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God Appeared to Ezekiel in Babylon When He Had No Right To

Ezekiel received his vision on a Babylonian riverbank, in the heart of Israel's worst defeat, and the rabbis could not quite absorb it.

Curated by Arthur · Told by Maggid ·
Table of Contents
  1. The River That Should Not Have Been Possible
  2. The King Who Called Back One Loyal Son
  3. What Ben Adam Actually Meant
  4. What the Exile Could Not Take

The River That Should Not Have Been Possible

The priest Ezekiel was sitting by the Chebar River in Babylon when the heavens opened. Not in Jerusalem. Not in the Temple. Not at any of the recognized sites where God had made Himself known before. He was in enemy territory, in the middle of the most humiliating moment in Israel's history, and God appeared anyway.

Vayikra Rabbah, the great midrashic collection on Leviticus compiled in the Land of Israel around the fifth century CE, records how the rabbis processed this fact. They found it almost too strange to leave uncommented on. So they built a parable around it.

The King Who Called Back One Loyal Son

Imagine a king whose wife and children rebel against him. He exiles them. Then he calls back one loyal son and says: come, let me show you my house. He takes the son through the palace, shows him the arrangement of every chamber. The wife is still out in the cold. The other children are still in exile. Has the king's honor diminished because of that?

That, according to Vayikra Rabbah, is what God said to Ezekiel: My glory has not shrunk because Israel is in exile. My abode has not dimmed. Come and see what is still here, what remains, what has not changed. The exile has not reduced me. The Babylonians have not occupied any part of what matters.

The vision that followed confirmed it. Ezekiel saw the four living creatures, the wheels, the expanse, the throne of sapphire, the human figure of light above the throne. Everything that made the divine presence overwhelming and real was fully present on the banks of the Chebar. Nothing had stayed behind in Jerusalem.

What Ben Adam Actually Meant

God called Ezekiel ben adam throughout the book. The phrase means son of man, but the midrash refuses to let it stay generic. According to Vayikra Rabbah, the address carries specific weight: son of upright people, son of the righteous, son of those who perform acts of kindness, a man willing to demean himself for God's glory. The Etz Yosef commentary elaborates that adam in this usage signals essential human dignity, the kind that persists through exile and catastrophe. God was not addressing a generic person. He was addressing a specific lineage and a specific character.

The vision of Metatron, preserved in mystical sources, opens a related perspective. Four sages entered Paradise, and only Rabbi Akiva came out whole. Elisha ben Abuyah, the brilliant scholar who would later be called simply Aher, the Other One, had ascended to gaze upon the divine chariot, the Merkavah of Ezekiel's vision. He saw Metatron seated and concluded that there were two powers in heaven. The vision that Ezekiel had received intact, the vision that showed divine presence filling Babylon as completely as it had filled Jerusalem, was the same vision that destroyed Elisha when he could not hold the paradox of it.

What the Exile Could Not Take

The rabbinic tradition on Ezekiel is an argument against despair. The specific despair the rabbis were arguing against was theological: if the Temple was destroyed, if the people were in Babylon, if the covenant had apparently been broken from Israel's side, then maybe the divine presence had simply gone. Maybe God had stayed in Jerusalem and the exiles were praying in an empty direction.

Ezekiel's vision, from Babylon, is the refutation. The throne moves. The presence travels. The four living creatures that Ezekiel saw by the Chebar were the same creatures at the base of the throne in Jerusalem. The wheels that carried the divine chariot could carry it anywhere, including to a foreign riverbank in the fifth year of Jehoiachin's exile. The king who called back one loyal son did not lose his palace because the rest of the family was in exile.

EzekielExileAngelsDivine Presence
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From the tradition

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

Vayikra Rabbah 2:8Vayikra Rabbah

Vayikra Rabbah, a fascinating collection of rabbinic teachings on the Book of Leviticus, offers a profound and surprisingly intimate perspective.

That "adam" isn't just a label; it's "an expression of affection, an expression of brotherhood, and an expression of friendship." It's a term loaded with connection and inherent worth. But how does this relate to the prophet Ezekiel?

God addresses Ezekiel as "ben adam" – "son of man." But according to Vayikra Rabbah, this isn't just a casual title. It's a recognition of Ezekiel being "son of upright people, son of the righteous, son of those who perform acts of kindness, a son who demeans himself for the glory of the Omnipresent and for the glory of Israel all his days." That's quite a description! The Etz Yosef commentary explains that adam is similar to adama, the earth, which is lowly and trod upon by people, suggesting humility. Or, as the Midrash (rabbinic interpretive commentary) HaMevoar suggests, it's linked to Ezekiel being "Ezekiel ben Buzi" (Ezekiel 1:3), where "Buzi" alludes to someone willing to demean (mevazeh) himself.

The midrash doesn't stop there. It uses a powerful parable to illustrate God's relationship with Israel, and Ezekiel's role within it. Imagine a king whose wife and children rebel against him. He banishes them, but then calls back one loyal son, saying, "Come, and I will show you my house…Has my honor and my residence diminished even though your mother remains outside?"

Similarly, God appears to Ezekiel, the priest, as described in (Ezekiel 1:1) and 1:3. God is essentially saying: even though Israel has strayed, has My glory diminished? Has My abode become less magnificent?

The imagery continues, drawing from Ezekiel's famous vision of the Divine Chariot (Ezekiel 1:4). God asks Ezekiel, "Is this My glory, that I elevated you over the nations of the world? Has My glory and My abode been diminished due to you?" He’s reminding Ezekiel – and, by extension, the Israelites – that God's honor doesn't depend on their actions.

Perhaps you might think that with Israel in exile, there's no one left to worship God. But the text assures us that there are "four hundred and ninety-six thousand ministering angels" constantly sanctifying God's name. Day and night, they proclaim "Holy, holy, holy" (Isaiah 6:3) and "Blessed is the glory of the Lord from His place" (Ezekiel 3:12). And let's not forget, as the Etz Yosef points out, even the seventy nations of the world acknowledge God as the prime cause of creation.

So, why does God allow suffering to befall Israel? The answer is both complex and deeply compassionate: "But what can I do? I am doing so due to My great name that is called upon you, as it is stated: 'But I acted for the sake of My name, that it not be profaned…'" (Ezekiel 20:14). God's actions, even those that seem harsh, are ultimately motivated by a desire to protect His reputation and His relationship with humanity.

What does all this mean for us today? Perhaps it's a reminder that our actions have consequences, not just for ourselves, but for how the world perceives the Divine. And perhaps, more importantly, it's a evidence of the enduring, unwavering love and commitment that God has for humanity – even when we stumble and fall. It's a call to remember that we are all "ben adam" – sons and daughters of the Divine, capable of both great failings and extraordinary acts of kindness and devotion.

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3 Enoch 16:1-53 Enoch

Four sages entered Paradise, and only Rabbi Akiva came out whole.

One of the most famous of these accounts involves four prominent sages who, according to the Talmud (Hagigah 14b), "entered Paradise" – a term that has come to mean engaging in mystical ascent. Of these four, only one, Rabbi Akiva, entered and left in peace. Others were scarred by the experience.

One of those others was Elisha ben Abuyah.

Elisha was no ordinary man. He was a renowned scholar, a brilliant mind. But his journey took a dark turn. The Talmud hints at his eventual heresy, calling him "Aher" – "the Other One." What went wrong?

Well, the story goes that Elisha ascended on high, seeking to gaze upon the Merkavah – the Divine Chariot, the very throne-chariot of God described in the Book of Ezekiel. Imagine the audacity, the sheer spiritual hunger it must have taken to attempt such a feat!

He made it far, too. According to the account in Tree of Souls (Howard Schwartz), he reached the door of the seventh palace – the highest level of Heaven. And there, he saw something that shattered his faith.

He came into the presence of the angel Metatron.

Now, Metatron is a fascinating figure in Jewish mysticism. Often described as the "lesser YHWH," he is one of the highest-ranking angels, the celestial scribe, the very voice of God. He's a powerful, awe-inspiring being.

But here's the thing: Elisha saw Metatron seated upon a high and lofty throne, wearing a crown. All the princes of the kingdom – the other angels – stood beside him, to his right and to his left. And from his throne, Metatron ruled over all the other heavenly beings.

This is where it all fell apart for Elisha. Why? Because in his eyes, this looked like two powers in Heaven! It smacked of duality, of a second divine being alongside God. This was a complete violation of the core Jewish principle of monotheism – the absolute oneness and uniqueness of God.

As we find in Legends of the Jews (Ginzberg), this vision led Elisha to declare, "There are two powers in Heaven!" This blasphemous thought, born of his mystical experience, led to his downfall, his becoming Aher, the heretic. He could not reconcile what he saw with his understanding of God.

Think about the weight of that moment. Imagine the internal struggle, the cognitive dissonance tearing him apart. He sought to understand the Divine, and the vision he received instead destroyed his belief.

It's a cautionary tale, isn't it? A reminder that even the most learned and devout can be led astray by their own interpretations, by their inability to reconcile the mysteries of the universe with the foundations of their faith. The journey to understand God is fraught with peril, and perhaps, some questions are best left unasked.

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