5 min read

Israel Ran After the Kiss That Began at Sinai

Israel at the sea begs God to speak close enough for song. Shir HaShirim Rabbah reads the Song's first verse as the moment thunder became tenderness.

Curated by Arthur · Told by Maggid ·
Table of Contents
  1. Israel Heard Thunder and Called It a Kiss
  2. Abraham Ran and Was Called Father of Nations
  3. Isaac Carried Esau's Smell Toward an Older Fragrance
  4. The Sanhedrin Sat Like a Vineyard at Yavne
  5. The Running Did Not Stop When the House Was Gone

Israel Heard Thunder and Called It a Kiss

At the sea, Israel saw God's salvation and stopped being afraid, and then they sang. The song rose from the whole congregation at once, mothers and infants, elders and young men, all of them finding the same words in the same moment. Shir HaShirim Rabbah hears that moment inside the Song's first verse: let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth. One sage placed that request at the sea, where Israel saw salvation and wanted the divine presence to rest upon them so they could sing. The kiss they were asking for was not sentimental. It was the desire for God to be close enough for song to be possible, close enough for one voice to rise from a hundred thousand mouths. Another sage placed the verse at Sinai, where the giving of Torah was the giving of a kiss. Either way, the first verse of the Song of Songs is not private love poetry. It is the entire community standing at the threshold of something overwhelming and asking for closer contact rather than further distance.

Abraham Ran and Was Called Father of Nations

The Song says: draw me and we will run after you. Shir HaShirim Rabbah asks who earned the right to be drawn first. Abraham is the answer. He ran to greet the three strangers at Mamre. He ran to get a calf for the meal. He ran to Sarah to ask for bread. He stood before them while they ate and attended them. The running was not anxious hospitality. It was the form that love of guests takes in a man who has understood something about where guests come from and what entertaining them means. When God chose to make Abraham the father of nations, the title was not given to someone who had inherited the role or been born into it. It was given to a man who ran. The covenant that would eventually become Israel's national story began with a man who did not wait to be approached, who moved toward what was coming before it announced itself.

Isaac Carried Esau's Smell Toward an Older Fragrance

The Song's beloved says: the scent of your garments is like the scent of Lebanon. Shir HaShirim Rabbah reads that fragrance through a specific moment. When Isaac smelled Esau's garments on Jacob, he said: see, the smell of my son is like the smell of the field that the Lord has blessed. The blessing followed the fragrance. The Midrash hears the garments of Esau that Jacob wore as a sign of something the Song is saying about Israel: the outer garment may belong to the nations, may carry the smell of other histories, other struggles, other identities. But underneath, there is a fragrance that belongs to blessing, to covenant, to Lebanon's cedar, to the Temple's incense. Israel wears many garments in its long history. The fragrance underneath does not change.

The Sanhedrin Sat Like a Vineyard at Yavne

The Song describes the king bringing the beloved into his chambers, and the daughters of Jerusalem running after. Shir HaShirim Rabbah finds Israel's learned assembly in the image of the vineyard. At Yavne, after the Temple's destruction, Rabban Gamliel arranged the sages in rows like the vines and stocks and ground-spreaders of a vineyard: senior sages in front, intermediate behind, younger behind them. The daughters running after in the Song were the students following the teaching wherever it led. The court at Yavne was Israel running after the Beloved even after the chambers had been closed, even after the Temple was gone. They could no longer bring offerings. They could still study, argue, rule, and keep the covenant alive in the only form the exile allowed. The vineyard became the court because the court was all that remained of the beloved's chambers.

The Running Did Not Stop When the House Was Gone

The Song's logic, as Shir HaShirim Rabbah reads it, is that love pursues. Israel at the sea sang because salvation appeared. Israel at Sinai received the kiss of Torah. Abraham ran before the covenant was complete. The sages sat in vineyard rows at Yavne because the Torah they were interpreting was still alive even without an altar. At every moment when God might have seemed to withdraw, Egypt, Sinai's golden calf, the wilderness wanderings, the Temple's fall, the exile, Israel ran after rather than sitting still in the absence. The song that began at the sea and continued at Sinai was still being sung at Yavne in the language of legal argument, recorded in the language of the Song. We will run after you. Not: we ran once and stopped. We will run, present continuous, as long as there is a Beloved to follow.


← All myths

From the tradition

Sources

6 sources

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

Shir HaShirim Rabbah 2:1Shir HaShirim Rabbah

Ever read Song of Songs and wondered, "Where on earth did this passionate love poem even come from?" It's a question that's occupied Jewish thought for centuries, and the Rabbis of the Midrash (rabbinic interpretive commentary) didn't shy away from tackling it head-on.

Our verse for today, from (ong of Songs 1:2), is: "Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth, for your love is better than wine." Simple. Beautiful, even. But where does it fit? Where was it uttered?

Shir HaShirim Rabbah, the Midrash on Song of Songs, dives right into this. It's not content with just accepting the verse at face value. It wants context, a story behind the story. And what it unearths is fascinating.

Rabbi Ḥinena bar Pappa suggests a dramatic setting: the splitting of the Red Sea! Remember that iconic moment? According to him, that's where this verse originated, connecting it to (Song of Songs 1:9), "To a mare in Pharaoh’s chariots [I have likened you my love]." At that moment of ultimate salvation, Israel yearned for deeper connection, to "rest the Divine Spirit upon us and we will recite many songs."

But Rabbi Yuda ben Rabbi Simon points us in a different direction: Sinai. He ties it to the very name of the book: "The song of songs [hashirim]; the song that was recited by the singers [hashorerim]." He cleverly links this to (Psalm 68:26), "First the singers [hasharim] and then the musicians," seeing that Psalm as a description of the giving of the Torah. Therefore, the love song is the giving of the Torah!

And it gets even more interesting. We even hear that Rabbi Natan believed that God Himself recited it! This intimate, yearning verse coming from the Holy One, blessed be He. As it is stated: “The song of songs that is Solomon’s [lishlomo]”, the King [of Whom it may be stated that] peace [shalom] is His.”

Rabban Gamliel offers yet another perspective: the ministering angels sang it at the giving of the Torah, and they were saying, “Let Him give us of the kisses that He kissed his children."

Rabbi Yoḥanan doubles down on Sinai, emphasizing the direct communication: "Let him kiss me from the kisses of his mouth." This is where the Holy One blessed be He spoke to the Israelites with His mouth.

Rabbi Meir and the Rabbis then shift the scene to the Mishkan, the Tent of Meeting, and later the Beit Hamikdash, the Temple in Jerusalem. They interpret (Song of Songs 4:16) – “Awake, north, and come, south, [blow upon my garden, that its spices will spread. Let my beloved come to his garden and eat his delicious fruits]” – as a symbolic description of the sacrificial offerings and the Divine Presence dwelling in the Temple. In this view, the verse is a plea: "Let Him send down fire and receive His offerings."

Each Rabbi, each interpretation, offers a different facet of this many-sided verse. They aren't necessarily disagreeing; rather, they're enriching our understanding. Is it about physical love? Spiritual connection? Divine revelation? National redemption?

Maybe… it's all of the above.

Rabbi Yoḥanan brings us back to Sinai, suggesting that the kiss represents the giving of the Torah itself. The request, then, is "Let Him give us kisses from inside His mouth," which means: Let Him give us more mitzvot (commandments), commandments, and share deep insights into the Torah.

So, what do we take away from all this? Perhaps it's that Song of Songs isn't just a love poem. It's a conversation. A dialogue between humanity and the Divine. A constant yearning for closeness, for understanding, for that ultimate "kiss" of connection. And like any good conversation, it can take place anywhere, at any time, in any place where we seek to connect with something greater than ourselves.

Full source
Shir HaShirim Rabbah 4:2Shir HaShirim Rabbah

That feeling, that intense desire, is at the heart of today's story.

We find ourselves in Shir HaShirim Rabbah, an ancient commentary on the Song of Songs, that most beautiful and enigmatic book of the Bible. Here, the Rabbis confront the verse, "Draw me [moshkheni]; we will run after you." (Song of Songs 1:4). What does it mean to be drawn to the Divine? What compels us to chase after something we can't fully see or understand?

Rabbi Yoḥanan, Rabbi Yehoshua ben Levi, and other Rabbis offer different interpretations, each illuminating a facet of this complex relationship. Rabbi Yoḥanan suggests that because God brought the Israelites to good and expansive lands, like those of Siḥon and Og east of the Jordan, they yearned for the ultimate "good land", the Land of Israel itself, a mashkenuta, a dwelling place for the Divine. He's saying the taste of goodness only whets the appetite for more.

Rabbi Yehoshua ben Levi echoes this sentiment, emphasizing that experiencing a good and expansive land, a mashkenuta, inspires us to pursue God even further.

But the Rabbis take it even deeper. They say the Israelites' desire to run after God stems from having experienced the Shekhina, the Divine Presence, dwelling among them. As it says in (Exodus 25:8), "They shall make for Me a sanctuary, and I will dwell [veshakhanti] among them." To have felt God's presence, to have known that closeness… what could be more enticing than to chase after that again?

And then comes a twist. The Rabbis offer another perspective: perhaps the Israelites run after God because the Divine Presence was removed from their midst. Absence can make the heart grow fonder. The text illustrates this point with a powerful example. After the sin of the Golden Calf, the Israelites didn't mourn the troubles that befell them. But when Moses told them, on God's behalf, "For I will not ascend in your midst" (Exodus 33:3), then "the people heard these evil tidings, they mourned" (Exodus 33:4). The loss of God's presence was a far greater tragedy than any physical hardship.

Rabbi Shimon ben Yoḥai adds another layer to this understanding. He speaks of a "weapon" given to the Israelites at Horev, engraved with the ineffable name of God. This weapon, perhaps a metaphor for Divine connection, was taken away after the sin of the Golden Calf. (Exodus 33:6) says, "The children of Israel were stripped of their adornment from Mount Horev." Rabbi Aivu suggests it peeled off by itself, while other Rabbis say an angel removed it. Either way, it was a painful separation.

The Israelites, recognizing their vulnerability without God's presence, cried out, "Master of the universe, does a wife not adorn herself only for her husband?" If God wouldn't be among them, what was the point of any adornment? What was the point of anything?

Rabbi Yehoshua ben Levi concludes by connecting this yearning to the Song of Songs itself. He interprets the verse "Let my beloved come to his garden [legano]" (Song of Songs 4:16) as a plea for God to return to his wedding canopy, his leginuno. It's a longing for intimacy, for reunion, for the ultimate closeness with the Divine.

So, what does all this mean for us? Perhaps it's a reminder that the pursuit of the Divine is a journey marked by both presence and absence. By moments of profound connection and times of painful separation. Maybe it’s in that very longing, in that very running after, that we find ourselves closest to the One we seek. What do you yearn for, and how does that longing shape your path?

Full source
Shir HaShirim Rabbah 13:1Shir HaShirim Rabbah

He’s practically the foundation of our faith. But why him? What was so special about this one man that he earned that title?

Well, the source enters a beautiful interpretation from Shir HaShirim Rabbah, the Midrash on Song of Songs, that might just give us a little insight. It all starts with a verse: "A bundle of myrrh is my beloved to me, lying between my breasts" (Song of Songs 1:13). Now, what does that have to do with Abraham?

The Rabbis, in their infinite wisdom, often saw echoes of our history and values in the verses of the Song of Songs. Rabbi Azarya, quoting Rabbi Yehuda, offers a stunning interpretation of this verse, connecting the "bundle of myrrh" directly to our forefather, Abraham.

What’s so special about myrrh? According to (Exodus 30:23), it's considered the first of all spices. Rabbi Azarya says that just as myrrh is the first of the spices, so too was Abraham the first of the righteous. He was the trailblazer, the one who dared to believe in one God in a world steeped in idolatry.

But there’s more. Myrrh, only releases its fragrance when burned. for a second. It’s only through fire, through intense heat, that its true essence is revealed. Similarly, the Midrash (rabbinic interpretive commentary) tells us, Abraham’s actions, his greatness, only became known after he was cast into the fiery furnace. That’s a reference to the famous story (you may remember from childhood) where Abraham was thrown into a furnace for refusing to worship idols. It was through that trial, that immense challenge, that his faith truly shone.

And it doesn’t stop there. The Midrash continues: anyone who gathers myrrh, their hands become bitter. It’s not an easy spice to handle. In the same way, Abraham "would embitter himself and torment himself with suffering." This wasn't about physical pain, necessarily, but about the internal struggle, the constant effort to align himself with God's will, even when it meant going against the grain. He suffered deprivation, focusing all his energy on serving God, and he endured the suffering of opposing the idolatrous world around him.

Finally, the verse speaks of the myrrh "lying between my breasts." This, according to the Midrash, refers to Abraham’s unique position, "between the Divine Presence and an angel." It illustrates this with a verse from (Genesis 18:2): "He saw and he ran toward them." "He saw," the Midrash explains, refers to the Divine Presence; "he ran," refers to the angel. Abraham was a bridge, a conduit between the earthly and the divine.

So, what does all this mean? It means that Abraham wasn’t just some guy who lived a long time ago. He was the embodiment of faith, courage, and dedication. He was the first to truly confront the concept of monotheism, to challenge the status quo, and to dedicate his life to serving God. He stood between humanity and the Divine, interceding on our behalf. That's why he’s our patriarch. And that's why his story continues to resonate with us, even today.

It makes you think, doesn’t it? What "myrrh" are we carrying? What challenges, what "fires," are we facing that might reveal our own potential for righteousness? And how can we, like Abraham, bridge the gap between the earthly and the divine in our own lives?

Full source
Shir HaShirim Rabbah 11:2Shir HaShirim Rabbah

The collection of rabbinic homiletic interpretations of Song of Songs, Shir HaShirim Rabbah, dives deep into this very question. Rabbi Berekhya offers a surprising take: how can honey and milk under the tongue be appealing? After all, isn't that kind of gross? His answer is insightful. If the more difficult or unclear aspects of Jewish law, the halakhot, taste like honey and milk to you, then the clear, well-understood ones must taste even sweeter!

Rabbi Levi adds another layer. Even someone who simply reads a verse beautifully, savoring its melody and meaning, fulfills this verse. The sweetness is in the appreciation, the connection.

Then there's that intriguing line: "And the scent of your garments is like the scent of Lebanon." What could that possibly signify?

The text immediately pulls us into a story from Genesis, where Jacob deceives his father Isaac. Remember that scene? Isaac smells Jacob's clothes and blesses him, thinking he's Esau. Rabbi Yoḥanan points out the obvious: washed goatskin – what Jacob was wearing – doesn't exactly scream "pleasant aroma." In fact, he says, "You have no item whose odor is fouler and harsher than washed goatskin, and it says: 'He smelled the scent of his garments'?"

So, what gives? Rabbi Yoḥanan explains that when Jacob entered, the Garden of Eden itself entered with him. That explains Isaac's words: "See, the scent of my son is as the scent of a field that the Lord blessed" (Genesis 27:27). But when the wicked Esau entered, Gehenna – the Jewish concept of hell – came with him! As (Proverbs 11:2) says, "With the arrival of malice, disgrace has arrived." Isaac even cries out, "Who then [efo]?" which the Divine Spirit cleverly interprets as, "who is baked [ne’efeh] in this oven?" The answer? "The one who hunted game" (Genesis 27:33) – a reference to Esau's hunting prowess and, metaphorically, his destructive nature.

This idea of garments and their significance leads to another fascinating discussion. Rabbi Elazar ben Rabbi Shimon asks his father-in-law, Rabbi Shimon ben Rabbi Yosei ben Lakonya, a seemingly simple question: did the Israelites take weaving utensils with them into the wilderness? The answer is no. So where did they get clothes for forty years?

His father-in-law replies that ministering angels clothed them after they declared, "We will perform and we will heed" (Exodus 24:7). That's why (Ezekiel 16:10) says, "I clad them in embroidery." Rav Simi identifies this embroidery as a purple woolen garment, which Aquilas translated as a multi-colored embroidered garment.

But Rabbi Elazar isn't satisfied. Didn't the clothes wear out? "Your garment did not grow worn from upon you" (Deuteronomy 8:4), he is told, quoting the Torah itself! Didn't they shrink as the children grew? "Go out and learn from the snail," his father-in-law advises, "for as long as it grows, its shell grows with it."

And what about laundry? "The cloud would rub them clean and iron them." Didn't they burn from contact with the fiery cloud? "Go out and learn from this garment made of stone fibers, which is ironed only in fire." Lice? "If in their deaths they did not, did they in their lifetimes?" meaning, if the bodies of those who died after hearing God at Sinai weren't infested with worms, then certainly the living wouldn't have suffered from lice!

Finally, Rabbi Elazar asks about body odor. Here, the answer is especially beautiful: "They would roll in the grass [produced due to the water of] the well. That is what is written: 'He has me lie down in green pastures' (Psalms 23:2). Their fragrance would waft from the end of the world to its end." And Solomon, the traditionally attributed author of Song of Songs, captured this perfectly: "And the scent of your garments is like the scent of Lebanon."

So, what do we take away from all of this? It's more than just a literal interpretation of some beautiful verses. It's about finding sweetness in the learning process, recognizing the spiritual significance in even the simplest things, and understanding that sometimes, the most profound answers come from looking at the world around us – from snails to stone garments, and especially from the green pastures that hint at a deeper, more profound connection to the Divine.

Full source
Shir HaShirim Rabbah 10:2Shir HaShirim Rabbah

A beautiful analogy, connecting the "vineyard" mentioned in Song of Songs to the Sanhedrin, the ancient Jewish high court. Why a vineyard? Because, as we learned in Mishna Eduyot, Rabbi Yishmael testified before the Sages in the "vineyard of Yavne" (Eduyot 2:4). But they weren't actually sitting in a vineyard! The text explains that the Sanhedrin was arranged in rows, much like a vineyard.

Things get really interesting. The text moves to the phrase "at Baal Hamon," interpreting it as "hamon baal," meaning "for they streamed after the Baal." Who's the Baal? A pagan deity! Because of this, hordes beset them, followed by multitudes of angels. It's all connected!

Then, Rabbi Yudan, in the name of Rabbi Aivu, brings in (Psalms 68:13): "The kings of hosts flee, they flee." But Rabbi Yudan emphasizes that it doesn't say "angels of hosts," but "kings." These are the kings of the angels, even Mikhael and Gavriel, fleeing again and again! Why are they fleeing?

Rabbi Yudan suggests that "yidodun" means they were casting letters from among them, petitioning God not to give the Torah to Israel, just as we see in (Joel 4:3), "They cast lots over My people." It's a powerful image: the angels themselves debating, arguing, even protesting the Torah's descent to Earth.

Other interpretations fly fast and furious: Rabbi Yudan ben Rabbi Simon says "yidodun" means they were prodding the Israelites to accept the Torah, while Rabbi Aḥava son of Rabbi Ze’eira says the angels were racing each other to assist Israel! Imagine that scene – a heavenly race to help humanity receive the ultimate gift.

Then comes the real heart of the matter. What about "the fair one at home divides the spoils" (Psalms 68:13)? Is God really going to give the Torah to humans who will then just…distribute its heavenly purity? The angels are essentially asking: are you going to give the Torah to him (Moses) to bring to earth and disseminate among Israel, who will enjoy its heavenly purity?

Rabbi Pinḥas and Rabbi Aḥa, citing Rabbi Alexandri, bring in (Psalms 8:2): "Lord, our Master, how mighty is Your name throughout the world that You set Your glory in the heavens." Rabbi Yehoshua of Sikhnin, in the name of Rabbi Levi, stresses that it doesn't say "You set Your glory," but "asher You set Your glory." The angels believe that God's glory, God's ishurakh (happiness), is that the Torah remain in Heaven. God's response? "Its essence will not be achieved in your midst."

The text uses a powerful analogy: a father with a son with severed fingers. Would he apprentice him to a master weaver? No, because the craft requires fingers! Similarly, the Torah’s essence requires something the angels don't have: human experience.

The commentary then lists things that are central to human life but absent in the angelic realm: menstruation ("If a woman's blood flows for many days," (Leviticus 15:2)5) and death ("A person who dies in a tent," (Numbers 19:1)4). The Torah deals with the messiness of human existence, something the angels, in their pure, ethereal state, cannot comprehend.

The Rabbis offer another analogy: a king marrying off his daughter outside his province. The residents complain, wanting the daughter to stay. But the king replies, "I will marry off my daughter outside the province, but I will live with you." God is giving the Torah to the lower worlds, but His presence remains in the upper worlds.

This is echoed in the words of Habakkuk: "His glory covered the heavens, and His praise filled the earth" (Habakkuk 3:3). Rabbi Simon, citing Rabbi Yehoshua ben Levi, concludes that wherever God rested His Torah, He rested His Divine Presence. David articulates this in (Psalms 148:13): "Let them praise the name of the Lord, for His name alone is exalted, His glory across earth and heaven" – first over the earth, then over the heavens.

So, why is the Torah here? Because it's meant to be lived, breathed, and wrestled with in the messy, complicated reality of human existence. It's a gift, yes, but also a responsibility. And perhaps, just perhaps, the angels are a little bit jealous that we get to experience it in a way they never could.

Full source
Shir HaShirim Rabbah 2:3Shir HaShirim Rabbah

It goes all the way back to Mount Sinai, according to the ancient Rabbis.

Shir HaShirim Rabbah, the commentary on the Song of Songs, dives into a fascinating interpretation of the Israelites' experience when receiving the Torah. Rabbi Yoḥanan, a prominent figure in the Talmud, reads the verse "let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth" (Song of Songs 1:2) as a metaphor for the Israelites' arrival at Sinai.

A king, wanting to marry a woman of noble birth. He sends a messenger to propose. She replies, humbled, that she isn’t worthy even to be his servant. But – and this is key – she wants to hear the proposal directly from the king himself. The messenger returns, happy that she accepted, but struggling to explain her request. The king, being clever, understands: she wants to hear it from him directly.

In this midrash (rabbinic interpretive commentary), Israel is the well-born woman, Moses is the messenger, and the king, of course, is the Holy One, blessed be He. We find this idea in (Exodus 19:8): “Moses returned the statement of the people to the Lord.” But wait, why then does the very next verse state: “Moses related the statement of the people to the Lord” (Exodus 19:9)? What's the difference between "returned" and "related"?

The Rabbis suggest that God initially planned to speak to Moses, who would then relay the message to the people. As (Exodus 19:9) continues, "Behold, I am coming to you in a thickness of cloud, so that the people will hear while I speak with you, and they will believe also in you forever." But the people yearned for direct communication. They wanted to hear from God Himself! Moses, according to the Rabbis in Shir HaShirim Rabbah, then tells God, "This is what they demanded!"

God's response? “Does one listen to a baby [and give him] everything he asks?” Rabbi Pinchas, quoting Rabbi Levi, adds a proverb: "One who was bitten by a snake, a rope frightens him.” Moses, remembering his earlier hesitation at the burning bush (Exodus 4:1) when he doubted the people would believe him, was wary of conveying their request. He’d been punished for his earlier lack of faith. He was afraid of the consequences of relaying this audacious request.

Rabbi Shimon ben Yoḥai offers another perspective: The people wanted to see the glory of their King. Rabbi Pinchas, again quoting Rabbi Levi, adds a poignant layer. God knew that Israel would eventually "exchange their glory" (Psalms 106:20) for idols. So, He agreed to reveal Himself at Sinai. This was so they couldn't later claim they would have believed if only they had witnessed His glory. It was a preemptive act of grace, ensuring that God wouldn't be judged unfairly, echoing the plea in (Psalms 143:2): “Do not enter into judgment with your servant, [for no living man will be justified before You].”

So, what does this all mean? This midrash isn't just a historical retelling. It's a reflection on our relationship with the Divine. Do we settle for secondhand accounts, or do we crave a direct, personal experience? Are we like the Israelites at Sinai, yearning to witness God's glory, even knowing the risks involved? And what about God's perspective? Does He indulge our desires, even when He knows our future failings? The story of Sinai, as interpreted in Shir HaShirim Rabbah, leaves us with these questions, inviting us to contemplate the complexities of faith, desire, and the enduring quest for connection with something greater than ourselves.

Full source