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The King's Executioner Put All Four Death Penalties on Himself

He rode for the king with a good horse under him and taunted his uncle about it. The answer that came back killed him before the day was out.

Curated by Arthur · Told by Maggid ·
Table of Contents
  1. The Man Who Rode Ahead of the Condemned
  2. One Sentence Went In
  3. Four Deaths in a Single Afternoon
  4. Why the Potter Only Knocks on the Strong Jars
  5. Twelve Months With the Door Shut
The King's Executioner Put All Four Death Penalties on Himself Click for full size

The Man Who Rode Ahead of the Condemned

He had the best job a man of his town could get. He rode a horse at the head of the king's business, out in front of the men going to be executed, and he was the nephew of Rabbi Yose ben Yoezer, who had no horse and no office and nothing but a name for keeping the commandments.

He rode over to his uncle to say so.

"Look at the animal under me," he said. "Some men are carried by a master who is gentle with them. Some men are carried by a master who is hard."

He meant the two of them. He had gone over to the king and he was mounted and armed and out in the sunlight; his uncle had gone over to God and had gotten a life of obligations and no horse at all.

One Sentence Went In

Yose ben Yoezer did not defend himself.

"If this is what God gives to the ones who anger Him," he said, "how much more to the ones who do His will."

The nephew heard it and pushed back. "And has anyone done His will more than you?"

"If this is what He gives to the ones who do His will," Yose said, "how much more to the ones who anger Him."

The words went into him. That is the phrase the source uses, that the thing entered him, and it entered the way poison enters, not the way an argument does. He had a sword on his hip and a horse and a commission from the throne, and he had just been shown, in two sentences, which side of that account he was standing on and what was going to be collected.

Four Deaths in a Single Afternoon

He did not go to a court. There would have been no charge to bring, and the court that could have brought one had no power over the king's man. So he became the court.

He planted a beam upright in the ground. He tied a cord to the top of it. He stacked wood underneath, built a low wall of stones around the whole arrangement, fixed a sword point up in the middle of it, and lit the fire.

Then he hanged himself from the beam. The cord gave way. He came down onto the sword and into the fire, and the stones came in over him. Strangling, beheading, burning, stoning. Four executions the court is permitted to impose, carried out on one man in one afternoon, by that man, on the strength of two sentences from an uncle he had ridden over to insult.

Why the Potter Only Knocks on the Strong Jars

Nobody had ever tested him. Rabbi Yonatan explained the principle with a potter. A potter does not go around knocking on his flimsy jugs, because he could not strike one of them a single time without breaking it. He knocks on the sturdy ones, and he knocks several times, and they hold. Rabbi Yosei ben Hanina said the same thing about flax. Good flax gets better the more you crush it and better still the more you beat it. Bad flax comes apart at the first blow, so nobody wastes a blow on it. Rabbi Elazar put it in a field. A man with two cows, one strong and one failing, does not stand there wondering which one gets the yoke.

God tests the righteous. He does not test the wicked, because there is nothing to learn from a jar that shatters. The nephew was never going to be knocked on. What reached him was not a test at all. It was a remark from a man walking on foot.

Twelve Months With the Door Shut

The ones God does knock on get Noah's arrangement. Noah was called righteous to his face, though only part of the praise was said in his hearing and the rest behind his back, which is the courtesy the sages kept. Then the door of the ark closed, and God was the one who closed it, and Noah stayed inside for twelve months while the world he had grown up in was taken apart outside the hull.

What he said in there was a prisoner's line. Release me from confinement, so that I can thank Your name. The righteous will crown You through me. Twelve months later God opened it and told him to come out, and that release is counted as a kindness done to him rather than a sentence served.

Every trade in the world resents the man across the street doing the same work, except two. A scholar loves the scholar who is beating him, the way Rabbi Hiyya and Rabbi Hoshaya kept handing each other pieces of the same argument. And God, whose trade is righteousness, is glad to see anyone else practicing it, which is why the verse about loving righteousness gets attached to a farmer standing in a ruined world with a boat behind him.

Yose ben Yoezer dozed off later and saw a bed floating past him in the air, and he understood what had been prepared, and where.


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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 32:2Bereshit Rabbah

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

True greatness lies not in squashing the competition, but in celebrating it?

That’s the kind of wisdom we find nestled within the ancient texts of our tradition. Take Bereshit Rabbah, a collection of rabbinic interpretations of the Book of Genesis. In section 32, the rabbis examine the verse "Come, you…" from (Genesis 7:1), where God tells Noah to enter the ark. But they do so in a way you might not expect, drawing a connection to (Psalm 11:7): “For the Lord is righteous and He loves righteousness. Their faces will behold the upright One.”

What’s the link? Well, Rabbi Tanhuma, quoting both Rabbi Yehuda bar Simon and Rabbi Menahama (who in turn cites Rabbi Eliezer bar Yosei), offers a startling idea: normally, no one likes a rival in their profession. But a Torah scholar, a true seeker of wisdom, loves their competitor. Why would that be? Perhaps because iron sharpens iron. Perhaps because recognizing the brilliance in another only elevates your own understanding.

The Midrash (rabbinic interpretive commentary) illustrates this point with the beautiful friendship between Rabbi Ḥiyya and Rabbi Hoshaya. These two great scholars weren't rivals; they were collaborators, pushing each other to greater heights of learning and insight. They saw each other not as threats, but as essential partners in the pursuit of truth.

But the Midrash doesn’t stop there. It takes this idea even further, suggesting that the Holy One, blessed be He, also appreciates his “competitor.” This is where (Psalm 11:7) comes back into play. God’s "craft," so to speak, is tzedek (righteousness), yet He loves others who act with tzedek. As the Midrash explains, this is a reference to Noah, who demonstrated his own righteousness.

So, when God says, "Come, you…," He’s not just inviting Noah into the ark. He's acknowledging Noah’s own commitment to righteousness, recognizing him as a fellow "craftsman" in the work of building a just and compassionate world. God invites Noah into partnership.

What a profound idea! God, the ultimate creator, the source of all goodness, isn't threatened by righteousness in others. Instead, He embraces it, celebrates it, and invites it closer.

Maybe it's a call to re-evaluate our own relationships. To see the potential for collaboration where we once saw competition. To recognize that the more righteousness we cultivate in the world, the more we reflect the divine image within ourselves and, ultimately, the closer we draw to the Divine itself. Maybe true success isn't about being the only one, but about inspiring and empowering others to be their best selves, too. Just like Noah. Just like Rabbi Ḥiyya and Rabbi Hoshaya. Just like… maybe, just maybe… us.

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Bereshit Rabbah 32:3Bereshit Rabbah

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

Why do bad things happen to good people? It’s a question that’s haunted humanity for millennia. Our tradition grapples with this head-on, not offering easy answers, but rather inviting us into a deeper understanding of God's relationship with the righteous.

Bereshit Rabbah, a classic Midrashic (rabbinic interpretive commentary) text, offers a fascinating perspective on this very question, using vivid analogies to explain why it seems that the righteous are tested more than the wicked. It all centers around the verse from (Psalms 11:5): “The Lord tests the righteous, but He hates the wicked and the one who loves injustice.” But what does this really mean?

Rabbi Yonatan kicks things off with a potter's analogy. a potter isn't going to waste time testing flimsy jugs. They’d just break! No, he tests the strong, sturdy ones – the ones that can withstand a little pressure. "So, too," Rabbi Yonatan says, "the Holy One blessed be He does not test the wicked, but only the righteous." It's like Abraham, who we read about in (Genesis 22:1), "God tested Abraham." The strong are tested because they can be.

Rabbi Yosei ben Ḥanina takes it a step further, using the image of a linen producer. When a linen producer knows their flax is top-notch, they'll crush it, beat it, and work it to bring out its full potential. The better the flax, the more it can endure. But with low-quality flax? One wrong move, and it's ruined. The lesson is the same: God refines the righteous because they possess the strength to be refined.

And Rabbi Elazar brings us another powerful image: a farmer with two cows, one strong and one weak. Which one gets the yoke? Obviously, the strong one! It's not about punishment; it's about capacity. The strong cow can pull the weight, just as the righteous can bear the trials they face.

Now, the Midrash doesn't stop there. It connects this idea to Noah, a figure often seen as the epitome of righteousness. Noah was commanded to enter the ark several days before the flood actually began (Genesis 7:4). Why? Bereshit Rabbah suggests this was a test, a way to see if he would truly follow God's commands. "The Lord tests the righteous," it says, and then points to God's words to Noah: "As I have seen you to be righteous before Me in this generation."

Rabbi Elazar ben Azarya adds a beautiful nuance to this. He notes how we speak of people differently when they're present versus when they're not. When Noah wasn't present, it was said, "Noah was a righteous man, faultless in his generation" (Genesis 6:9). But when he was present, God said, "As I have seen you to be righteous before Me in this generation." It's a subtle distinction, acknowledging the complexity of praising someone directly.

Building on this idea, Rabbi Eliezer son of Rabbi Yosei HaGelili extends it even to God. When speaking directly to God, we might say, "How awesome are Your deeds.." (Psalms 66:3). But when speaking about God, we say, "Give thanks to the Lord, for He is good, for His kindness is forever" (Psalms 136:1). This highlights the enduring nature of God's goodness, a quality that goes beyond even the most awe-inspiring deeds.

So, what does all this mean for us? It suggests that trials aren’t necessarily punishments. Instead, they can be opportunities for growth, evidence of our inner strength, and a reflection of God's belief in our potential. It’s a challenging but ultimately hopeful perspective, reminding us that even in the face of adversity, we have the capacity to endure, to learn, and to become even stronger. It’s not an easy answer to the age-old question, but it's an invitation to see our struggles in a new light.

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Bereshit Rabbah 34:1Bereshit Rabbah

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

Not in your house, not in your apartment… but in a floating zoo. That’s Noah’s story. And in Bereshit Rabbah 34, we get a glimpse into his heart as the floodwaters recede and the possibility of freedom dawns.

The verse opens simply: “God spoke to Noah, saying: ‘Go out of the ark, you and your wife and your sons and your sons’ wives with you’” (Genesis 8:15-16). Simple. But the Midrash (rabbinic interpretive commentary), that beautiful, ancient method of interpreting scripture, asks: why the repetition? “God spoke to Noah, saying: Go out of the ark” – why say it twice?

The Midrash sees this redundancy as an opportunity to dive deeper, to hear Noah's inner voice. It interprets the first command – "Go out of the ark" – as a plea from Noah himself. A plea to be released. Noah wasn’t just sitting around waiting for instructions. He was a righteous man, a leader, a man responsible for the survival of… well, pretty much everything. The Midrash imagines Noah saying "Release me from this confinement so that I can thank You! Through me, the righteous will give You glory when you show kindness to me!”

The text then cleverly connects Noah’s plea to (Psalm 142:8): "Release me from confinement [masger] to thank Your name. The righteous, through me, will give glory [yakhtiru] when You perform kindness with me.” Masger, confinement. The Midrash sees this as a direct reference to Noah, imprisoned in the ark. After all, the Torah itself says, “The Lord shut it [vayisgor] for him” (Genesis 7:16).

And the word yakhtiru, "will give glory," is related to keter, a crown. It's as if Noah is saying, "The righteous will crown You through me!” It’s a powerful image. Noah isn’t just asking for freedom; he’s offering to be an instrument of praise, a conduit for gratitude. He understands that his release will be evidence of God's kindness, an opportunity for humanity to recognize and celebrate the Divine.

It’s interesting to note that Noah is specifically mentioned in the Rosh Hashanah (the Jewish New Year) liturgy: “You also lovingly remembered Noah and granted him salvation and mercy.” His story resonates deeply with themes of remembrance, salvation, and divine grace that are central to the High Holy Days.

The Midrash concludes by emphasizing the kindness God showed to Noah: “When You perform kindness with me – You performed kindness with me and said to me: 'Go out of the ark.'” It’s a beautiful, circular way of looking at the story. Noah asks for release, promising gratitude. God grants the release, demonstrating kindness. And the cycle of praise and blessing continues.

Perhaps it’s a reminder that even in our own moments of confinement – physical, emotional, or spiritual – we can find strength in expressing gratitude and offering ourselves as instruments of praise.

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Midrash Tehillim 11:7Midrash Tehillim

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

Rabbi Judah bar Simon, in Midrash Tehillim, offers a fascinating perspective. He suggests that while readers often loathe our professions, God doesn't hate His. Why? Because "the Lord is righteous, He loves righteousness" (Psalm 11:7).

What does it even mean that God "loves righteousness"? The Midrash (rabbinic interpretive commentary) uses this as a jumping-off point to explore who gets to experience God's presence. Who are the ones privileged enough to "see His face"?

The Midrash identifies seven classes of people destined to stand before God. But the most excellent class, the ones who truly receive the divine presence, are the upright – the yesharim. As it says in (Psalm 11:7), "The upright will see His face." And elsewhere, in (Psalm 140:14), "The upright shall sit before Your face."

Here's where it gets interesting. Why does it say "see" and "sit before?" The Midrash poses a question: what's the meaning of "The upright will see His face"? One interpretation is: before the world was even created, the upright saw the Divine Presence.

Another interpretation equates seeing God's face with embodying different forms of light and glory. These seven classes of the righteous are likened to the sun, moon, stars, lightning, roses, and torches. "And the wise shall shine like the brightness of the firmament" (Daniel 12:3). Like the sun in its might (Judges 5:31), like the moon established forever (Psalm 89:38), like stars, lightning, roses (shoshannim – a term used in the titles of some Psalms), and torches. Ginzberg, in Legends of the Jews, beautifully expands on these celestial associations, painting a vivid picture of the righteous radiating divine light.

According to the Midrash, the first class of the righteous actually sits before the King, seeing both Him and His face. Then, the Midrash lists further categories of righteous individuals, referencing different verses from Psalms: "Happy are they that dwell in Your house" (Psalm 84:5), "Who shall ascend into the hill of the Lord?" (Psalm 24:3), "Happy is the man whom You choose" (Psalm 65:5), "Lord, who shall abide in Your tabernacle?" (Psalm 15:1), "Who shall dwell on Your holy hill?" (Psalm 15:1) and "And who shall stand in His holy place?" (Psalm 24:3). Each group represents a different aspect of righteousness and closeness to God.

But what about the wicked? The Midrash doesn't shy away from the darker side. Opposite these seven levels of righteousness are seven apartments in Gehinnom (the place of spiritual purification after death) – often translated as Hell. These include Sheol (the grave), Abaddon (destruction), the Valley of Similarity, Tzelmoth (the shadow of death), the Netherworld, and the Land of Dryness. A stark contrast,. The Midrash emphasizes that both the righteous and the wicked are rewarded or punished according to their deeds, each in their designated place.

Then, the text shifts to a chilling story about Ish Tzrorot, the nephew of Rabbi Yosi ben Yo'ezer. Ish Tzrorot, a man from Tsoridah, was tasked with executing criminals. While riding his horse, he lamented the harshness of his task, saying to his horse that some are ridden by a master who is harsh, and some by a master who is gentle. He questioned whether he was truly doing God's will. This internal conflict led him to a horrifying act: he personally carried out four death sentences in a gruesome, ritualistic manner.

Rabbi Yosi ben Yo'ezer, witnessing this, saw Ish Tzrorot's bed floating in the air, a sign that a place had been prepared for him in the Garden of Eden. This is a shocking twist. Could such a violent act lead to paradise? The story is disturbing and unsettling, leaving us to confront questions of justice, repentance, and the complexities of divine judgment.

What does this all mean? This passage from Midrash Tehillim isn't just a simple description of heaven and hell. It's a profound meditation on righteousness, divine presence, and the weight of our actions. It suggests that even the most seemingly righteous acts can be twisted and that true closeness to God requires constant self-reflection and a striving for uprightness in all aspects of our lives. And maybe, just maybe, it hints that even in the darkest of deeds, a spark of redemption remains possible.

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