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A Fiery Myrtle Descended for the Wedding Dancer

Rabbi Shmuel juggled myrtle branches at weddings while peers scowled, and at his funeral a branch of fire came down between coffin and crowd.

Curated by Arthur · Told by Maggid ·
Table of Contents
  1. Branches in the Air
  2. The Storm That Answered
  3. Fire Between Coffin and Crowd
  4. Kindness That Buys a Grave

Rabbi Shmuel bar Rav Yitzhak stepped into the wedding circle with three myrtle branches and began to juggle.

A Fiery Myrtle Descended for the Wedding Dancer Click for full size

Green leaves flashed. Guests laughed. The bride's shoulders dropped an inch. Other sages at the edge of the courtyard did not laugh. A man of Torah was supposed to sit heavy with honor, not toss perfume-wood through the air like a street player.

Branches in the Air

He did this more than once. Wedding after wedding, the same three myrtles, the same lift of joy aimed at people whose week had been flour and worry. The branches left oil on his fingers. His sleeves smelled of the grove. Children tried to catch the falling green and failed, which only made them cheer harder.

"Why does he act like this?" the critics asked. "Why does he demean the honor of the Torah?"

Rabbi Ze'eira waved them off. "Leave him. He knows what he is doing." Ze'eira did not offer a lecture. He offered room. In that room Shmuel kept dancing, because a bride's first hour under the canopy was, to him, a commandment with sweat in it.

The myrtles rose and fell. No fire yet. Only green, and the thud of feet on packed earth, and a groom who forgot for three songs that he was afraid of the future. When the music stopped, Shmuel tucked the branches under his arm and walked home with sap on his palms, as if the night's work were a page of study he had finished clean.

The Storm That Answered

When Rabbi Shmuel died, a storm tore across the Land of Israel and ripped trees from the ground. Whole trunks went over. Roots stood in the air like hands. The wreckage sat beside his life as if the land itself had been harvested for his joy and now collected the debt in wind.

People who had frowned at the dancing now watched orchards break. The same wood that had spun above wedding tables lay shattered in fields and ditches. Grief arrived as weather. No one needed a sermon to feel the link between the man who loved myrtle and the land that threw myrtle's cousins down.

They gathered for the funeral with dust in their eyes and the memory of those three branches still oddly bright. Someone brought a living sprig and did not know where to set it. The coffin waited. The sky did not.

Fire Between Coffin and Crowd

Then a branch of fire came down from the sky, shaped like myrtle, and took its place between the coffin and the mourners.

Not a metaphor. A burning form, green become flame, hovering where a living hand used to lift wood for a bride. Heat pressed the front row back a step. No one dared to bat it away. The crowd said what the sign forced them to say. "See this elder who rose and exerted himself in mitzvot (commandments)," they said. "So a branch rose for him."

The critics had asked whether joy belittled Torah. Heaven answered with a myrtle that could not be held, only witnessed. The honor they thought he had thrown away returned as fire that refused to scorch the coffin and refused to leave while the living still needed to look.

Shmuel could not bow to the sign. He was already still. The living had to rearrange their faces. A student who had once muttered about dignity wiped his eyes with a sleeve that smelled faintly, somehow, of old green oil.

Kindness That Buys a Grave

The same chain of teaching ties the pursuit of righteousness and kindness (Proverbs 21:21) to Abraham buying a burial place for Sarah in the cave of Makhpela (Genesis 23:19). Abraham chased righteousness in life and kindness in death. He counted silver into Hittite hands so his wife's body would rest with dignity in Canaan's soil. Life, righteousness, and honor followed him, the proverb's ledger filled in flesh and years.

Rabbi Shmuel's myrtles belong to that family of acts. Not silver for a cave, but motion for a bride. Not a purchase deed, but a body spent so another household's joy would not thin out under the weight of self-important silence. When his own burial came, heaven paid in fire what peers had been slow to pay in respect.

Abraham's kindness closed a grave. Shmuel's kindness opened a dance. Both stood inside the same verse about those who pursue righteousness and kindness until life and honor find them, whether the tool is coin or spinning wood.

At the edge of the funeral the fiery myrtle held its shape a little longer, then only memory kept the flame. The storms quieted. Broken trees were cleared. The critics walked home lighter or harder, each according to his spine. Somewhere a living wedding still needed three green branches, and someone else would have to decide whether to pick them up while the sages watched.

RabbisWeddingMiracleAbrahamKindnessRabbi ShmuelMyrtleThird DayFuneral
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From the tradition

Sources

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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.

Bereshit Rabbah 59:4Bereshit Rabbah

Retold in our words. Read the original at the link below.The Sefaria Midrash Rabbah, 2022 · CC-BY

This one, found in Bereshit Rabbah 59, a compilation of rabbinic homilies on the Book of Genesis, definitely did that for me. It's a story about a rabbi, a myrtle branch, and a fiery miracle.

It starts with Rabbi Shmuel bar Rav Yitzḥak. Now, this wasn't your typical, somber scholar. He was known for something quite…unconventional. He would dance at weddings with three myrtle branches, juggling them to entertain the bride and groom.

Bereshit Rabbah tells us that when Rabbi Shmuel bar Rav Yitzḥak died, a terrible storm arose, uprooting trees all over the Land of Israel. The text implies a connection: the storm, a symbol of mourning, was triggered because he used branches from those very trees for his joyful dancing. Nature itself grieving.

Some of the other rabbis, it seems, weren't always so sure about Rabbi Shmuel's wedding antics. "Why does he act like this?" they’d ask, questioning whether such behavior was befitting a Torah scholar. "Why does he demean the honor of the Torah?"

But Rabbi Ze’eira, a voice of wisdom, would say, "Leave him, as he knows what he is doing." He understood something deeper, perhaps. That joy and holiness aren't mutually exclusive.

And the story doesn't end with the storm. When Rabbi Shmuel died, and people gathered to pay their respects, something incredible happened. A fiery branch descended from the sky, taking the shape of a myrtle branch, and positioned itself between the coffin and the mourners. The people saw it as a sign: "See this elder, who used to rise up and exert himself [in doing mitzvot (commandments), good deeds]," they said, "so a [fiery] branch rose up for him." A divine acknowledgement of his life, his dedication.

The story then takes a different turn, relating the verse, “One who pursues righteousness and kindness [will find life, righteousness, and honor]” (Proverbs 21:21) to Abraham. “And kindness…” (Genesis 18:19) is connected to Abraham as well. This connection is found earlier in Bereshit Rabba 58:9, linking Abraham’s actions to the concept of pursuing righteousness and kindness.

What does it all mean? Well, it seems like a powerful reminder that righteousness isn't just about following rules. It's about bringing joy, about connecting with people, about living a life of both chesed (loving-kindness) and commitment to mitzvot. Rabbi Shmuel’s story, as retold in Bereshit Rabbah, challenges us to consider how we balance tradition with innovation, solemnity with joy, and how even something as simple as a dance with myrtle branches can become a symbol of a life well-lived. And maybe, just maybe, the heavens themselves take notice.

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Bereshit Rabbah 58:9Bereshit Rabbah

Retold in our words. Read the original at the link below.The Sefaria Midrash Rabbah, 2022 · CC-BY

The Torah, as it often does, gives us clues, and this time it’s wrapped up in the story of Abraham burying his beloved Sarah.

In (Genesis 23:19), we read, “Then, Abraham buried Sarah his wife in the cave of the field of Makhpela opposite Mamre, which is Hebron, in the land of Canaan.” Simple enough. But the rabbis in Bereshit Rabbah, a classic collection of rabbinic interpretations of Genesis, never let us settle for simple. They see layers upon layers of meaning.

The phrase "Then, Abraham buried" is our entry point. The Rabbis connect it to a verse from Proverbs (21:21): “One who pursues righteousness and kindness will find life, righteousness, and honor.” But what’s the connection?

Well, "One who pursues righteousness" – that, according to the Rabbis, refers directly to Abraham himself. And the prooftext? (Genesis 18:19): “[For I love him, so that he will command his children and his household after him,] that they observe the way of the Lord to perform righteousness.” God Himself vouches for Abraham’s commitment to righteousness!

And "kindness?" Ah, that's Abraham’s act of kindness towards Sarah. By buying her a burial plot – ensuring her dignity even in death – he embodies chesed (Lovingkindness), loving-kindness. It's more than just a transaction; it's a profound act of respect and devotion. This concept of chesed is absolutely central to Jewish ethics, a way of acting in the world that imitates God’s own compassion.

So, what did Abraham "find?" According to the proverb, he found "life, righteousness, and honor." And in Abraham’s case, we see this playing out directly. "Life" is straightforward: "The years of Abraham's life that he lived, one hundred and seventy-five years" (Genesis 25:7). A long life, blessed by God.

But it's the "righteousness and honor" part that gets really interesting. Rabbi Shmuel bar Yitzchak offers a stunning interpretation. He says that the Holy One, blessed be He, said to Abraham: ‘My craft is performing kindness. You have adopted My craft, now come and don My garment!’ In other words, Abraham is invited to share in God’s own attributes. He gets to "share the honor of a description that is used for Me."

The ultimate proof? "Abraham was old, advanced in years" (Genesis 24:1). And how is God described? As "the one of ancient days" (Daniel 7:9). Abraham, through his pursuit of righteousness and kindness, becomes like God.

That by emulating God’s qualities, we can, in a sense, draw closer to the Divine. That our actions, our choices, have cosmic significance. That buying a burial plot, an act of love and respect, can elevate us to a higher spiritual plane.

Perhaps it's a reminder that the small acts of kindness, the quiet moments of righteousness, are far more powerful than we realize. They are the threads that weave together a life of meaning, a life that echoes with the very essence of the Divine. They are what truly matters. So, what "garment" of kindness will you choose to don today?

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