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The Crown That Cannot Be Stolen and the Kindness the Wicked Dam

Divine kindness pours down through channels the righteous hold open and the wicked seal shut, while Abraham stands as both sun and shield over the world.

Curated by Arthur · Told by Maggid ·
Table of Contents
  1. The Crown That Cannot Be Stolen
  2. How the Wicked Block the Flow
  3. The Tree Planted in the Current
  4. Abraham at the Crown and Center of History

A man gives his friend a measure of gold, and the moment the gift changes hands it becomes a target. Robbers notice. The friend who received the gift now carries a burden he did not carry before. The giver who meant to enrich has instead endangered.

The Holy One does not give this way. Midrash Tehillim sets this contrast against the very framework of the world, and the framework holds.

The Crown That Cannot Be Stolen

When the Psalms declare that the righteous are blessed, the midrash reads blessing not as an abstract state but as a specific mechanism. A crown of favor is placed on the head of the one who is blessed, and crowns, unlike gold measures in a bag, are not objects that can be separated from the person wearing them. A crown travels with the wearer. It closes over the head and becomes inseparable from the life it adorns.

This is why heavenly gifts do not disappear the way earthly gifts do. The robber who can take the gold from a friend's bag cannot reach the crown. The enemies who can strip a person of wealth and land and social standing cannot pry open the crown of favor that the Holy One has fixed in place. Abraham is the model: both sun and shield, the darshan says, drawing on Psalm 84's metaphor of a sun that shines and a shield that wraps a person from the four winds of harm. Whoever walks in Abraham's posture before heaven, blameless and upright, inherits the same canopy. The promise is portable. It goes where the person goes.

How the Wicked Block the Flow

The second passage turns from the crown to the channel. Heaven and earth are not sealed rooms. They are joined by conduits through which divine kindness pours continuously downward. The righteous hold these channels open. The wicked close them.

The mechanism is not punitive in the usual sense. The wicked do not actively destroy kindness. They stand in it and absorb it without letting it pass through. The image the midrash develops is hydraulic: the flow from above is constant, but what reaches the ground depends on whether the people at the bottom of the channel are conducting or blocking. Where a righteous person stands, kindness pools and spreads, soaking outward into the dry soil around their feet so that even the ground a stranger walks on has been softened by their standing there. Where the wicked stand, the same kindness presses against a sealed vessel and finds no outlet, building up against the stopped mouth of the channel and running off to either side, leaving the earth beneath them cracked and waiting.

The Tree Planted in the Current

David's psalm traces this pattern across generations. The righteous one is like a tree planted by streams of water, and the image is precise: not like a tree next to water but planted in its flow, roots into the current, so that the tree is not only watered but is itself part of the water's movement through the soil. The roots drink and the roots also bind, holding the bank in place, splitting the stream into the small veins that feed everything growing nearby. The fruit comes in its season because the supply never falters and never floods, only passes through.

The wicked are like chaff that the wind drives away, not growing from any channel, not conducting anything, simply light enough to be moved by whatever force is currently blowing. They have no root in the current and so they carry nothing forward. They cover the ground for a moment and then the next gust lifts them off it, and the place where they stood is exactly as dry as before they came. Nothing was conducted. Nothing remained.

Abraham at the Crown and Center of History

The passages braid Abraham into the hydraulic system as its principal conduit. He stands at the creation not only as the first patriarch but as the first opening through which the accumulated force of potential blessing could actually reach the world. The crown of grace that the righteous wear was first fitted on Abraham's head, the midrash suggests, and from that fitting it became available to every person who walked in the same posture before heaven.

The connection to creation is specific. Rabbi Pinchas opens the thread on Psalm 119 by tracing the passage of blessing back to the first day. At the beginning of the world, the capacity for blessing was written into the structure of things, waiting for the person whose life would open the channel wide enough to let it through. Abraham is the event that opened the channel. Every righteous act since is a continuation of the same opening.

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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.

Midrash Tehillim 6:1Midrash Tehillim

Midrash Tehillim, a beautiful collection of interpretations on the Book of Psalms, offers a powerful contrast to this feeling. It tells us that while worldly gifts can be lost, the blessings of the Holy One, blessed be He, are different. As it says, "For you will bless the righteous." (Psalms 5:13).

It doesn't stop there. God doesn't just bless; He protects. The Midrash (rabbinic interpretive commentary) continues, "And not only that, but He also makes a shield for him, as it is said, 'The Lord crowns him with favor.'" God's blessing isn't fleeting; it's a constant, protective presence. It's like the Talmud (Shabbat 63a) saying, "A person shall not go out with a sword or a bow," because true protection comes from something far greater.

Then, the Midrash explores the meaning of the phrase "To the conductor on the eighth." What's so special about the number eight? Well, it connects to the idea of praising God continuously. As (Psalm 119:164) states, "Seven times a day I praise You." Rabbi Yehoshua ben Levi sees these seven times as representing the seven core commandments embedded in the Shema prayer. The Shema, of course, is the central Jewish prayer declaring God's oneness. These seven commandments are: creation, love, recitation of Shema, speaking truth, affirmation of God as Redeemer, and the commandments concerning tzitzit (ritual fringes) and adding on to the sukkah (temporary dwelling) of peace. It's a framework for a life constantly oriented towards the Divine.

Rabbi Avin, citing Rabbi Nechemia, offers another perspective. He suggests these are the seven commandments we perform daily: reciting the Shema twice, praying three times, and eating with blessings before and after. It's about finding holiness in the mundane, weaving the sacred into the everyday fabric of our lives.

And then Rabbi Meir brings up a powerful point: circumcision. He says, "Beloved is circumcision, for the Holy One, blessed be He, swore to Abraham that anyone who is circumcised will not descend to Gehenna (hell)." He bases this on (Genesis 17:14), which states that the uncircumcised will be "cut off from his people" for breaking God's covenant. Rabbi Meir connects this "cutting off" with the fate of the wicked who descend to Gehenna, citing (Ezekiel 32:19) and (Isaiah 5:14) to emphasize the grim destiny awaiting those who reject the covenant.

But it's not just about fear. It's about the power of a covenant. The Midrash asks, "And where is the term chok (statute) mentioned?" The answer: (Psalm 105:10), "He established it for Jacob as a statute." Circumcision, therefore, is not just a physical act, but a symbol of our unwavering commitment to God's covenant.

The text contrasts this with the fate of "heretics and sinners of Israel who deny God." They, afflicted with "uncircumcision" (presumably meaning spiritual uncircumcision), will fall into Gehenna, as (Isaiah 9:20) suggests. All commandments are important, but circumcision and the innocent words of schoolchildren are especially cherished, as (Jeremiah 33:25) indicates: "If not for My covenant, I would not have appointed the statutes of heaven and earth."

The Midrash paints a vivid picture: a person entering the synagogue, wrapped in tzitzit and wearing tefillin (phylacteries), surrounded by commandments. But then, entering the bathhouse, they are "naked of mitzvot (commandments)." It is at this moment that looking at the mark of circumcision, "which is equivalent to all the commandments," brings a sense of calm and reassurance.

The passage concludes with a verse connecting all of this to King David: "For the leader, on the eighth [day], a psalm, a song for the dedication of the Temple, of David."

So, what does it all mean? Perhaps it's a reminder that true blessing isn't about fleeting fortune, but about a constant connection with the Divine. It’s about finding meaning in the everyday rituals, and about the enduring power of covenant and commitment. It's about recognizing that even when we feel vulnerable, we are surrounded by a protective embrace, a shield of divine favor. And that is a gift that no one can steal.

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Midrash Tehillim 36:3Midrash Tehillim

(Psalm 36:6) sings, "The Lord, in heaven, your kindness..." But hold on. Does that mean kindness is only up there, floating among the clouds? Is there no kindness to be found down here on Earth?

Midrash Tehillim, a collection of interpretations on the Book of Psalms, wrestles with this very question. And the answer it gives is both simple and profound: the wicked remove kindness from the world. They block its flow. The verse continues, "Your righteousness is like the mountains of God." God, blessed be He, says to the wicked, according to the Midrash (rabbinic interpretive commentary), that the righteous acts He reserves for those who repent are being stolen away by them. "Your righteousness is like the mountains of God," it states, emphasizing the sheer scale and magnitude. Just as mountains are uncountable, so too are the righteous acts one could perform.

There's a flip side. Just as there’s no bottom to the abyss, no limit to its depths, there is seemingly no end to the punishments awaiting the wicked. The mountains are great, and so are righteous acts. The abyss is bottomless, and so are the potential consequences of evil. A stark contrast, wouldn't you say?

Rabbi Yoshiah the Great adds another layer to this understanding, linking "righteousness" and "judgments" through the same verse: "Your righteousness is like the mountains of God; your judgments are like the great deep." It's a powerful connection. Mountains and the abyss, righteousness and judgment – seemingly opposite forces.

But what if they're not so different?

The Midrash explains that just as mountains conquer the abyss, preventing it from overflowing and flooding the world, so too do righteous acts conquer sins. They keep them from utterly consuming us, from being lost to the world. It's a beautiful image, isn't it? Righteousness acting as a bulwark against the encroaching darkness. A safeguard against the destructive forces of iniquity.

This idea echoes in the words of the prophet Micah (7:19): "He will again have compassion on us; he will tread our iniquities underfoot." Imagine our sins being literally trampled beneath the weight of compassion and divine forgiveness.

So, where does kindness come from? It comes from God, yes. But it also comes from us. From our choices, our actions, and our willingness to stand against the "wickedness" that threatens to diminish it. It's a constant struggle, a balancing act between the heights of righteousness and the depths of despair.

Perhaps the real question isn’t where kindness originates, but what we do with it when we find it. Do we nurture it, spread it, let it grow into mountains of good? Or do we allow the abyss to swallow it whole? What kind of landscape will we create?

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