6 min read

Angels Kissed the Lips That Accepted Torah

Officials wound the ones rebuilding Jerusalem, Esau tries to bite Jacob's neck, angels kiss the patriarchs at Sinai, and love becomes stronger than death.

Curated by Arthur · Told by Maggid ·
Table of Contents
  1. The Sentries Struck the Ones Who Were Rebuilding
  2. Esau's Teeth Met Marble at Jacob's Neck
  3. Angels Were Commanded to Kiss the Patriarchs
  4. Israel Leaned on Its Beloved in the Wilderness
  5. Love as Intense as Death Would Not Be Bargained Away

The Sentries Struck the Ones Who Were Rebuilding

She opened the door for her beloved and he was gone. She went into the streets looking for him. The sentries of the city found her, struck her, wounded her, and took her mantle. Shir HaShirim Rabbah reads those sentries as Tatenai and his officers, the Persian officials who challenged Zerubbabel and the returning exiles when they began rebuilding the Temple. The accusation was the striking. The bureaucratic obstruction was the wounding. The mantle taken away was the diminished glory of the Second Temple, walls smaller than Solomon's, stones less perfect, the structure a shadow of what it was replacing. But a wounded beloved is still a beloved. A smaller wall can still be a holy wall. The woman in the Song does not stop looking when she is struck. She continues past the officials who try to stop the rebuilding, carrying the wound and the mantle's absence, because the one she is looking for is still worth finding.

Esau's Teeth Met Marble at Jacob's Neck

The Song praises the beloved's neck: like an ivory tower. Shir HaShirim Rabbah finds that neck in the moment Esau ran to meet Jacob after twenty years of separation and embraced him and kissed him. The word for kissed, vayishakehu, appears in the Torah with dots above each letter, marks that signal ambiguity or additional meaning. Some sages read the dots as indicating that Esau did not kiss but bit, that he came running with his mouth set to take his brother's throat the way a man bites a piece of bread. But Jacob's neck became marble. Hard as ivory. Esau's teeth broke against it. The neck that could not be bitten remained intact, and they both wept, and the text does not tell us what either of them was weeping for. The ivory tower was not defense built by human effort. It was what the covenant does to a body it has consecrated, it makes the neck marble against the teeth of the one who comes running with appetite instead of love.

Angels Were Commanded to Kiss the Patriarchs

When Israel accepted the Torah at Sinai, heaven's response was not only thunder and fire. The Midrash says that God commanded the angels to go and kiss the lips of the patriarchs who had accepted the commandments. The kiss was retroactive, it reached backward through time to Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, to the lips that had first agreed to walk with God before the law had been formally given. It was as if the full covenant had been waiting for Sinai to be completed, and when Israel stood at the mountain and said we will do and we will hear, the entire patriarchal promise was sealed with a kiss from heaven. The angels who had wrestled, appeared as strangers, and announced impossible births now came as ministers of tenderness. What had been tested was now honored.

Israel Leaned on Its Beloved in the Wilderness

Who is this coming up from the wilderness, leaning on her beloved? The Song asks the question at a distance, as if watching a figure approach through the desert heat. Shir HaShirim Rabbah answers: Israel, ascending from the wilderness of Sinai, leaning on the Torah, leaning on the commandments, leaning on the one who had led them through forty years of desert. The leaning is not weakness. It is the posture of a covenant community that has learned where its weight is held. Egypt had made Israel carry weight without support, bricks without straw, labor without rest, lives without dignity. The wilderness had taught something different: that the weight of existence can be placed on something that will not break, that the leaning posture is a posture of trust rather than weakness. Israel comes up from the wilderness not alone but leaning, and the leaning is the sign of what the wilderness was for.

Love as Intense as Death Would Not Be Bargained Away

Set me as a seal upon your heart, as a seal upon your arm. For love is as strong as death, jealousy as fierce as the grave. Shir HaShirim Rabbah reads the seal as Sinai's imprint on Israel's heart and arm: the Torah written on the heart, the commandments bound on the arm in the morning prayer, the covenant sealed into the body. The love as strong as death is Israel's commitment to the covenant under pressure, the willingness to accept martyrdom rather than abandon the Torah, the refusal to bargain away the seal even when the price of keeping it rose above ordinary endurance. The Song says: if a man offered all the wealth of his house for love, it would be utterly scorned. The covenant is not for sale. Death cannot end it. The Angel of Death who comes for every person cannot unravel a love that was sealed before Sinai and ratified at Sinai and carried in the arm and the heart of every generation since.

Song Of SongsAngelsTorahTempleSinai
← All myths

From the tradition

Sources

5 sources

The texts this telling draws on, in full. Open a card to read inline, or expand it for a wider, quieter read.

Shir HaShirim Rabbah 7:1Shir HaShirim Rabbah

Shir HaShirim Rabbah turns to Angels Attend to Tatenai.

The commentary first connects this verse to the rebuilding of the Second Temple. Who are these "sentries patrolling the city?" According to this interpretation, they're none other than Tatenai, the governor of Avar Nahara (Ezra 5:3), and his crew. These officials challenged the Jews' right to rebuild the Temple. Their striking and wounding? That's likened to the accusation they lodged against the people of Judah and Jerusalem (Ezra 4:6), a bureaucratic assault meant to halt progress.

What about the "guards of the walls" taking the mantle? It refers to the rebuilding of Jerusalem's walls themselves. But, according to this interpretation, the walls weren't rebuilt to their former glory. Rabbi Abba bar Kahana points out that, in the past, the walls were constructed with massive stones, some eight, some ten cubits in size. But this time? "It is built with great [gelal] stones" (Ezra 5:8), stones that are rolled [degilgul (the reincarnation of souls)]. They were manageable enough to move, but nothing like the awe-inspiring stones of the past. It's a poignant image, isn't it? A community striving to rebuild, but falling short of the grandeur of what once was.

The interpretation doesn't stop there! It takes another turn, connecting the verse to the story of the Golden Calf. Now, the "sentries" become the tribe of Levi, those fiercely loyal to God who answered Moses’ call to punish the idolaters (Exodus 32:26). Remember, it's written of them: "For they observed Your word" (Deuteronomy 33:9). Their patrolling is likened to the command: "Pass back and forth from gate to gate" (Exodus 32:27). And the striking and wounding? That horrific moment when "Each man slay his brother" (Exodus 32:27).

The "mantle" taken away in this context is interpreted as weaponry. And here, Rabbi Shimon ben Yoḥai offers a powerful image: the weapon given to Israel at Ḥorev (Sinai), inscribed with the ineffable name of God, the Shem Hameforash. When they sinned with the Golden Calf, that weapon was taken from them. How? Rabbi Aivu says it peeled off on its own, while other Rabbis suggest an angel descended and removed it. Imagine the spiritual weight of that loss – the very tool for defending themselves, imbued with divine power, vanished because of their transgression.

Finally, the "guards of the walls" are seen as the guardians of Torah itself. In this light, it's the Levites again, serving as teachers and sages, enacting decrees to safeguard observance of the Torah.

So, what does it all mean? This single verse from the Song of Songs, through the lens of rabbinic interpretation, becomes a multi-layered reflection on challenges, failures, and the constant striving to rebuild, both physically and spiritually. It speaks to the vulnerability we feel when our efforts are met with opposition, the pain of falling short of our ideals, and the enduring importance of those who safeguard our traditions. It reminds us that even in moments of defeat, the potential for renewal always remains. And that, perhaps, is the most powerful message of all.

Full source
Shir HaShirim Rabbah 5:1Shir HaShirim Rabbah

It’s like a tiny seed containing an entire orchard. Take, for instance, the verse from (Song of Songs 7:5): "Your neck is like an ivory tower; your eyes are pools in Ḥeshbon, by the gate of Bat Rabim; your nose is like the tower of Lebanon overlooking Damascus.”

" The Shir HaShirim Rabbah, a classical collection of Rabbinic interpretations of Song of Songs, finds layers of meaning in this simple comparison, and it takes us to some unexpected places.

The Rabbis, in their insightful way, connect this verse to the fraught encounter between Jacob and Esau. Remember that scene? “Esau ran to meet him, embraced him, fell upon his neck, and kissed him [vayishakehu] [and they wept]" (Genesis 33:4). But there's something odd about the word vayishakehu, it's written in the Torah scroll with dots over each of the letters.

What’s up with those dots? Rabbi Shimon ben Elazar offers a fascinating rule: when the script is more numerous than the dots, we follow the script. When the dots are more numerous, we follow the dots. But in this case, neither is more numerous! So, what do we do?

The Rabbis suggest that the unusual dots hint at something sinister. Esau didn't really come to kiss Jacob, but rather to bite him! According to this interpretation, Jacob’s neck miraculously became as hard as marble, and Esau’s teeth became dull and melted like wax. So why the weeping? One was crying over his neck, the other over his teeth!

This interpretation, found in the Shir HaShirim Rabbah, sees the "ivory tower" of the neck as a symbol of divine protection.

But that's not all! The Rabbis aren't done with the image of the neck. Rabbi Abahu, in the name of Rabbi Elazar, connects our verse from Song of Songs to the story of Moses fleeing Pharaoh. "Pharaoh heard this matter and he sought to kill Moses. Moses fled" (Exodus 2:15). Now, Rabbi Abahu asks a pointed question: can anyone truly flee from a king?

The answer, they suggest, is no. Instead, the text teaches us that Moses was tried and sentenced to beheading. But, as Rabbi Evyatar tells it, a miracle occurred: the sword glanced off Moses' neck and instead sliced the neck of the wicked executioner! "For the God of my father was my help, and He delivered me from the sword of Pharaoh" (Exodus 18:4). God delivered Moses, but not the executioner.

Rabbi Bon applies (Proverbs 11:8) to this situation: “The righteous is extricated from trouble, and the wicked comes in his place.” Rabbi Berekhya offers a similar sentiment, quoting (Proverbs 21:18): "The wicked is a ransom for the righteous."

Bar Kappara suggests an even more extraordinary explanation: an angel descended in the guise of Moses! The guards apprehended the angel, allowing the real Moses to escape.

Rabbi Abba son of Rav Pappi and Rabbi Yehoshua of Sikhnin, citing Rabbi Levi, bring the story to a dramatic climax. At that moment, all of Pharaoh’s advisors were struck with disabilities. Some became mute, some deaf, some blind, and some disabled. How could they answer Pharaoh's questions?

As it says in (Exodus 4:11): “The Lord said to him: Who gives a mouth to a person, or who renders one mute or deaf, or sighted or blind? Is it not I, the Lord?” God was behind it all, clearing the path for Moses: “Now go and I will send you to Pharaoh” (Exodus 3:10).

So, what can we take away from this exploration of a single verse? It shows us how the Rabbis saw connections between seemingly disparate parts of the Tanakh. The "ivory tower" of the neck becomes a symbol of divine protection, a evidence of God's power to intervene in human affairs, shielding the righteous from harm. It reminds us that even in moments of great peril, when faced with enemies and impossible odds, there is always the possibility of miraculous deliverance. And maybe, just maybe, it encourages us to look for those hidden connections in our own lives, to see the echoes of ancient stories in our own struggles and triumphs.

Full source
Shir HaShirim Rabbah 10:1Shir HaShirim Rabbah

Some verses in the Song of Songs sound almost too tender for angels. And then the midrash shows you that angels were exactly who they were meant for. Take (Song of Songs 7:10): "Your palate is like fine wine that goes pleasantly for my beloved, moving the lips of the sleeping." A seemingly simple verse… but in Shir HaShirim Rabbah, the rabbinic commentary on Song of Songs, it becomes a portal into something profound.

Rabbi Yoḥanan, in this commentary, sees this verse as a moment of divine recognition. He says that God, blessed be He, summoned all the ministering angels. "Go down," He commanded, "and kiss the lips of the ancestors of these!" Why? Because, like Abraham who was thrown into a fiery furnace for smashing his father’s idols (as we learn in Bereshit Rabba 38:13), and Isaac who willingly bound himself on the altar, these ancestors acted with fiery devotion before God. And so, their descendants, too, acted with fire.

Rabbi Azarya, quoting Rabbi Yehuda ben Rabbi Simon, takes it a step further. God tells the angels, "Go down and kiss their lips, for had they not accepted My Torah and My dominion at Sinai. I would have become the enemy of those who sleep in the Cave of Makhpela.” The Cave of Makhpela, of course, is the burial place of the patriarchs and matriarchs in Hebron. This is powerful stuff. It suggests that the very foundation of God's relationship with the Jewish people rests on the words spoken at Sinai, their acceptance of the Torah, their declaration against idolatry.

What about that last bit of the verse, "moving the lips of the sleeping?" What does it mean that even the dead have moving lips?

Rabbi Yoḥanan ben Toreta offers a startling image: Even in death, a person's lips move in the grave. Shmuel compares it to a basket of grapes whose liquid continues to flow on its own. It’s a beautiful image of sustained impact.

Rabbi Ḥanina bar Pappa and Rabbi Simon offer similar comparisons. One says it's like someone who drinks spiced wine, the other, aged wine. Even after the wine is gone, its taste and fragrance linger in the mouth. The taste… the fragrance… remains.

The message? Even after someone dies, the Torah they studied, the words they spoke, the actions they took… it all continues to resonate. It impacts their very being, even their mouth, which moves even in the grave. The things we say, the commitments we make – they have an enduring power, shaping not only our lives but potentially reverberating through eternity. Our words become a legacy, a fragrance that lingers long after we're gone. What fragrance will you leave behind?

Full source
Shir HaShirim Rabbah 5:1Shir HaShirim Rabbah

Shir HaShirim Rabbah reads "Who is that ascending from the wilderness?" as a map of Israel's rise, collapse, and return.

The text immediately grounds us in the stark reality of the wilderness. "Who is that ascending from the wilderness?" It reminds us that Israel's ascent, decline, and even death, are all intertwined with this desolate space. As it says in (Numbers 14:35), "In this wilderness they will expire, and there they will die." The wilderness isn't just a physical location; it's a metaphor for the trials and tribulations that shape a nation’s destiny.

There’s hope! The verse continues: "Leaning upon her beloved." What does it mean to lean? Rabbi Yoḥanan offers a beautiful interpretation: it's about resolving sections of the Torah and issues of the kingdom in the future. He cleverly points out that the Hebrew word for "leaning" – mitrapeket – can be rearranged to suggest matir perek, "resolving a section." The idea is that Israel, in its relationship with God, will ultimately resolve all the questions related to Torah and reestablish its monarchy. It’s a powerful vision of restoration and renewal.

Then comes the image of the apple tree: "Under the apple tree I roused you." Pelatyon of Rome, in a fascinating exposition, equates the apple tree with Mount Sinai. He says that Mount Sinai was detached and positioned in the supernal heavens, and Israel was situated beneath it, as it says in (Deuteronomy 4:11), "You approached and stood beneath the mountain." Why an apple tree, though? Well, just as an apple tree produces fruit in the month of Sivan, so too, the Torah was given in Sivan.

There’s another, even more profound reason why an apple tree is used. Most trees grow leaves before fruit, but the apple tree is unique – it produces fruit first. This is seen as a parallel to Israel's declaration at Sinai: "Na'aseh v'nishma" – "We will do and we will hear" (Exodus 24:7). They committed to performing God's commandments before even hearing them. That’s faith! And, God was so impressed that He essentially said, "If you accept My Torah, great! If not, I’ll drop this mountain on you." Talk about high stakes!

The passage then takes a poignant turn with the line, "There your mother was in travail with you." Rabbi Berekhya offers a moving analogy: Imagine someone who barely survived a dangerous ordeal. A friend might say, "Wow, you went through so much! It's like you were just born, a new creation." Sinai, in this light, wasn't just a moment of revelation; it was a rebirth, a moment of intense spiritual and national formation.

Rabbi Abba bar Kahana delves deeper into the idea of trauma and consequence. He connects "travail" (ḥibela) with "collateral taken from her" (ḥubela). The "travail" occurred when the Israelites said, "Everything that the Lord spoke we will perform and we will heed" (Exodus 24:7). But the collateral was taken when they turned to the Golden Calf, proclaiming, "This is your God, Israel" (Exodus 32:4). It's a stark reminder that even after a profound spiritual experience, we are still vulnerable to making mistakes, and that those mistakes have consequences.

Rabbi Shimon ben Yoḥai adds another layer: the weapon given to Israel at Ḥorev, he says, had the ineffable name of God etched upon it. But when they sinned, it was taken away. Rabbi Aivu and the Rabbis debate whether the name simply faded on its own or if an angel had to remove it. Regardless, the message is clear: sin diminishes our connection to the divine.

The text concludes with a series of lamentations. Rabbi Shimon ben Ḥalafta cries, "Wretched is the bride who sins under the wedding canopy!" Rabbi Yoḥanan mourns that they lost the good counsel given at Sinai, citing (Proverbs 1:25), "You hollowed all my counsel." Rabbi Yehoshua of Sikhnin, in the name of Rabbi Levi, recalls (Deuteronomy 9:8), "At Ḥorev you provoked the Lord." He says God came to bless them but found their palate pierced and unable to hold the blessing. Rabbi Levi adds that they made God mourn over them.

So, what are we left with? This passage from Shir HaShirim Rabbah isn’t just a commentary on a verse from Song of Songs. It’s a meditation on the complex relationship between God and Israel, a relationship marked by moments of profound connection and heartbreaking betrayal. It’s a reminder that the journey through the wilderness is ongoing, that we are constantly being tested, and that even after moments of great inspiration, we must remain vigilant in our commitment to Torah and to one another. And perhaps, most importantly, it teaches us that even in our moments of failure, the possibility of renewal and restoration always remains.

Full source
Shir HaShirim Rabbah 6:1Shir HaShirim Rabbah

The Song of Songs, or Shir HaShirim in Hebrew, is filled with that kind of raw, powerful emotion. It’s a love poem, yes, but according to Jewish tradition, it’s also a profound allegory for the relationship between God and Israel.

A verse in particular, (Song of Songs 8:6), really grabs your attention: “Place me as a seal upon your heart, as a seal upon your arm, for love is as intense as death, jealousy is as cruel as the grave; its sparks are the sparks of fire, a great conflagration.” What does it even mean?

Well, Shir HaShirim Rabbah, a classic rabbinic commentary on the Song of Songs, dives right in. "Place me as a seal," it says, is Israel pleading with God: "Master of the universe, do what You thought in Your heart to do to us." It's a statement of complete trust, a willingness to surrender to the divine plan.

Rabbi Meir, in the commentary, picks up on this thread. And Rabbi Yoḥanan, quoting Rabbi Eliezer, son of Rabbi Yosei HaGelili, brings in another powerful image: the moment Israel stood before Mount Sinai and declared, "We will perform and we will heed" (Exodus 24:7). It was a moment of utter commitment, a covenant forged in fire and faith.

According to this tradition, at that very moment, God called the Angel of Death – yes, that Angel of Death – and said, "Even though I appointed you chief executioner for the whole world, you are to have no involvement with this nation." A pretty big deal. The text then points to (Deuteronomy 5:20): “It was when you heard the voice from the midst of the darkness.” Now, you might ask, is there really darkness on high? Isn't it written, “The light rests with Him” (Daniel 2:22)? So what’s this "darkness" all about? The commentary explains that "from the midst of the darkness" refers to the Angel of Death, who is himself called "darkness." Heavy stuff.

But here’s where it gets really interesting. Remember the Ten Commandments, those tablets of stone? (Exodus 32:16) tells us, “The tablets were the work of God and the script was the script of God, engraved [ḥarut] upon the tablets.” The rabbis play on the word ḥarut, which means "engraved." They suggest we read it not as "engraved," but as ḥerut, which means "freedom."

A clever little wordplay, but with huge implications. Rabbi Yehuda, Rabbi Neḥemya, and the Rabbis each offer their own interpretation. Rabbi Yehuda says it means freedom from the Angel of Death. Rabbi Neḥemya sees it as freedom from the [gentile] kingdoms. And the Rabbis, more broadly, say it's freedom from suffering.

So, what does all this mean? Maybe it's about the transformative power of love and faith. That intense devotion, symbolized by the seal upon the heart, can bring freedom – freedom from death, oppression, and even suffering itself. It's a powerful message, suggesting that our connection to the divine can be a source of profound liberation. A connection so strong, that even the Angel of Death has to back down. Food for thought, isn't it?

Full source