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Israel the Plowed Field That Would Not Break

Ten nations worked a borrowed heifer until she collapsed. When the owner came to collect, the rabbis of Midrash Tehillim had already named her.

Curated by Arthur · Told by Maggid ·
Table of Contents
  1. The Psalm That Does Not Turn Around
  2. The Borrowed Heifer and the Ten Sons
  3. Why From My Youth Matters
  4. Moses Asked the Question the Psalm Refuses to Ask
  5. Moses Led Israel Through Water

The Psalm That Does Not Turn Around

They have been plowing on my back. That is the image Psalm 129 reaches for when it tries to describe what it feels like to be Israel in history: the furrows long, the labor relentless, the animal nearly broken. But the psalm does not end there. It does not even pause there. It moves immediately to the defiance: yet they have not prevailed against me. Five words in Hebrew. A whole theology of survival compressed into a single breath.

Midrash Tehillim opens Psalm 129 through a parable, and the parable refuses to soften what the psalm refuses to soften.

The Borrowed Heifer and the Ten Sons

A homeowner lends his heifer to a neighbor for plowing. The neighbor's ten sons take turns with the animal through the whole day, driving it from furrow to furrow while the sun moves overhead and the field slowly becomes rows of turned earth. When the day ends, all the other animals make it home. The heifer does not. She lies in the field, spent, unable to rise.

The homeowner does not negotiate. He does not file a complaint with the neighbor. He goes directly to the sons and takes back what is his. The text from Midrash Tehillim 129:1 says this plainly: the ten sons are the empires. Egypt and Assyria and Babylon and Persia and Greece and Rome and all the others that followed. They have worked Israel to exhaustion across the centuries. But Israel belongs to someone. And that someone comes to collect.

Why From My Youth Matters

The psalm's choice to begin with youth is not accidental. From my youth they have oppressed me, the speaker says. Not from the beginning of the oppression but from the beginning of the speaker's life. The oppression was already there when consciousness began. This is the condition of being Israel: to have been born into a history that had already been working you over for generations before you arrived.

The rabbis read this not as complaint but as testimony. The youth is Egypt. The very first formation of the people as a people happened under slavery, under the plowing. Israel did not begin in freedom and then lose it. Israel began under the plow, was formed by it, and still emerged with the covenant intact. If you can be formed under the plow and survive with your identity unbroken, the subsequent plowing can hurt you but cannot finish what the first plowing failed to finish.

Moses Asked the Question the Psalm Refuses to Ask

Legends of the Jews records Moses at a desperate moment, asking God directly: how many times did Israel sin before You, and when I begged and implored mercy, You forgave them. You forgave the sins of sixty myriads for my sake. And now You will not forgive my single sin? It is a coherent argument. It has the structure of a legal case. And God does not answer it on those terms, because the psalm that Midrash Tehillim is reading is not making a legal case. It is making a survival claim. But they have not prevailed against me is not a plea for fairness. It is a statement of fact that has no legal mechanism behind it, only the owner coming to take back what is his.

Moses Led Israel Through Water

Tikkunei Zohar reads the sea crossing in Exodus as Moses transferring Israel over the water so they do not drown in it. The specific phrasing is significant: he transfers them over it. He is the mechanism of the crossing. But the children of Israel walked on dry land in the midst of the sea, which means they walked through the threat, not around it. The heifer goes through the day of plowing. Israel goes through the sea. The owner breaks the yoke at the end. The water closes behind the last person to cross.

The final image in Psalm 129, which the rabbis read as prediction rather than wish, is of the enemies drying out like grass on rooftops before it grows up, scorched before it can be harvested, unwept by whoever passes by. The nations who plowed on Israel's back will wither. The field they plowed will outlast them. The heifer gets up eventually.

IsraelExileSurvivalOppressionRedemption
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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 129:1Midrash Tehillim

Psalm 129 gets it. "Many times from my youth they have oppressed me," it cries out. But then, a glimmer of hope: "Yet they have not prevailed against me." It's a powerful image, this idea of being relentlessly worked over, but ultimately unbroken.

The Midrash Tehillim, a collection of rabbinic teachings on the Book of Psalms, unpacks this verse in a way that's both relatable and deeply rooted in Jewish experience. It uses a parable to illuminate the psalm's meaning.

A homeowner who lends his heifer to someone for plowing. This guy’s ten sons all jump in, working the poor animal to exhaustion. All the other animals return home, but this one just collapses, spent. The homeowner, seeing the situation, doesn’t bother with drawn-out negotiations. He immediately breaks the yoke and cuts the cords, freeing the animal.

The Midrash (rabbinic interpretive commentary) tells us this is like the situation of Israel in the world. Nations come and oppress them, and the response seems delayed. "Upon my back the plowers plowed, they made their furrows long," the psalm laments. But when the end finally comes, God won't waste time with lengthy accusations. Instead, as it says in (Leviticus 26:19), God will immediately "break the pride of your power" and, as the psalm itself proclaims, "cut in pieces the cords of the wicked." The image of the yoke being broken, the cords being cut. It's so visceral, isn't it? It speaks to a deep longing for liberation, for an end to oppression.

Now, the Midrash takes an interesting turn. It recounts a story about two rabbis, Rabbi Chanina bar Papa and Rabbi Shmuel bar Nachmani, walking past a plowed field during the shmita year. Shmita, the sabbatical year, is a time when Jewish law prohibits agricultural labor in the Land of Israel.

Rabbi Shmuel bar Nachmani offers the owner of the field a blessing: "May it be straight (i.e. upright) for you." But Rabbi Chanina bar Papa objects. He says that the school of his teacher didn't teach them to say "May the blessing of the Lord be upon you" to plowmen during the shmita year. It's forbidden.

Then, Rabbi Chanina bar Papa tells him, "You may read (the Scriptures), but you may not interpret." Ouch! That’s gotta sting.

The Midrash clarifies that they weren't talking about gentiles or even about wishing blessings on Israel. Instead, it highlights a tension: Israel says to the nations, "Bless us in the name of the Lord." And Israel also says, "It is not enough that you receive all the good things that come upon you because of us, but you also roll upon us fines, taxes, and exactions."

It's a complex relationship, isn't it? A mix of dependence, resentment, and a fierce determination to endure.

The passage concludes with a powerful image of transformation: "Instead of bronze, I will bring gold" (Isaiah 60:17). As much as you punish us, we will transform you into gold. It’s a bold declaration of resilience, of turning suffering into something precious.

What does this all mean for us today? Perhaps it’s a reminder that even in the face of relentless challenges, there's a promise of ultimate liberation. Maybe it’s an encouragement to find the gold within the bronze, to transform our struggles into something beautiful and enduring. And maybe, just maybe, it's a call to break the yokes and cut the cords that bind us, both individually and collectively.

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Legends of the Jews 6:131Legends of the Jews

He had led the Israelites through unimaginable hardship, pleaded with God on their behalf countless times, and witnessed miracles beyond comprehension. Yet, when he faltered, the hammer of divine judgment seemed to fall with particular force.

In this poignant passage from Legends of the Jews, as retold by Ginzberg, we find MOSES at a critical juncture, begging God for forgiveness. "O Lord of the world!" he cries out, a raw plea born of desperation. "How often did Israel sin before Thee, and when I begged and implored mercy for them, Thou forgavest them... For my sake Thou forgavest the sins of sixty myriads, and now Thou wilt not forgive my sin?"

It’s a powerful question, isn't it? After all he'd done, after all the times God had shown mercy because of MOSES's intercession, why this seemingly unyielding stance now?

God's response is… well, it's complicated. "The punishment that is laid upon the community is different from the punishment that is laid upon the individual, for I am not so severe in my treatment of the community as I am in dealing with an individual." God explains. It's a glimpse into the divine calculus, a suggestion that the rules are different for the individual than for the collective. There's a certain logic there. The fate of a nation can't hinge on the perfection of one person.

But it doesn't end there. There's another layer to this. God continues, "But know, furthermore, that until now fate had been in thy power, but now fate is no longer in thy power."

What does that even mean?

It's heavy. It implies that MOSES, in his role as leader, possessed a unique ability to influence destiny, a power that's now slipping away. He’s no longer the master of his fate. It's a profound shift, a humbling realization that even the greatest among us are ultimately subject to forces beyond our control.

In his anguish, MOSES continues to implore, "O Lord of the world! Rise up from the Throne of Justice, and seat Thyself upon the Throne of Mercy, so that in Thy mercy, Thou mayest grant me life…" He begs not to be handed over to the Angel of Death, promising to sing God's praises if only granted more time. He wishes to live and declare the works of the Lord, echoing a sentiment we find elsewhere in Jewish tradition – the immense value placed on life and the opportunity to do good in the world.

But the decree, it seems, is final. God replies, "'This is the gate of the Lord; the righteous shall enter into it,' this is the gate into which the righteous must enter as well as other creatures, for death had been decreed for man since the beginning of the world."

It's a stark, unavoidable truth: even the most righteous must face mortality. Death is the ultimate equalizer, a fate shared by all.

This passage isn't just about MOSES's personal tragedy. It's a reflection on leadership, responsibility, and the limitations of even the most extraordinary individuals. It's about the delicate balance between justice and mercy, and the acceptance of our shared human destiny.

It leaves us pondering: What do we do with the time we have? How do we reconcile our desire for justice with the need for compassion? And how do we find peace in the face of the inevitable?

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Tikkunei Zohar 85:22Tikkunei Zohar

It's a blueprint for how we can navigate our own personal "seas," and maybe even find dry land on the other side.

The Tikkunei (spiritual repair) Zohar, a central text of Kabbalah expanding upon the Zohar itself, offers a fascinating insight into this moment. It tells us that Moses, the great leader, "transfers Israel over it that they do not drown in it." This, the Tikkunei Zohar emphasizes, is why the Torah tells us, "And the Children of Israel walked upon dry land, in the midst of the sea..." (Exodus 14:29). But what does it all mean?

The Tikkunei Zohar draws a powerful distinction between the initial Exodus and the final redemption, the ultimate Messianic era. In the first Exodus, salvation came through the physical sea being split, a tangible miracle. But in the final redemption? Ah, that's where things get really interesting. According to the Tikkunei Zohar, the ultimate salvation will come "all in the sea of Torah." for a second. What is the "sea of Torah"? It’s the vast, deep, and sometimes turbulent ocean of Jewish wisdom, law, stories, and traditions. It's a place where we can immerse ourselves, explore, and, yes, sometimes feel a little lost. But it's also where we find the tools to navigate life's challenges.

What about Moses's staff, the instrument he used to split the sea? The Tikkunei Zohar presents a beautiful metaphor: it's the pen! The pen with which we write, with which we study, with which we unlock the secrets of the Torah. Because upon that pen, the Tikkunei Zohar says, is revealed “the arm of Y”Y.”

Now, “Y”Y” is a reference to God's name, specifically the first two letters of the Tetragrammaton, the four-letter name of God. The "arm of Y”Y" signifies divine power and intervention. This is linked to the verse in Isaiah (53:1): "...and the arm of Y”Y upon whom has it been revealed?"

So, what's the connection? The Tikkunei Zohar is suggesting that the power to overcome our own "seas" lies in connecting to the divine through the study and understanding of Torah. The pen, the act of writing and learning, becomes the conduit for divine power to be revealed in our lives.

It's a powerful image, isn’t it? The next time you feel overwhelmed, remember Moses, the sea, and the pen. Remember that the tools to find your own "dry land" might just be found in the depths of the Torah, waiting to be discovered.

What "seas" are you facing right now? And how might you use the wisdom of the Torah to navigate them?

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