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Elijah Told a Sage Why the Ground Keeps Shaking

The floor moved under the study house. Rabbi Nehorai blamed unseparated tithes. Elijah told him the real reason, and the real reason was worse.

Curated by Arthur · Told by Maggid ·
Table of Contents
  1. The Ground Moved While the Sages Were Sitting
  2. What God Sees When He Looks Down at the World
  3. The Earth Only Shakes When a Kingdom Changes Hands
  4. The Orphan and the Widow at the Gate
  5. The Last Time Fire Came Down for a Word
Elijah Told a Sage Why the Ground Keeps Shaking Click for full size

The Ground Moved While the Sages Were Sitting

The benches shifted first, then the water in the jar, and by the time anyone stood up the shaking had already passed through the floor and gone somewhere else. It had happened before. It kept happening.

Rabbi Nehorai was still on his feet when Elijah came in and asked him, without any greeting, why tremors come upon the world.

Nehorai gave the answer a careful man gives. "Because of the tithes. People do not separate them the way they are supposed to, and the produce goes out into the market unfixed."

"That is a reasonable answer," Elijah said. "It is not the reason."

What God Sees When He Looks Down at the World

"The Holy One looks at his world," Elijah said. "He sees the houses where they burn incense to idols, and they are full. He sees the houses of entertainment, and they are full. He sees the nations of the world sitting in their own countries at ease, nobody threatening them, nobody taking their children. Then he looks at his own house and it is a heap of stones with grass growing out of it, and he looks at his own children scattered through those same nations in distress. And his anger comes up in him, and he reaches out to destroy the world he made."

He roars over his habitation, the prophet said. That is what a father does over the wreck of his own house.

"So the earth shakes," Nehorai said.

"So the earth shakes."

Rabbi Acha told it a different way, and in his version God speaks. A man uses his body for something it was never meant for, and his limbs shudder, and the Holy One says to him: you made your own limbs tremble over a thing that was not worthy of you, so I will make the world above and the world below tremble for your sake. The rabbis had a third account, plainer than either. The earth cracks open because of quarrels. Men argue until the ground splits and the valley of the mountains runs all the way to Azal.

The Earth Only Shakes When a Kingdom Changes Hands

Rabbi Samuel bar Nachmani kept coming back to the same observation, and he would not be moved off it. The shaking does not come at random. It comes at the seam, when one empire is finishing and the next one has not yet taken hold.

The earth quaked and trembled, the prophet Jeremiah wrote, because the thoughts of God had risen up against Babylon.

Israel had felt that seam in the body. The generation that watched Babylon go down and Persia come up had stood in the street with the paving stones moving under them and understood that somebody was being taken apart overhead. The empires felt it too. They only ever felt it on the way out.

The Orphan and the Widow at the Gate

The kingdom of the nations came to Israel and told her to pick up the yoke and carry it.

"I am an orphan," she said. "I am a stranger here."

"And have you heard nothing about me?" the kingdom said. "I am a widow."

Neither of them was lying. Both of them had been left. The answer Israel got was not a promise of rescue and not a court date. Go to the God of Jacob and put the case to him, because a father of the fatherless and a judge of widows is God, and the address is his holy habitation.

Which was rubble. The orphan was being sent to a ruin, and the ruin was the right address, because the same wrecked house that made God roar was the house where the fatherless were told to knock.

Israel had watched Nebuchadnezzar burn it. He had taken the people off their land and put them in chains, and God had let a prophet promise him that the nations would serve him and his son and his son's son after him. Three generations of mercy for the man who had lit the fire.

The Last Time Fire Came Down for a Word

Elijah had seen fire answer once, on a mountain, and he had gotten it by breaking the rule.

The law knew one altar and it was not on Carmel. Joshua had built one on Mount Ebal in his day, and afterward only a prophet had the standing to pull an altar down. Gideon slaughtered his father's bull at night, on a high place, on flawed stones, with wood cut from an Asherah, and a careful counter could find seven things wrong with the offering, and heaven took it. Samuel was a boy and a Levite when he lifted a suckling lamb whole onto the fire and cried out for Israel, and he was answered on the spot.

Elijah stood on Carmel in a time when no altar outside Jerusalem was permitted and offered there anyway, and the fire fell on the wood and the stones and the dust and licked the water out of the trench. He did it on his word alone. If the people turn back, he said, the rain comes back with them.

He had spent every century since then walking around asking questions in study houses.

The floor under Nehorai went still. The two of them stayed where they were a while longer, listening for whether it would start again.


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The texts behind this telling. Some cards carry a translation of the source; others are our own retelling of it, and each card says which. Every card links out to the original.

Midrash Tehillim 10:8Midrash Tehillim

Retold in our words. Read the original at the link below.Rabbi Mike Feuer, Jerusalem Anthology · CC-BY

The midrash (rabbinic interpretive commentary), that ancient form of Jewish storytelling and interpretation, lays it out: the wicked see a world where God seems distant. They see their own "success" – the way they "labor and anger You with their deeds," as the text puts it. They see the destruction, the exile. They see the Temple razed. And they think, "Where is God in all this?"

The midrash doesn’t shy away from the hard stuff. It acknowledges the perceived inaction. "You have the power to take revenge," it says, addressing God, "and yet You showed mercy to Isaac…" citing (Genesis 27:39), "From the fat of the land your dwelling shall be."

Then, the text shifts, becoming almost a dialogue between Israel and the nations. The kingdom of the heathen demands Israel bear its yoke, but Israel cries out, "I am an orphan and a stranger." And the kingdom retorts, "Have you heard of me? I am a widow." It's a powerful image of mutual loss and vulnerability.

So, what’s the answer? "Go to the God of Jacob and plead with Him," the midrash urges, quoting (Psalms 68:6): "A father to the fatherless and a judge of the widows is God in His holy habitation."

But the story doesn’t stop there. It continues with intriguing examples. The midrash speaks of Romulus and Remus, those legendary founders of Rome. Their mother, abandoned, was succored by a wolf, and they went on to build empires. "You helped the orphan," the text proclaims.

And what about Nebuchadnezzar, that infamous destroyer of the First Temple? Even to him, God showed mercy, as we see in (Jeremiah 27:7), "They will serve him and his sons and his grandsons."

The narrative intensifies, conjuring up the image of Hananiah, Mishael, and Azariah. Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego, about to be thrown into the fiery furnace. The heathen king boasts, "Who is the god that will deliver you out of my hands?"

Again, the midrash declares, "You helped the orphan."

Finally, the story lands on a single, vulnerable orphan girl, fought over by powerful nations. This alludes to Queen Vashti from the Book of Esther. Remember Vashti? The queen who refused to display herself before the king's drunken guests? And immediately after that story, we find in (Psalm 10:15), "The broken arm of the wicked shall be found no more." The midrash emphasizes that the wicked will have no more justification for their actions.

What does it all mean?

Perhaps it's about recognizing God's presence in the unexpected places, in the acts of kindness and mercy that sustain even the most vulnerable. Perhaps it’s about understanding that even in moments of apparent abandonment, there’s a larger story unfolding, a narrative of resilience and hope. Or, perhaps, it is a direct commentary on trusting the process, even when the process seems so unfair.

It's not a simple answer, and the midrash doesn't pretend it is. But it offers a powerful reminder: that even in the face of wickedness and despair, God is present, a refuge for the orphan, a judge for the widow. And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough to keep us going.

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Midrash Tehillim 18:10Midrash Tehillim

Retold in our words. Read the original at the link below.Rabbi Mike Feuer, Jerusalem Anthology · CC-BY

Rabbi Samuel bar Nachmani kicks things off, wondering why we sweat during times of transition. He suggests it's connected to the fall of one kingdom and the rise of another. He points to (Jeremiah 51:29), where it says, "And the earth shook and trembled, for the Lord had stirred up against Babylon." It's like the Earth itself is reacting to these monumental shifts in power.

Then, the prophet Elijah, may his memory be a blessing, poses a similar question to Rabbi Nehorai: "Why does sweating come upon the world?" Rabbi Nehorai first answers that it's due to the neglect of properly separating ma'aser, tithes, giving what is due. A practical answer focused on our actions!

Elijah presses, and Rabbi Nehorai digs deeper. He says the real reason the world seems to convulse is because God looks down and sees the imbalance: houses of idolatry flourishing, entertainment distracting people, nations living in peace while the Beit Hamikdash, the Temple in Jerusalem, lies in ruins and God's children suffer. It’s a powerful image of divine anger kindled by injustice and misplaced priorities. As (Jeremiah 25:30) says, "He shall roar mightily over His habitation", for the sake of His habitation, His dwelling place. The earth shakes because God is not happy with how we are treating His home, and our spiritual home.

It doesn't stop there! Rabbi Acha chimes in with another perspective: forbidden sexual acts. He suggests that when we misuse our bodies, God responds by shaking the entire cosmos. "You have caused your limbs to tremble over something that is not worthy of you," God says, "I too will cause the upper and lower worlds to tremble for you." A stark reminder that our actions have cosmic consequences.

Still other Rabbis believe that disputes and in-fighting are the cause, citing (Zechariah 14:5), "And the valley of the mountains shall be stopped up, for the valley of the mountains shall reach to Azal." The word Azal is interpreted as alluding to the disputes that cause the earth to shake.

And back to Rabbi Samuel bar Nachmani, who again emphasizes that earthquakes signal the changing of the guard, the transition between empires, because "the thoughts of God have arisen against Babylon."

But what about the creepy crawlies? Elijah, ever the inquisitive one, asks Rabbi Nehorai, "Why did the Holy One, blessed be He, create vermin and reptiles?" Now, that's a question we've all probably pondered at some point. Rabbi Nehorai's answer is surprisingly insightful: "For their own sake were they created." Everything has a purpose, even the things we find unpleasant.

He continues, saying that when creatures sin, God questions the purpose of those that seem meaningless. But those with a purpose, how much more so! He even insists that flies, leeches, snakes, scorpions, snails, and spiders all serve a function. Everything in creation, even the seemingly insignificant or unpleasant, has a reason for being.

So, what do we take away from all this? Midrash Tehillim offers a multi-layered understanding of why the world sometimes feels like it's falling apart. It's not just about geological activity; it's about our actions, our priorities, and our relationship with the Divine. It's a call to examine ourselves, to realign our lives with what truly matters, and to remember that even the smallest creatures have a purpose in the grand scheme of things. Maybe the next time you feel the ground shake, you'll remember these ancient teachings and ask yourself: what needs to change, not just in the world, but within myself?

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Midrash Tehillim 27:6Midrash Tehillim

Retold in our words. Read the original at the link below.Rabbi Mike Feuer, Jerusalem Anthology · CC-BY

There’s this beautiful passage in Midrash Tehillim (Commentary on Psalms), specifically on Psalm 27, that offers a powerful image of refuge. It says, "For He will hide me in His tabernacle on an evil day; He will conceal me in the concealment of His tent; on a rock He will raise me up. And now, my head will be raised up above my enemies around me."

A sanctuary, a tent, a rock solid foundation when everything else feels unstable. But what does it really mean to find refuge in God’s "tabernacle"? The Sages explore this verse, exploring moments in Jewish history when individuals turned to God, even in seemingly forbidden ways.

Rabbi Yaakov begins by pointing to a seemingly unrelated verse in Joshua (8:30): "Then Joshua built an altar to the LORD, the God of Israel, in Mount Ebal." Rabbi Yosei bar Chanina adds a crucial detail: "The altar was only dismantled by a prophet." Why is this important? Well, Jewish law, as expressed in Deuteronomy (12:13), says, "Be careful not to offer your burnt offerings anywhere you please." So, what gives? How could Joshua build an altar wherever he pleased?

The rabbis aren't afraid of the tough questions. They acknowledge the apparent contradiction. They wrestle with the complexities of faith, showing us that even sacred texts invite interpretation and debate.

The discussion then shifts to Elijah, a towering figure of prophetic zeal. We're told that Elijah offered sacrifices on Mount Carmel, even though it was a time when altars outside the Temple in Jerusalem were generally prohibited. How could he do that? Rabbi Shmuel offers a powerful explanation from (1 (Kings 18:3)6), "He accomplished all these things with his words." In other words, Elijah's prayer, his connection to the divine, was so profound that it superseded the usual restrictions. It emphasizes the power of intention, the raw, unfiltered communication with God. And that, Rabbi Shmuel implies, can bring about miracles, even rain during a drought, if the people return in repentance.

The conversation takes another turn with Rabbi Yonatan, who brings up Gideon from the Book of Judges (6:25): "That night the Lord said to him, 'Take the second bull from your father's herd, the one seven years old. Tear down your father's altar to Baal and cut down the Asherah pole beside it.'" Gideon, a reluctant hero, is commanded to destroy his father's idolatrous altar and build one to God. It’s a radical act, a complete break with the past.

But Rabbi Acha points out the potential problems with Gideon's actions: "Seven sins were committed with Gideon's bull: it was made from an Asherah tree, it had flawed stones, it was an unclean animal, it was worked and made foreign, it was slaughtered at night, and it was sacrificed on a high place." Seven sins! So, was Gideon wrong? Was he justified?

The Midrash (rabbinic interpretive commentary) doesn't offer easy answers. Instead, it presents us with a nuanced picture of faith, a journey fraught with challenges and ethical dilemmas. We are left to confront the complexities ourselves.

Finally, the Midrash turns to Samuel, citing (1 Samuel 7:9): "Then Samuel took a suckling lamb and sacrificed it as a whole burnt offering to the Lord. He cried out to the Lord on behalf of Israel, and the Lord answered him." Even though Samuel was young and a Levite, implying certain restrictions may have applied, his sincere devotion resonated with the Divine.

What's the common thread here? All these figures. Joshua, Elijah, Gideon, Samuel, faced unique circumstances, moments of crisis that demanded unconventional responses. They all sought refuge, that "concealment of His tent," not necessarily in rigid adherence to the law, but in a direct, heartfelt connection with God.

Perhaps that’s the real meaning of Psalm 27. It's not just about physical protection, but about finding that inner sanctuary, that unwavering faith, that allows us to rise above the challenges, to lift our heads "above our enemies." It's about cultivating a relationship with the Divine so strong that it guides us, even when the path ahead seems unclear. Where do you find your tabernacle? How can you find that rock to raise yourself above the difficult moments?

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