5 min read

The Names God Kept Reaching for When Calling Israel

Bride. Grapevine. Scattered sheep. Strength of the world. God kept finding new words for the same beloved people, and never stopped.

Curated by Arthur · Told by Maggid ·
Table of Contents
  1. Ten Times God Called Her Bride
  2. A Vine That Had to Be Transplanted
  3. One Wound That Hurt the Whole Flock
  4. The Strength Beneath God's Arms
  5. Why God Kept Reaching for New Language

Ten Times God Called Her Bride

The rabbis counted. Six times in the Song of Songs alone, and four more scattered through the prophets. "With me from Lebanon, my bride." "You have charmed me, my sister, my bride." "How fair is your love, my sister, my bride." The word appears again and again until the poem itself seems unable to stop saying it. Shir HaShirim Rabbah, the Palestinian midrash on the Song of Songs compiled in the fifth and sixth centuries CE, counted these recurrences deliberately. Ten is the number of something complete. Ten commandments. Ten utterances of creation. Ten declarations of love. Twice would have made a point. Ten means the speaker cannot stop finding new ways to say the same thing.

But bride was only one of the images. God kept reaching for more.

A Vine That Had to Be Transplanted

Vayikra Rabbah, the midrash on Leviticus from the same era, preserves a different image entirely. Israel is a grapevine pulled from Egypt and replanted in Canaan. The verse that launches this teaching is from Psalms: "You transported a grapevine from Egypt." The rabbis pressed it. A careful gardener does not set a vine in rocky, unsuitable ground. God cleared the land first, drove out the nations, prepared the soil, and only then replanted the vine. The image is not triumphant. A transplanted vine looks dead before it produces anything. It takes time and tending and faith that roots are forming underground. Four hundred years in Egypt had grown deep roots. Starting over in a new land meant starting over from almost nothing.

One Wound That Hurt the Whole Flock

Then came the image of scattered sheep. Vayikra Rabbah again, citing Hizkiya quoting from the prophet Jeremiah: "Israel are scattered sheep." The comparison is not flattering if taken as a description of disorder. But the rabbis read it as a teaching about solidarity. Just as striking one limb of a sheep causes the whole animal to shudder, one Israelite's sin reverberates through the entire people. The question from Numbers hovers behind this: "Shall one man sin, and You will rage against the entire congregation?" The rabbis were not troubled by collective responsibility. They were moved by collective belonging. If Israel is a single body of scattered sheep, then one wound hurts all of them, and one healing helps all of them too.

The Strength Beneath God's Arms

Sifrei Devarim, one of the oldest collections of legal and narrative commentary on Deuteronomy, assembled in the tannaitic period of the second and third centuries CE, offered a final image. The verse in Deuteronomy speaks of being "beneath the strong arms of the world." The rabbis read this as a declaration that Israel is the strength of the world. Not military strength. Not economic power. Something more intrinsic, more embedded in the structure of what exists. To carry God's teaching into the world was to hold something load-bearing in place. Pull it out and the world's center shifts.

What the rabbis were noticing across all these images was a single pattern: God describing the same people in language that kept expanding. Each metaphor captured something true and left something out, which is why the next one was needed. Bride, vine, sheep, foundation. None of them alone was enough. Together, they formed a portrait that was always just short of complete, as if the tradition knew that any single image of a beloved people would inevitably fall short of the relationship itself.

Why God Kept Reaching for New Language

The rabbis of Midrash Tehillim, the collection of interpretations on the book of Psalms assembled in the late antique period, wrestled with the verse in Psalm 106: "Who can speak of the mighty deeds of the Lord, or can proclaim all His praises?" Their answer was that no single proclamation could. Psalms 40:6 made it explicit: "Many wonders and deeds You have done, O Lord my God; none can compare with You. If I were to proclaim and declare them, they are more than can be numbered." The multiplicity of names for Israel was part of the same problem. A relationship that exceeded any single description required a catalog of descriptions, and even the catalog would be incomplete.

Sifrei Devarim added the final dimension. Israel is the strength of the world not because of what they can accomplish, but because of what they carry. The verse from Deuteronomy 33:27 about the eternal arms beneath all things describes what holds the world up. In the Sifrei reading, Israel is not carried. Israel is part of the structure that does the carrying. The vine image and the bride image and the scattered-sheep image had all described a people in relation to God. The strength-of-the-world image described a people in relation to creation itself. What happens to Israel does not only affect Israel. It affects what the world is built on.

IsraelCovenantMidrashSong Of SongsExodus
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Shir HaShirim Rabbah 10:1Shir HaShirim Rabbah

The rabbis of old saw something truly profound in this verse. Rabbi Berekhya and Rabbi Ḥelbo, quoting Rabbi Shmuel bar Naḥman, point out that the word "bride" appears no less than ten times to describe Israel! Six times right there in the Song of Songs itself, and four more times scattered throughout the Prophets. Six times in Song of Songs: “With me from Lebanon, my bride” (4:8), “you have charmed me, my sister, my bride” (4:9), “how fair is your loving, my sister, my bride” (4:10), “your lips drip [nectar] my bride” (4:11), “a locked garden is my sister, my bride” (4:12), “I came to my garden, my sister, my bride” (5:1). Six instances in just one book! It's almost like the poem can't stop reiterating the closeness, the intimacy, of this bond.

Then, the prophets echo the same sentiment. We hear “the sound of gladness and the sound of joy, the sound of a groom and the sound of a bride” in Jeremiah (33:11). Isaiah (61:10) describes Israel as "like a bride who bedecks herself with her jewelry." Again in Isaiah (49:18), we read, "you will tie them like a bride," and finally, in (Isaiah 62:5), "like a bridegroom rejoicing over his bride."

Why this repetition? What's the significance of calling Israel "bride" so many times?

The Midrash (rabbinic interpretive commentary), in Shir HaShirim Rabbah, draws a fascinating parallel. It says that corresponding to these ten times Israel is called "bride," the Holy One, blessed be He, donned ten garments. Garments that represent different facets of His power, His justice, and His glory.

These aren't literal garments, of course. They are metaphors for God's attributes, His ways of interacting with the world. We see them described in the Psalms and the Prophets. “The Lord reigns; He is clothed in grandeur” (Psalms 93:1); “The Lord is clothed with strength” (Psalms 93:1); “Girded” (Psalms 93:1); “He donned righteousness like armor” (Isaiah 59:17); “He donned garments of vengeance” (Isaiah 59:17); “Attire” (Isaiah 59:17); “He clothed Himself with zealotry like a coat” (Isaiah 59:17); “This that is majestic in attire” (Isaiah 63:1); “Why is there red on Your attire” (Isaiah 63:2); and finally, “You are clothed in splendor and glory” (Psalms 104:1).

Ten garments, ten ways that God reveals Himself.

So, what’s the connection? The Midrash suggests this is "in order to exact retribution from the nations of the world who prevented Israel from fulfilling the Ten Commandments, which [Israel] was holding close to them like a bride."

Essentially, the ten garments of God are a response to the nations that tried to separate Israel from the mitzvot (commandments). Israel held onto those commandments like a bride cherishes her marriage contract, her ketubah (a marriage contract). And God, in turn, dons these "garments" to defend and protect His beloved.

Finally, the Midrash brings us back to the "fragrance of your oils than all spices" from our original verse. Rabbi Shmuel bar Naḥman offers a beautiful analogy: Just like unscented oil, when infused with different fragrances, yields a multitude of scents, so too, when we explore the Torah, we uncover countless layers of meaning and wisdom.

So, what does it all mean?

Perhaps it’s this: the relationship between God and Israel is a deep, many-sided, and enduring love story. A story expressed through the language of bride and groom, of garments and commandments, of fragrances and interpretations. And like any great love story, it's a story worth exploring again and again, uncovering new layers of meaning each time.

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Vayikra Rabbah 36:2Vayikra Rabbah

It's a metaphor, a living, breathing symbol of the Jewish people themselves.

We find this beautiful idea elaborated on in Vayikra Rabbah 36, a section of the Midrash (rabbinic interpretive commentary) that explores the Book of Leviticus. It starts with the verse, "I will remember My covenant with Jacob" (Leviticus 26:42), and connects it to (Psalm 80:9), "You transported a grapevine from Egypt." From there, it blossoms (pun intended!) into a tradition of associations. "You transported a grapevine from Egypt," says the verse. Just like a careful gardener wouldn’t plant a grapevine in rocky, unsuitable soil, God didn't just plop Israel into the Land of Israel. No, no. According to this Midrash, God first "drove out the nations and planted it," clearing the ground for a new beginning. Only after removing the Canaanite nations did God plant Israel there.

Just as clearing beneath a grapevine improves its growth, the more God cleared the path for Israel, the more they flourished. As (Psalm 80:10) says, "[You cleared space for it], and it took root and filled the land."

The Midrash doesn't stop there. It goes on to compare the orderly planting of a vineyard – in rows, not haphazardly – to the way Israel was organized, "each according to his banner, with the insignias of their patrilineal houses" (Numbers 2:2). Order, structure, purpose.

But here's where it gets really interesting. The grapevine, though lower than many other trees, dominates them. It climbs, it spreads, it's vital. Similarly, Israel, though sometimes appearing humble in this world, is destined to "take possession from one end of the world to the other." We find this idea echoed throughout the Hebrew Bible, with figures like Joseph, Joshua, David, Solomon, and Mordechai all rising to positions of great power and influence. "Joseph was the ruler" (Genesis 42:6). "David’s renown circulated in all lands" (I (Chronicles 14:1)7).

And what about the leaves on the grapevine, those unassuming protectors of the precious fruit? The Midrash suggests they represent the "ignoramuses" – not meant in a derogatory way, but rather, those who aren't Torah scholars – who, in their own way, "cover the Torah scholars," providing for their needs. They support and enable the study and transmission of Torah.

Even the different types of grapes – large and small – find their parallel in Israel. Those who toil in Torah, the greatest among them, often appear the most humble. The greater a person is in Torah, the greater his humility.

Remember, too, that a grapevine requires three blessings. And Israel? They are blessed with three blessings each day: "May the Lord bless you"; "may the Lord illuminate"; "may the Lord lift" (Numbers 6:24–26). A daily reminder of divine favor.

The Midrash continues, drawing parallels between grapes and raisins, wine and vinegar, representing the diverse elements within Israel: masters of Bible, Mishna, Talmud, and aggada (the narrative portions of rabbinic literature). It reminds us that we must offer a blessing "over the good and over the bad; over the good, blessed…who is good and does good; over the bad, blessed…the true Judge."

Even the changing fortunes of the grapevine, initially trampled but eventually gracing the table of kings, mirrors the historical experience of Israel. There may be times when they seem "loathsome in this world," but ultimately, "The Lord your God will place you supreme" (Deuteronomy 28:1).

The Midrash goes on, comparing the grapevine to cedars, reeds, and dry branches, each carrying a different symbolic weight, but always pointing back to the enduring strength and resilience of Israel, sustained by Torah and the merit of the patriarchs.

So, the next time you see a grapevine, remember this Midrash. Remember that it's not just a plant; it's a symbol of a people, their history, their faith, and their enduring covenant with God. It's a reminder that even in the face of adversity, there is always hope for growth, for renewal, and for a future where Israel will flourish.

And finally, let's remember, "Behold, the Guardian of Israel neither slumbers nor sleeps" (Psalms 121:4).

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Vayikra Rabbah 4:6Vayikra Rabbah

They explored the concept of collective responsibility – how the deeds of one individual can affect the entire group. And what they came up with is The Vayikra Rabbah, a Midrash – a collection of rabbinic interpretations of the Book of Leviticus – explores this very question. Ḥizkiya teaches us, drawing a powerful image from Jeremiah (50:17), that "Israel are scattered sheep." for a second.

He elaborates: Just as if a sheep is struck on the head, or even just a limb, the whole flock feels it, so too with Israel. If one person sins, everyone feels the repercussions. It echoes the question posed in Numbers (16:22): “Shall one man sin, and You will rage against the entire congregation?” It's a heavy thought, isn't it? That our individual actions have such far-reaching consequences.

Rabbi Shimon bar Yoḥai illustrates this with a vivid parable. Imagine people on a ship, sailing along. One of them starts drilling a hole in the bottom. The others, understandably alarmed, ask him what he’s doing. He replies, "Why do you care? I'm only drilling under my seat!" Their response? "Because the water will rise and flood the ship It’s a simple analogy, but it hits home.

Even Job, in his suffering, touches upon this. "If indeed I erred, with me my error rests" (Job 19:4), he laments. But his companions aren't so sure. They counter with, "For he adds transgression to his sin, he extends [yispok] among us" (Job 34:37). In other words, your iniquities spread among us. It's a stark reminder that sin, like that hole in the ship, doesn't just affect the perpetrator.

But how does this work practically? Is there a way to address the issue of diverse beliefs and practices within a community? Rabbi Elasa recounts an encounter between a gentile and Rabbi Yehoshua ben Korḥa that brilliantly tackles this. The gentile, pointing to the Torah's instruction to "Incline after the majority" (Exodus 23:2), challenges the rabbi: "We are more numerous than you. Why don't you become like us and worship idols?"

Rabbi Yehoshua, with remarkable wisdom, asks the gentile if he has children. The gentile replies, lamenting the constant infighting among his children, each worshipping different gods and even coming to blows. The rabbi's response is cutting: "Before you get us to become like you, go and bring your own children to uniformity!"

After the gentile leaves, the disciples question the Rabbi: was that a particularly strong response? What would he really say?

Rabbi Yehoshua then points to a crucial distinction between Esau and Jacob. Genesis (36:6) describes Esau's family using the plural term "nafshot" – souls. Exodus (1:5), however, uses the singular "hanefesh (the vital soul)" – the soul – when referring to Jacob's descendants. Why this difference in language?

The Rabbi explains: Esau's family worshipped multiple gods, hence the multiple souls. Jacob's family, however, worshipped one God, reflecting a unified soul. The key is unity of purpose, a shared commitment to a single ideal. It isn't just about numbers; it's about a shared foundation of values.

So, what can we take away from all of this? Maybe it's a call to be more mindful of our actions and their potential impact. Maybe it's a reminder that we're all interconnected, sailing in the same boat. And maybe, just maybe, it's an invitation to strive for a deeper sense of unity, not through forced conformity, but through a shared commitment to something bigger than ourselves. Something that binds us together, like a single soul.

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Midrash Tehillim 106:1Midrash Tehillim

Midrash Tehillim turns to The Quiet Everyday Miracles Israel Took for Granted.

The Midrash Tehillim, a collection of rabbinic interpretations of the Book of Psalms, dives right into this question in its discussion of Psalm 106. "Hallelujah! Give thanks to the Lord, for He is good; His lovingkindness is everlasting. Who can speak of the mighty deeds of the Lord, or can proclaim all His praises?" (Psalm 106). It’s a powerful opening, isn’t it? But it also begs the question: how do we even begin to praise something so vast, so all-encompassing?

As (Psalm 40:6) puts it, "Many wonders and deeds You have done, O Lord my God; none can compare with You. If I were to proclaim and declare them, they are more than can be numbered." It's overwhelming! We're surrounded by the Divine, constantly being supported, but how often do we really see it?

Rabbi Elazar ben Pedat offers a beautiful insight. He connects Psalm 106 with (Psalm 136:4), "'To Him who alone does great wonders, for His lovingkindness is everlasting.' What is written after this? 'To Him who made the great lights, for His lovingkindness is everlasting.'" (Psalm 136:7). What’s the link? Rabbi Elazar argues that providing sustenance – the everyday things we need to survive – is just as miraculous as the dramatic splitting of the Red Sea!: we can’t live without food, just as we couldn't have survived without those monumental miracles.

He then gives a striking example. Imagine someone lying in bed with a snake nearby. The person gets up, and the snake slithers away. Did they even realize they were in danger? Did they recognize the unseen hand that protected them? So often, God’s wonders are subtle, hidden beneath the surface of our daily lives. Only God, he says, truly knows the extent of the miracles performed for us.

It’s like the parable of the strong man and the weak man. The weak man can’t truly appreciate the strong man's power, because he doesn't comprehend its full extent. But the strong man, understanding his own capabilities, can appreciate his own strength. Similarly, how can we, with our limited understanding, truly grasp the full scope of God’s might?

Rabbi Samuel adds another layer to this idea. He asks, "Who can speak of the Lord's praises like us, who are engaged in Torah study day and night?" Or, in another interpretation, "Who can recount such as we, who are occupied with Torah for all our needs?" Those who dedicate themselves to learning and living by the Torah, are perhaps best equipped to recognize and appreciate God's wonders. By immersing ourselves in Torah, we are opening our eyes to the subtle miracles all around us, the miracles woven into the fabric of existence.

So, the next time you find yourself overwhelmed by the vastness of the Divine, remember the snake that slithered away unseen. Remember the daily sustenance that keeps you alive. And remember the power of Torah to open your eyes to the miracles, both big and small, that surround us every single day. Maybe the key to praising God isn't about listing every grand act, but about recognizing the constant, quiet miracles that fill our lives.

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Sifrei Devarim 356:5Sifrei Devarim

The Sifrei Devarim, a collection of legal and ethical teachings connected to the Book of Deuteronomy, offers a powerful image. It speaks of being "beneath the strong arms of the world" (Deuteronomy 33:27). But what does that even mean? The Sifrei interprets this as teaching us that Israel is the strength of the world. The strength of the world. Not military might, not economic prowess, but something deeper, something intrinsic to the very existence of the Jewish people. It's a huge claim, isn't it? What does it mean to be the "strength of the world"? Is it about our resilience? Our commitment to justice? Our enduring faith? Maybe it’s all of those things, woven together.

The Sifrei then moves on to some pretty intense imagery of driving out foes. "And He drove out the foe before you: those who fled to Africa. And he said (to you) 'Destroy them': those who fled to Asia." This sounds harsh to our modern ears, doesn't it? These verses speak to the idea of clearing the land, establishing a safe and secure home for the Jewish people. Remember, these are ancient texts, reflecting a different time and a different worldview.

The text then shifts to a sense of security and peace. The phrase "And Israel dwelt betach," meaning "securely," (Deuteronomy 33:28) is linked to a verse from Psalms (78:52): "And He led them lavetach and they had no fear." This idea of dwelling betach, of living without fear, is a recurring theme in Jewish thought. It speaks to a state of inner peace and a trust in God's protection. It is a peace that comes from knowing that you are part of something bigger, something more meaningful than yourself.

Here's where it gets really interesting. The Sifrei then tackles the idea of Israel dwelling "alone." It's a loaded word, isn't it? "Alone." It can conjure up feelings of isolation, loneliness, even vulnerability. But the text is quick to clarify that this isn't the "alone" of Jeremiah's lament (Jeremiah 15:17), or the "alone" that the wicked Bilam uses in his prophecies (Numbers 23:9). Bilam saw Israel's separateness as a sign of arrogance, a detachment from the rest of the world.

No, the "alone" the Sifrei is talking about is something entirely different. It's the "alone" of Moses's blessing: "The L-rd alone led them, no strange god with Him" (Deuteronomy 32:12). This is an "alone" that signifies a unique relationship with God, a chosen path, a distinct purpose. It's not about isolation, but about a singular devotion. A unique connection that sets the Jewish people apart.

So, what does it all mean? What are we left with? Perhaps it's this: We are called to be the strength of the world, to dwell in security and peace, and to embrace our unique relationship with the Divine. Not in a way that isolates us, but in a way that inspires us to be a light unto the nations. A beacon of hope, justice, and compassion. A evidence of the enduring power of faith. Are we up to the task?

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