4 min read

How Joshua Divided a Whole Country With Two Urns

Seven years of war ended with a harder problem than any battle: the lots spoke aloud and each tribe received the land prepared for it.

Curated by Arthur · Told by Maggid ·
Table of Contents
  1. The Problem No General Could Solve
  2. When the Lots Spoke Aloud
  3. The Invisible Map That Preceded the Drawing
  4. Joshua Waits Before He Acts

The Problem No General Could Solve

Conquering the land had taken seven years. Dividing it looked like it might take longer.

Twelve tribes stood in the plain east of the Jordan, each with grievances, each with numbers, each with the memory of what their ancestor had been promised. Do you divide by population? By military contribution? By the shape of the terrain? The sons of Joseph had split into two tribes, Ephraim and Manasseh, and each wanted a full share. The fighting had been collective. The reward was going to be personal. Nobody had a formula for that.

Eleazar the High Priest stepped forward wearing the Urim and Thummim on his breastplate. Beside him stood Joshua. Before them were two urns. In one, the names of the twelve tribes. In the other, the names of the twelve portions.

When the Lots Spoke Aloud

What the rabbinic tradition adds to this procedure is the detail that removes it from the realm of ordinary lottery. When Eleazar drew a slip from the tribe-urn, his breastplate lit up before he could open his hand. At the same moment, a voice came from inside the second urn, announcing which portion had been drawn to match it. The lots confirmed each other. Neither priest nor prince had chosen. The land itself, through the divine mechanism of the breastplate, was assigning its own inheritors.

The tradition preserved in Ginzberg's retelling names Phinehas as the prophet who stood nearby and announced each assignment, his face lit with the same prophetic fire that had once stopped a plague at Shittim. Every tribe received its portion not from Joshua's hands but from the convergence of two independent oracles speaking the same name at the same moment. No tribe counted the odds of that happening twelve times in a row by chance. They counted something else: when two divine confirmations aligned, no one could argue the result came from human preference.

The Invisible Map That Preceded the Drawing

The tradition holds that the boundaries of each portion had been fixed long before any slip was drawn. Caleb had walked the land. Scouts had measured it. The portions were not equal in size because the land was not equal in fertility, and adjustments had been made so that a smaller, richer portion balanced a larger, thinner one. The divine lot was not distributing raw acreage. It was matching each tribe to the territory that had been prepared for them since the promise was made to their ancestors four hundred years earlier.

This is the detail that the rabbinic imagination found most arresting: not that God intervened in the lottery, but that the lottery was the final step in a process that had begun at Sinai, or earlier, at the covenant between God and Abraham under the stars. The tribes thought they were watching a drawing of names. They were actually witnessing the closing of an agreement.

Joshua Waits Before He Acts

A quieter strand ran beneath the drawing: Joshua himself had waited. Before the division, there was a period of delay, associated in some sources with Moses's own extended wait on the mountain, in which the leader held back from distributing what he could have distributed by his own authority. The waiting was not weakness. It was a statement about where authority actually resided. Moses had waited for God to speak before he acted. Joshua, who was explicitly described as Moses's student, kept the same protocol even after his teacher was gone.

The two urns were not a workaround for a problem Joshua could not solve. They were his deliberate choice to solve it by the only means that would leave no tribe with a legitimate grievance. A human decision can be disputed. A divine lot, confirmed twice, announced by a prophet, and confirmed by a breastplate, cannot.

JoshuaWisdomTribesPromised LandInheritanceEleazar
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From the tradition

Sources

3 sources

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

Legends of the Jews 1:49Legends of the Jews

It wasn't just a matter of drawing lines on a map. It was, according to tradition, a divinely orchestrated process, a fascinating blend of the practical and the miraculous.

After seven long years of warfare, Joshua finally had the chance to allocate the conquered land to the twelve tribes. But how do you fairly divide up a whole country? Well, the ancient rabbis imagined a pretty dramatic scene.

Eleazar, the High Priest, stands before the people. He's not alone. Joshua is there, and the entire Israelite community has gathered. Eleazar is wearing the Urim and Thummim, mystical objects embedded in the High Priest's breastplate. These weren't just pretty jewels; they were believed to be instruments of divine communication. Think of them as an ancient Israelite version of a Magic 8-Ball, but, you know, powered by God.

Before him are two urns. One is filled with the names of the tribes – Reuben, Simeon, Judah, and all the rest. The other contains the names of the different districts into which the land was divided.

According to Ginzberg's retelling in Legends of the Jews, the Holy Spirit then inspired Eleazar. He exclaims a tribal name, say, "Zebulon!" Then, he reaches into the first urn and pulls out... Zebulon! And from the second urn? The district of Accho. So, the tribe of Zebulon gets the district of Accho. As we find in Midrash Rabbah, this happened with each tribe in turn, a seemingly random selection guided by divine will. Each tribe received their portion.

But here's where it gets really interesting. How do you make sure those boundaries stayed fixed? Land disputes are nothing new, even back then! Joshua, according to this tradition, had a clever solution: He planted the Hazubah.

Now, the Hazubah is no ordinary plant. It's described as having a rootstock so tenacious that, once established, it's almost impossible to get rid of. You could plow deep furrows over it, but it would just keep sending up new shoots, growing again amid the grain. It acted as a living marker, stubbornly defining the old division lines, ensuring that everyone knew where one district ended and another began.

What a potent image. A simple plant, yet symbolizing the enduring nature of the divine decree. It makes you wonder: What are the "Hazubahs" in our lives? What are the things that, no matter how hard we try to erase them, keep resurfacing, reminding us of our past, our boundaries, and maybe even our destinies?

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Legends of the Jews 1:50Legends of the Jews

Even way back when Joshua was dividing up the land, right after the Israelites entered the Promised Land, there were concerns about balancing individual rights with the needs of the community.

The scene: Joshua, fresh off leading the Israelites to victory, now has the monumental task of dividing up the land. But he wasn't just handing out property deeds. He was also laying down some ground rules, almost like an ancient set of community guidelines. These weren't just laws; they were about how people should treat each other and the land itself.

So, what were these rules? According to Legends of the Jews, Joshua issued ten ordinances designed to, in a way, limit absolute private property rights.

First off, free grazing in the woods. Open to everyone. No one could hog all the pasture land. And speaking of using what the land provides: people were allowed to collect fallen wood in fields. Simple, practical, and ensuring everyone had access to basic resources.

Then there was the matter of gathering grasses. You could gather grass anywhere, except in fields sown with fenugreek – a plant that needs grass for protection. It’s a fascinating detail, isn’t it? A tiny exception revealing an understanding of ecological balance.

Want to graft a tree? Go ahead and take twigs from any plant… except olive trees. Olive trees were precious, and that limitation makes perfect sense.

Water sources? They belonged to the whole town. A shared resource, essential for life. Fishing in the Sea of Tiberias? Totally fine, as long as you weren't blocking boats. Again, balance and consideration.

Even going to the bathroom was taken into account! The area outside a field's fence could be used by passers-by for, well, relieving themselves. Let's just say it was a practical solution to a basic human need.

And here's one that sounds almost idyllic: from the end of the harvest until the 17th of Marheshwan (a month in the Hebrew calendar, usually falling in October/November), fields could be crossed freely. Can you imagine that? A time when the land was open for everyone to wander and enjoy after the crops were gathered.

Lost in a vineyard? Don’t worry about accidentally damaging the vines while trying to find your way. You wouldn't be held responsible. It's a lovely sentiment: accidents happen, and compassion matters.

Finally, a somewhat somber ordinance: If a dead body was found in a field, it had to be buried right there on the spot. A reminder of our shared responsibility to care for the deceased and honor life, even in death.

These ordinances, as recounted in Legends of the Jews, paint a picture of a society trying to create a just and equitable world. They weren’t just about dividing land; they were about creating a community, a society where everyone had certain rights and responsibilities towards each other and the environment. It makes you wonder, doesn’t it? How can we apply similar principles today, in our own complex and often fractured world? Maybe the wisdom of the ancients can still guide us toward a more compassionate future.

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Legends of the Jews 2:108Legends of the Jews

The familiar story is this: the Ten Commandments, the Golden Calf.. but what about the moments in between? The feelings, the doubts, the sheer weight of responsibility?

The Ginzberg's says retelling in Legends of the Jews, Joshua, ever the faithful servant, had been waiting for Moses on the mountainside that whole time – all forty days and nights. The anticipation, the quiet solitude.

As they approached the Israelite encampment together, they heard a commotion. Joshua, hearing the noise, mistakenly thought it was the sound of war. "There is a noise of war in the camp," he said to Moses. But Moses, perhaps already sensing the terrible truth, corrected him. "Is it possible," he asked, "that thou, Joshua, who art one day destined to be the leader of sixty myriads of people, canst not distinguish among the different kinds of dins? This is no cry of Israel conquering, nor of their defeated foe, but their adoration of an idol."

As they drew closer, the horrifying reality became clear. Moses was faced with a terrible dilemma. How could he possibly present the luchot (the tablets) inscribed with God’s law, including the absolute prohibition against idolatry, to a people actively engaged in worshipping a golden calf? The very act he was about to condemn was the one they were currently committing!

He hesitated. Should he even give them the tablets? He even tried to turn back, but the seventy elders, sensing something was amiss, pursued him, trying to wrest the tablets from his grasp. Can you picture that struggle? Moses, imbued with divine strength, held firm, even though the tablets weighed seventy seah (a very hefty unit of measurement!).

Then, something extraordinary happened. According to the legend, the writing on the tablets – the celestial writing, mind you – vanished. At the very same moment, their weight became almost unbearable. As Legends of the Jews explains, while the divine inscription was present, the tablets essentially carried their own weight. They didn't burden Moses at all. But with its disappearance, everything changed.

Now, Moses was even more reluctant to deliver the now-blank tablets to the people. He reasoned, "If God prohibited even one idolatrous Israelite from partaking of the Passover feast, how much more would He be angry if I were now to give all the Torah to an idolatrous people?"

And so, in a moment of profound decision, Moses, without consulting God, broke the tablets. He shattered them. A drastic, almost unthinkable act.

But here's the truly surprising part. The story doesn't end with anger or punishment. Instead, Legends of the Jews tells us that God thanked Moses for breaking the tablets. Why would God thank Moses for destroying the very symbol of their covenant? Perhaps it was an acknowledgement of Moses's deep understanding of God’s will, his unwavering commitment to justice, and his willingness to make a difficult, even heartbreaking, decision for the sake of his people. Perhaps it was because, in that moment, Moses chose the spirit of the law over the letter, prioritizing genuine repentance and a renewed commitment to God above all else. It's a powerful reminder that sometimes, true leadership requires us to break what is precious in order to build something stronger.

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