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Manna Fell Before Israel Knew How to Sing

Israel drinks from a gushing rock and eats bread from heaven, then mocks the miracle before learning what a new song costs.

Curated by Arthur · Told by Maggid ·
Table of Contents
  1. The Rock That Gushed and the Men Who Laughed
  2. The Blessings Hidden in Plain Sight
  3. The New Song Had Not Been Earned Yet
  4. What the New Song Requires

The Rock That Gushed and the Men Who Laughed

The rock did not drip. It gushed. In the middle of a desert with no market, no well, no granary, no river within sight, water burst from stone with a force that could not be explained by geology. A nation drank. And some of them looked at the place where the miracle had happened and made jokes.

"They would remove the rock," they said. As if the stone that had just kept them alive was an obstacle worth clearing away. The rabbis said the rock swallowed them. Not because God cannot endure mockery in the abstract, but because there is a specific kind of ingratitude that reaches out and slaps the face of the thing sustaining it, and that action has consequences built into the act itself.

The wilderness was not cruel. It was honest. It stripped away every excuse for ignoring what kept a person alive. In a city, a person can convince themselves that their bread comes from the baker and the baker gets it from the miller and the whole chain has nothing to do with anything beyond human industry. In the wilderness, the chain runs straight and short. Water from stone. Bread with the morning dew. Either you see the hand behind it or you make jokes about the rock.

The Blessings Hidden in Plain Sight

The manna is the famous miracle, but the rabbis noticed that God gives many gifts that people fail to notice. Conditional gifts and inherited gifts are not the same thing, and the difference matters enormously for gratitude.

Some blessings arrive as a direct response to behavior. They can be withdrawn when behavior changes. Others are built into the structure of creation itself, available even to those who do not acknowledge them, like the sun rising on the wicked and the righteous together. Neither type automatically produces praise. Both can be received in silence or in complaint.

Israel in the wilderness had both kinds falling on them simultaneously. The manna was calibrated, measurable, daily. It arrived fresh each morning and could not be stored past its season except on the eve of Shabbat. Every day it came, and every day it had to be gathered before the sun drove it into the ground. The gift was structured to produce daily awareness. A person who collected manna for thirty years could not pretend they had arranged the food supply themselves.

And still, some complained about the taste.

The New Song Had Not Been Earned Yet

Psalm 149 opens with a command: sing to God a new song. The rabbis asked what makes a song new. An old song can be technically competent, emotionally sincere, historically appropriate, and still be the wrong song for a given moment. A new song is not a song that has not been heard before. It is a song that corresponds to something God is making new in the world right now.

God desires this new song, the midrash says, because He makes all things new. The renewal is constant. Creation does not stop when the sixth day ends. Every morning the dew forms and the manna lies on the ground and something is given that was not there the night before.

But Israel learned the new song slowly. They sang the first one at the sea, a great eruption of praise after the Egyptian horses and riders had gone under the water. That was genuine and enormous. Then the wilderness began and the complaints began alongside it. The manna was too monotonous. The meat was insufficient. The journey was too long. The destination was too uncertain.

The rabbis looked at this pattern and said: "gratitude is not a natural response to blessing. It has to be learned, and the learning is hard, because the human capacity for finding reasons to complain is apparently equal to any quantity of miracle."

What the New Song Requires

The new song cannot be sung by a person still sorting their grievances while eating heaven's bread. It requires the whole self to be oriented toward what has been given rather than what is missing. That orientation is not passive. It is a discipline, the same discipline as Torah-study and prayer, the deliberate turning of attention toward the source of things.

Israel eventually sang more new songs. The Psalms themselves are a collection of new songs generated by people who had gone through enough to know the difference between complaining about the rock and praising the God who made the water come out of it. David wrote most of them in conditions that should have produced only silence or rage. He had been chased, betrayed, mourned, and waited. His songs are new precisely because they were earned through the full weight of experience, not shouted in the first flush of relief.

The manna generation got the food before they had the song. That gap, between the miracle and the praise it should have produced, is what Midrash Tehillim keeps pressing on, because it is not a historical curiosity. It is a permanent feature of how people receive gifts.

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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 78:2Midrash Tehillim

Midrash Tehillim turns to Manna from Heaven of Shimon.

The Midrash (rabbinic interpretive commentary) paints a vivid picture. Remember the story of Moses striking the rock to bring forth water? Well, Rabbi Yosei bar Hanina makes a striking comparison. He likens the gushing water to a woman experiencing a discharge of blood, referencing (Leviticus 15:25). It's a bold image, connecting the life-giving water with the life-giving act of a woman's body. "And water gushed forth," the verse tells us.

The story doesn’t end with simple gratitude. Oh no. The Midrash tells us that scoffers among the Israelites, after witnessing the miracle of water from a rock, flippantly said, "Now we will remove the rock!" The rock, however, had the last laugh – it immediately swallowed them up. A stark reminder, perhaps, of the dangers of disbelief and the power of the Divine.

Then there's the manna, that miraculous food that sustained the Israelites for forty years. Rav Kahana, in the name of Rabbi Zevadya ben Levi, states that for a thousand years, manna descended upon Israel every day! Rabbi Shimon ben Yochai draws a parallel between the opening of the heavens to provide manna and the opening of the heavens during the Flood. However, he notes a key difference: the flood lasted twelve months, while the manna descended for only eight. Why? Because, he explains, the measure of mercy exceeded the measure of punishment by five hundred times. Now that’s a ratio!

Rabbi Acha adds a practical piece of wisdom: "He should not have short arms," meaning, don't be stingy. He connects this to (Proverbs 10:22), reminding us that true blessing comes from God and is not accompanied by sorrow.

But here’s where it gets interesting. Rabbi Shimon ben Lakish explores the nature of the manna itself. Remember the description from (Exodus 16:14), "a thin flake-like layer, small as the hoar frost on the ground"? Rabbi Shimon suggests that if someone only needed a tiny amount, the manna would have been as fine as flour. He even points out a missing letter in the biblical text, hinting that the manna was "swallowed up in 248 limbs of a person." He bases this on the verse, "Every man had eaten the bread of the mighty" (Psalms 78:25).

What is "the bread of the mighty?" One explanation, says the Midrash, is that it was made by angels!

But despite all this miraculous provision, the Israelites complained. Rabbi Shimon ben Lakish recounts how they grumbled, "You see your waters providing wheat to the Egyptians, but you do not produce flour!" They were essentially accusing God of being a bad provider. Can you imagine?

God's response? "I have treated them with kindness and made them like angels." But even that wasn't enough. They continued to whine, "Our soul is dried up; there is nothing at all; we have nothing but manna to look to!" (Numbers 21:5). It's a powerful illustration of how even the most extraordinary blessings can be taken for granted. The Midrash then poses a rhetorical question: "How much longer will they despise Me, in their midst, in the womb of their bellies, that they eat and produce nothing?"

Rabbi Ibu adds a fascinating detail about Jethro, Moses' father-in-law. He says that Jethro received his portion of manna at the sixth hour, and that this portion was equivalent to sixty myriads (hundreds of thousands!) and corresponded to all of his limbs. This manna was "bread of heroes," fit for each and every person.

The Midrash also describes how the manna was brought down: wind would honor the wilderness, and then dew would descend. All of Israel would gather the manna before the sun rose and melted it.

Then comes a curious statement: the manna was divided into three parts – one-third for the wise men, one-third for Mordechai and Esther, and one-third for the construction of the Temple. This seems anachronistic, as Mordechai and Esther, and certainly the Temple, came much later. Perhaps this is a way of connecting the miraculous provision in the desert with later acts of salvation and building.

The Midrash concludes with a discussion of the three keys held only by God: the key of rain, the key of resurrection, and the key of compassion. Rabbi Acha, in the name of Rabbi Jonathan, cites biblical verses to support this idea, highlighting God's power over life, death, and sustenance. He reminds us that God gave rain, gave children to the barren, and even gave the power to raise the dead to figures like Elijah and Elisha.

The final takeaway? Even with divine assistance, like that given to Moses and Aaron, there are consequences for actions. Even they, through their impatience, failed to enter the Promised Land. It's a sobering thought, reminding us that even in the midst of miracles, we are still accountable for our choices and our attitudes.

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Midrash Tehillim 132:1Midrash Tehillim

Our tradition grapples with this very question, especially when considering the immense gifts God has bestowed upon us.

Midrash Tehillim, specifically in its exploration of Psalm 132, explores this very notion. It asks: What was given to us with conditions, and what was given freely, without reservation?

The Midrash (rabbinic interpretive commentary) begins with the evocative words of Psalm 132, a psalm of ascents, remembering David and all his afflictions. It then poses a profound idea: that certain gifts, like the Land of Israel, the Temple, and the Kingdom of the House of David, were given conditionally. “If your children will keep my covenant…” the text implies, echoing through generations.

So, how do we know these were conditional gifts? The Midrash draws upon other verses for proof. For the Land of Israel, it cites Deuteronomy, warning us to "take heed, lest your heart be deceived, and you turn aside and serve other gods…" (Deuteronomy 11:16-17). A clear condition: faithfulness. Fail to uphold the covenant, and the land itself could be forfeit.

The Temple, too, had its stipulations. As the verse says, "This house which you are building, if you will walk in My statutes… then will I establish My word with you…" (1 (Kings 6:1)2). But if not? "This house shall become a heap of ruins.." A sobering thought.

And the Kingdom of David? Again, the condition rings out: "If your children will keep My covenant…" The line of David was promised kingship, but only if they remained true to the divine agreement. As we see in (2 (Samuel 7:1)4), "Then will I visit their transgression with the rod…"

But then the Midrash offers a glimmer of hope, a counterpoint to all these conditions. What about the Torah, the sacred teachings? And the covenant of Aaron, establishing the priesthood? These, the Midrash asserts, were given unconditionally.

How do we know? Because the Torah is described as "an inheritance of the congregation of Jacob" (Deuteronomy 33:4). An inheritance isn't typically conditional, is it? It's a birthright.

Similarly, the covenant with Aaron is called "an everlasting covenant of salt before the Lord" (Numbers 18:19), and an "everlasting priesthood" (Numbers 25:13). The phrase "everlasting covenant" implies permanence, regardless of our actions.

The Midrash then shifts its focus, considering the concept of "rest" as it relates to different places: Shiloh and Jerusalem. The text quotes (Deuteronomy 12:9), "For you have not yet come to the rest…" This, various rabbis suggest, refers to different stages in our history. Rabbi Yehuda associates "rest" with the inheritance of Jerusalem, while Rabbi Shimon connects it directly to Jerusalem, citing (Isaiah 11:10), "And His resting place shall be in Zion." Rabbi Yishmael cleverly proposes that both Shiloh and Jerusalem hold the title of "rest."

Rabbi Shimon ben Yochai offers a fascinating perspective: before Jerusalem was chosen, the entire Land of Israel was suitable for altars. But once Jerusalem was designated, the rest of the land became less so. Similarly, before Aaron was chosen, all of Israel was potentially fit for the priesthood. And before David, all of Israel could theoretically have produced a king. But with each selection, a focus narrowed, a specific lineage was established.

The Midrash concludes with a powerful statement: Until the Land of Israel was chosen, all lands were fit for divine communication. It paints a picture of a world brimming with potential holiness, narrowed down to a specific place, a chosen people, a consecrated lineage.

So, what are we left with? A complex understanding of divine gifts. Some are conditional, demanding our constant vigilance and faithfulness. Others, like the Torah and the priesthood of Aaron, are unwavering, a constant source of blessing regardless of our merits. And perhaps, ultimately, this tension between conditionality and unconditional love is what makes our relationship with the divine so rich, so challenging, and so deeply rewarding.

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Midrash Tehillim 149:1Midrash Tehillim

It’s an idea that pulses with life throughout Jewish tradition, a concept that goes far beyond just melody. to Midrash Tehillim, specifically Midrash Tehillim 149, and see what it has to say about this.

The midrash (rabbinic interpretive commentary) opens with a quote from Isaiah (43:18-19): "Do not remember the former things." The prophet urges us to look forward, to embrace the new. The Almighty, the midrash tells us, desires a new song, just as He makes all things new. The verse from Psalms (149:1) echoes this sentiment: "Sing unto the Lord a new song." But who are the "pious ones" who are meant to sing this song? According to the midrash, it's the people of Israel.

Think about pivotal moments in Jewish history. The midrash reminds us that when Israel saw the Almighty at the Red Sea, they sang a song (Exodus 15:1). When they stood at Sinai, receiving the Torah, they became righteous (Proverbs 2:7). And when they witnessed God’s glory at the Tent of Meeting (Leviticus 9:23-24), they rejoiced. Each encounter sparked a new level of devotion, a new song in their hearts.

It won’t stop there. The text suggests that in the world to come, this piety will reach its peak (Psalm 149:1). Imagine that: rejoicing in God's presence amidst fire, hail, snow, and smoke (Psalm 148:7-14). Wait, fire and smoke? Aren't those destructive? The midrash offers a fascinating interpretation: these elements aren't inherently evil in heaven. They originate from the earth (Psalm 148:7). "No evil shall befall you" (Psalm 91:10), the text reminds us; evil resides on earth, not in God's presence.

But what about the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah, where God rained down brimstone and fire? (Genesis 19:24). The midrash reconciles this by stating that the decree originated in heaven, but its execution involved earthly fire. It's a reminder that God's actions, even those that appear destructive, serve a higher purpose.

The midrash then beautifully expands on the idea that everything praises God. Even if a person fails to offer thanks, creation itself – "crawling creatures" and "birds with wings" – sings His praises (Isaiah 43:20, (Psalm 148:1)0). It's a powerful image: a universe constantly in conversation with its Creator.

The midrash explores the structure of Psalm 148, questioning the order in which different groups are called to praise God. Why "dragons and all deeps" before "kings of the earth and all people?" (Psalm 148:7, 148:11). It’s a subtle but important point: even the seemingly insignificant parts of creation have a role to play in praising God. The midrash sees no distinction between "young men" and "youth" but suggests that God considers "elders who are youthful" especially worthy of praise. As (Psalm 103:5) says, "Your youth is renewed like the eagle's," and (Isaiah 40:31) adds, "They that wait for the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles."

The midrash also tackles a potential redundancy: why repeat "Let them praise the name of the Lord?" (Psalm 148:13). It draws a comparison to mortal kings who have chamberlains to sing their praises. But God, the midrash emphasizes, is unique. "Who is like unto Thee, O Lord?" (Deuteronomy 3:24). He needs no intermediaries. He performs His work alone (Isaiah 44:24). Therefore, He alone deserves the praise.

And finally, there's the question of the Torah. (Psalm 138:4) states, "All the kings of the earth will praise you, Lord, when they hear what you have decreed." But did they truly listen and accept the Torah? The midrash acknowledges that many nations rejected it. It cites (Micah 5:14), "And I will execute vengeance in anger and fury upon the nations that have not hearkened," to demonstrate that they heard but refused. David, however, offered thanks (Psalm 136:15) for God making the Torah known to all, even those who rejected it.

Rabbi Abbahu offers a fascinating perspective: God offered the Torah to the nations knowing they would refuse. Why? Because it's God's way to offer His creations what they cannot accept before removing it from them. The Holy One, blessed be He, does not come into conflict with His creations.

So, what does it all mean? The “new song” isn't just about music. It's about constant renewal, about recognizing God's presence in every aspect of creation, and about offering praise, even when faced with rejection. It’s about embracing the future while honoring the past, and understanding that even the most challenging elements of life can be transformed into expressions of devotion. It’s a song that’s always being written, always evolving, and always inviting us to join in.

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