prolonging twilight. A sunset seen from the sky is both familiar and mysterious, as though the light wishes to hold onto one last moment of day before yielding to the night. Perhaps this is also the perspective suggested by the Chachamim: to learn to observe the world from the threshold, where light does not surrender but transforms.

Ben hashemashot is not merely a matter of time. The Zohar describes it as the moment when the forces of day and night meet: the mercy of light intertwines with the rigor of darkness, and the world seems to breathe between two heartbeats. The Sages teach that it was precisely at this boundary, between nature and miracle, that ten extraordinary things were created: the mouth of the earth that swallowed Korach, the mouth of Miriam's well, and the mouth of Bilam's donkey; the rainbow, the manna, Moshe's staff, the shamir that engraved the stones of the Sanctuary, the the Hebrew alphabet, the Tablets of the Torah, and according to some opinions, Avraham's ram and Moshe's grave. All were created at the twilight of the sixth day, in that suspended instant that belongs neither to day nor to night.

Within that same boundary - between the hidden and the revealed - tradition also speaks of a special light known as or haganuz, the "hidden light." It is the light of the earliest moments of Creation, a pure light that did not disappear but was veiled. It is said that it will shine ever more brightly as humanity becomes more aware, more capable of recognizing the Divine presence within the world. Whenever a person performs an act of kindness, studies with sincerity, or contemplates reality with gratitude toward H-shem, a fragment of that light is rekindled. Its revelation does not come suddenly. It grows gradually, like the dawn advancing after the night.

It is as though every time someone discovers something new - in science, in Torah, or in life itself - a portion of that hidden light becomes visible once again, accessible to those able to perceive it. When the wisdom of the earth and the wisdom of heaven draw closer together, reality becomes more transparent, more capable of allowing the presence of H-shem to shine through. It is a sign of a world preparing itself for the gheulah: the light continues to grow even within the darkness, and the denser the darkness appears, the stronger becomes the call toward unity.

To watch the sky at sunset thus becomes an invitation to awareness. Ben hashemashot reminds us that life is not made only of black and white. There are also thresholds and in-between places. They are moments that call for caution and trust at the same time. Between light and darkness, between day and night, there is more than uncertainty; there is always room for hope. For even when the sun seems to be setting, the Torah teaches that a new light is already preparing to rise.

_”From the rising of the sun unto its setting, the Name of H-shem is to be praised."_

_(Psalms 113:3)_

Myriam Simchà Udella is passionate about writing Jewish stories and reflections inspired by Hasidic thought. Writing gives her space to shape what matters deeply to her into words. She is an enthusiastic graduate of The Eden Center’s Balanit Training Program in Yerushalayim and believes that Taharah is the primary channel through which Kedushah can be drawn down into the world.