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Moses Stood Between Heaven and a People That Kept Falling

From the angels who debated creation to the manna Israel grew to hate, Legends of the Jews places Moses between two worlds neither could hold.

Curated by Arthur · Told by Maggid ·
Table of Contents
  1. Heaven Debated Before Israel Existed
  2. Paradise Was Already Mapped
  3. Moses Climbed Toward the Angels and They Resisted
  4. The Calf Fell and Moses Had to Choose
  5. The Manna They Eventually Hated

Heaven Debated Before Israel Existed

Before humanity was made, God consulted the angels. Some argued for creation. Love said: make humans, for they will show love. Truth said: do not make them, for they are full of lies. Righteousness said: make them, for they will pursue justice. Peace said: do not make them, for they are full of conflict. God took Truth and threw it to the earth, then proceeded with creation.

In Louis Ginzberg's Legends of the Jews, that debate is not prelude. It is the permanent condition of Israel's existence. The argument that should have stopped creation continues inside the wilderness. Moses is the person caught between the angels' verdict and the actual nation he has been given to lead. Heaven knew the risk before the first human breathed. Moses learns it by living it.

Paradise Was Already Mapped

Ginzberg's Paradise is vast and specific. Seven divisions of Gan Eden, each greater than the last, each holding a different category of righteous life. The righteous are arranged by the quality of their fidelity. The martyrs have one section. The Torah scholars have another. The world to come has already been prepared in detail before Israel has done a single thing to deserve it.

That prepared Paradise is the destination that Moses is trying to lead a people toward. And the people he is leading are the ones who, on the way there, made a golden calf, demanded meat, complained about water, sent spies who returned with despair, and twice tried to stone him. The distance between Gan Eden and the camp is the distance Moses carries inside himself every day of the forty years.

Moses Climbed Toward the Angels and They Resisted

When Moses ascended to receive the Torah, the angels argued that a human being had no right to approach heaven. The Torah belonged to the heavenly realm. God told Moses to answer them. Moses asked: what is written in the Torah? Honor your father and your mother. Do the angels have fathers and mothers? Do not murder, do not steal, do not covet. Are the angels surrounded by enemies? Do they have property to covet? The angels fell silent. What Moses needed to carry back to earth was precisely what heaven did not need. Torah was made for people who live with temptation, need, hunger, and loss.

The Calf Fell and Moses Had to Choose

While Moses was at the mountain, Israel made the calf. They had been forty days without him. They declared the golden object their god who had brought them out of Egypt. Ginzberg's account notes the full weight of what Moses came down to. He had spent forty days holding the two tablets of the covenant in his hands. He saw the calf, saw the dancing, and broke the tablets. The act of breaking was not a loss of control. It was a legal argument: if Israel had already broken the covenant before receiving it, the tablets were not yet binding on them. The break was mercy disguised as destruction.

The Manna They Eventually Hated

The manna fell every morning and tasted of whatever the eater desired. It was the daily miracle that said: you are not in Egypt anymore, the food system that depended on labor and scarcity and Pharaoh's permission no longer governs you. For forty years. Eventually Israel complained about the manna. They called it contemptible. They wanted meat. They missed cucumbers and garlic. The food from heaven had become ordinary, and ordinary things become objects of contempt when people forget what they replaced.

Moses received that complaint in his body. He had climbed to heaven for the Torah that Israel would also later treat with carelessness, and he had watched heaven arrange the manna that Israel would eventually call worthless. The three times Moses was overcome with fear, when he approached the burning bush, when he ascended to receive Torah, when he saw the angel of death, were moments when the distance between what he was being asked to carry and what his human frame could bear became briefly visible. He kept climbing anyway.

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Legends of the Jews 2:6Legends of the Jews

Not according to some powerful Jewish legends! They paint a picture of a world created specifically for us, for the people of Israel. It’s a pretty bold claim, isn't it?According to Ginzberg's retelling in Legends of the Jews, before God even began creation, He consulted with the angels about His plan to create humankind. And what was the rationale? "For the sake of Israel, I will create the world."

That! The entire cosmos, the swirling galaxies, the delicate ecosystems – all designed with a specific people in mind. Why? Because of the unique relationship God intended to have with them.

The story goes on, drawing incredible parallels between the acts of creation and the future experiences of the Israelites. It's not just a general "we love humans" vibe; it's a detailed blueprint, woven into the very fabric of existence.

Consider this: "As I shall make a division between light and darkness, so I will in time to come do for Israel in Egypt." Think about the Exodus story. The Israelites, trapped in slavery, surrounded by darkness and oppression, and yet, they experienced light in their dwellings while Egypt was plunged into plague. As the text describes, "thick darkness shall be over the land, and the children of Israel shall have light in their dwellings."

It continues. "As I shall make a separation between the waters under the firmament and the waters above the firmament, so I will do for Israel." That's a direct echo of the parting of the Red Sea, that moment of ultimate salvation, where the waters miraculously divided to allow the Israelites to escape Pharaoh's pursuing army.

And it doesn't stop there! The creation of plants foreshadows the manna that sustained the Israelites in the wilderness. The creation of light foreshadows the pillar of cloud by day and the pillar of fire by night that guided them. The creation of birds prefigures the quails that appeared to feed them when they were hungry. And finally, breathing life into man foreshadows the giving of the Torah, the divine instruction and “tree of life,” at Sinai.

The angels themselves were astonished, marveling at the immense love being bestowed upon this future nation. But God had more to reveal. He connected the creation to the Mishkan (Tabernacle), the portable sanctuary that the Israelites would build.

"On the first day of creation, I shall make the heavens and stretch them out; so will Israel raise up the Tabernacle as the dwelling-place of My glory." Each element of creation found its reflection in the construction and rituals of the Tabernacle. The division of waters mirrored the veil separating the Holy Place from the Most Holy. The earth producing grass and herbs found its echo in the Passover seder and the showbread offered in the Temple. The luminaries foreshadowed the golden candlestick, and the birds, the cherubim with outstretched wings. Finally, the creation of man foreshadowed the role of the High Priest, a descendant of Aaron, dedicated to serving God.

This isn't just a cute parallel; it's a profound statement about the interconnectedness of everything. It suggests that the physical world is not separate from the spiritual, that the divine plan is woven into every aspect of our existence. The creation was, in a sense, a dress rehearsal for the covenant between God and Israel, a preparation for the unfolding of a sacred relationship.

What does this mean for us today? Maybe it's an invitation to see the sacred in the mundane. To recognize that even the smallest details of our lives can be infused with meaning and purpose. To understand that we are part of something much larger than ourselves, a story that began before time itself. And maybe, just maybe, it's a reminder that we, too, can be instruments in bringing light, life, and divine purpose into the world.

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Legends of the Jews 1:40Legends of the Jews

While readers often imagine it as a single, unified place, Jewish tradition offers a far more intricate and fascinating vision.

Some accounts say Paradise. Or Gan Eden, the Garden of Eden, isn't just one place, but is divided into seven distinct sections, each with its own unique character and inhabitants. And get this: each section is said to be twelve myriads (that's hundreds of millions!) of miles in both width and length.

The first division, as described in Ginzberg's Legends of the Jews, is reserved for those who chose Judaism freely, the proselytes who converted without coercion. Imagine walls of shimmering glass and wainscoting of fragrant cedar. And overseeing this welcoming space? None other than the prophet Obadiah himself, who, fittingly, was also a proselyte.

Next, we arrive at the second division, built of shining silver and paneled with cedar. This is the realm of those who have repented, the baalei teshuvah (repentance), those who have turned back to the path. Presiding over them is Manasseh, the son of Hezekiah, a king of Judah who himself famously repented after a period of idolatry. His presence there offers a powerful message of hope and redemption.

The third division is even more opulent, constructed of both silver and gold. Here, we find the patriarchs – Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob – along with all the Israelites who left Egypt and the entire generation that wandered in the desert. Even David is there, alongside his sons (except for Absalom, of course – more on him later). We're also told that all the kings of Judah reside here, with the notable exception of Manasseh, who, as we know, is busy overseeing the second division. And who are the main authorities here? Moses and Aaron, of course. This section boasts precious vessels, jewels, canopies, and thrones – the very best of everything in Heaven.

As we move on, the fourth division is built of beautiful rubies, its walls glowing with a warm, inviting light. The wainscoting here is made of olive wood. Why olive wood? Because, as Legends of the Jews suggests, these are the "perfect and steadfast in faith," whose lives, though righteous, were often "bitter as olives."

The fifth division is a dazzling display of silver, gold, refined gold, glass, and bdellium (a fragrant resin). The river Gihon, one of the four rivers of Paradise, flows through it. The aroma is said to be more exquisite than the perfume of Lebanon. And here, in this glorious space, we find the Messiah.

Yes, the Messiah resides in Paradise, awaiting the appointed time. He sits on a palanquin made of Lebanese cedar, with silver pillars, a golden base, and a purple seat. And who is with him? Elijah the prophet, who cradles the Messiah's head and whispers, "Be quiet, for the end draweth nigh."

According to this legend, on Mondays, Thursdays, Sabbaths, and holidays, the Patriarchs, the twelve sons of Jacob, Moses, Aaron, David, Solomon, and all the kings of Israel and Judah visit the Messiah. They weep with him, comfort him, and urge him to trust in God. As we find in Midrash Rabbah, even in Paradise, there's a sense of longing for the ultimate redemption.

But the story doesn't end there. On Wednesdays, Korah and his company, along with Dathan, Abiram, and Absalom, all figures who rebelled against authority, come to the Messiah with a plaintive cry: "How long before the end comes full of wonders? When wilt thou bring us life again, and from the abysses of the earth lift us?" The Messiah, in turn, tells them to ask their fathers. But they are ashamed and do not.

What does this all mean? This elaborate vision of Paradise isn't just a description of a physical place. It's a reflection of our deepest hopes, fears, and desires. It's a reminder that even in the most perfect of realms, there's still longing, still a need for redemption, and still the echo of past mistakes. And perhaps, most importantly, it shows us that even those who have strayed can find a place in the divine plan.

Food for thought, isn't it?

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Legends of the Jews turns to Trial of Moses.

Moses, ever the compassionate leader, does exactly that. And here's the really amazing part: God answers immediately, halting the destructive fire. But the story doesn’t end there.

God doesn't just snuff it out and send it back where it came from. According to the Legends of the Jews, this fire was so powerful, so intrinsically linked to the divine, that simply removing it wouldn't solve the problem. It would have continued to spread, consuming everything in its path. It was already wreaking havoc, spreading so rapidly that no one could tell how far it had gone.

So, what did God do? He found a way to harness it. Instead of letting it return to heaven, He placed it upon the altar of the Mishkan (Tabernacle), where it consumed the offerings brought during Israel's desert sojourn. Imagine that – a constant, visible reminder of divine power and judgment.

But here’s where the legend takes an even darker turn. This wasn’t just any fire. This, we are told, is the same fire that tragically consumed Aaron’s sons, Nadab and Abihu, and KORAH'S rebellious company. It's a fire of immense power, both creative and destructive.

And, according to some traditions, it's even more personal than that. The Legends of the Jews tells us that this very Divine fire is what every mortal beholds in the moment of their death.

Whoa.

So, what do we take away from this fiery tale? It's a potent reminder of the awesome power of the divine, a force that can both create and destroy, punish and purify. It also speaks to the importance of intercession, of having someone to turn to when we feel unworthy or afraid. And perhaps, most profoundly, it suggests that even in death, we encounter that same awe-inspiring, transformative fire. A fire that, in the end, might just be the ultimate reality.

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Legends of the Jews 2:105Legends of the Jews

He had to manage not only the destructive fury of the angels, but also something even more daunting: God's own wrath.

The scene. God, deeply hurt by the Israelites' betrayal, speaks harshly to Moses. "The grievous sins of men," He cries, "had once caused Me to go down from heaven to see their doings. Do thou likewise go down from heaven now. It is fitting that the servant be treated as his master. only for Israel's sake have I caused this honor to fall to thy lot, but now that Israel has become disloyal to Me, I have no further reason thus to distinguish thee."

It's a rebuke, a challenge, and a test all rolled into one.

Moses, ever the steadfast leader, doesn't back down. He reminds God of their shared history, their intertwined destiny. "O Lord of the world!" Moses answers. "Not long since didst Thou say to me: 'Come now, therefore, and I will send thee that thou mayest bring forth My people out of Egypt;' and now Thou callest them my people. Nay, whether pious or sinful, they are Thy people still."

Did you catch that? The subtle shift in ownership? Moses deftly reminds God that the Israelites aren't just some random group; they're His chosen people.

Then comes the real kicker. God, still reeling from the betrayal, declares His intention: "I will consume them, and I will make of thee a great nation."

This is the ultimate test for Moses. He could accept this offer, become the patriarch of a new, untainted nation. But he doesn't. Instead, he pleads for his people. "O Lord of the world!" replied Moses, "If the three-legged bench has no stability, how then shall the one-legged stand?" He's arguing that if the descendants of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob – the "three-legged bench" – couldn't remain steadfast, how could a nation sprung solely from him, the "one-legged" bench, possibly fare any better?

He then adds a fascinating detail: "Fulfill not, I implore Thee, the prophecies of the Egyptian magicians, who predicted to their king that the star Ra'ah would move as a harbinger of blood and death before the Israelites." Moses is saying, "Don't let our enemies be right about us! Don't let their negative prophecies define our future."

What follows is a powerful back-and-forth, a spiritual tug-of-war. Moses, armed with his unwavering faith and sharp wit, throws argument after argument at God, each designed to evoke mercy and understanding. He reminds God of Israel's initial acceptance of the Torah, their belief in Him in Egypt, their sacrifices, and their acknowledgment of Him at Sinai.

But God counters each point with the stark reality of their present sin. "But they transgressed the precepts of the Torah," God retorts. "They now bow down their heads before their idol."

It's a tense, dramatic moment. You can almost feel the weight of Moses's responsibility, the almost impossible task of defending a people who had so grievously strayed. This passage, found in Legends of the Jews by Ginzberg and echoing similar accounts in Exodus 32 and Deuteronomy 9, paints a vivid picture of divine anger tempered by human compassion, and the unwavering commitment of a leader who refused to abandon his people, even when they seemed to deserve it.

It makes you wonder, doesn't it? How far would we go to defend those who have wronged us? How much compassion can we muster for those who have lost their way? The story of Moses and the Golden Calf isn't just an ancient tale; it's a timeless reflection on leadership, faith, and the enduring power of forgiveness.

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Legends of the Jews turns to Egypt, Manna from Heaven.

Remember, the Israelites have just been freed from slavery in Egypt. They've witnessed incredible miracles, the splitting of the Red Sea, manna falling from heaven… but they’re still grumbling. They’re tired of manna. They crave meat. They remember the "good old days" in Egypt, conveniently forgetting the brutal enslavement. They whine and complain to Moses, demanding flesh.

The prophecy about the quails, delivered by those close to God, was not a blessing. As God tells Moses, according to Ginzberg's retelling, "Tell the people to be prepared for impending punishment, they shall eat flesh to satiety, but then they shall loathe it more than they now lust for it." Harsh words. God understood their hearts better than they did themselves. He knew their desire came from a place of misplaced entitlement. He says their proximity to the Shekinah (שכינה), the divine presence, made them believe they could demand anything. Had the Shekinah been removed, they wouldn't have dared such foolishness.

Moses, ever the advocate for his people, questions God. "O Lord," he asks, according to Ginzberg, "why, pray, dost Thou first give them flesh, and then, in punishment for their sin, slay them?" It’s a powerful image. He uses sharp analogies: "Who ever heard any one say to an ass, 'Here is a measure of wheat; eat it, for we want to cut off they head?' Or to a man, 'Here is a loaf of bread for thee; take it, and go to hell with it?'" He understands the tragic irony of a gift becoming a curse.

God, knowing the stubbornness of the people, tells Moses that his attempts to reason with them will be fruitless. Still, Moses tries. He reminds them of God’s power, how He brought forth water from the rock. "Is the Lord's hand waxed short?" he asks, echoing (Numbers 11:23). "Behold, He smote the rock, that the waters gushed out, and the streams overflowed; He can give bread also; can He not provide flesh for His people?"

But the people, blinded by their desire, are unconvinced. They doubt God's ability, accusing Moses of trying to placate them. And here’s the awful truth: they get what they want.

As we find in Midrash Rabbah, quails descend upon the Israelite camp in unbelievable numbers, like a blizzard of birds. The pious among them had barely retreated to their tents when the quails fell upon the godless, those who remained outside and openly craved the meat. The sheer weight of the birds killed many. They covered the sun, blanketed the landscape for what seemed like a day's journey in every direction, lying two cubits above the ground – high enough to be easily gathered.

The abundance was staggering. Even the weak and lazy gathered massive amounts – a hundred kor each, according to Ginzberg. A kor was a significant unit of measure – we’re talking about a truly gluttonous quantity.

But the satisfaction was short-lived. The Torah tells us in (Numbers 11:33) that "while the meat was yet between their teeth, before it was chewed, the anger of the Lord was kindled against the people, and the Lord smote the people with a very great plague." And, as Ginzberg tells it, hardly had they tasted the meat when they "gave up the ghost." The worst sinners died instantly. Those who were slightly better enjoyed the taste for a month before succumbing. Only the truly pious were spared, able to eat the quails without harm.

This event was a devastating blow, the worst since the Exodus. In remembrance, they renamed the place Kibroth-hattaavah (קִבְרֹת הַתַּאֲוָה) – "Graves of those who lusted." A stark reminder of the dangers of unchecked desire.

The winds that brought the quails were so powerful, Ginzberg notes, they could have destroyed the world. God's anger at their ingratitude was immense, and it was only through the merits of Moses and Aaron that the destructive force was contained.

What can we learn from this cautionary tale? Perhaps it's about the importance of gratitude, of recognizing the blessings we already have instead of constantly craving what we lack. Maybe it's about the dangers of unchecked desire, of letting our appetites control us. Or maybe it’s about trusting in something larger than ourselves. The story of the quails reminds us that sometimes, the things we think we want most can be the very things that destroy us.

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Legends of the Jews 5:81Legends of the Jews

There you are, wandering in the desert, sustained by food that literally falls from the sky. And yet…you grumble. You whine. You say, "Ugh, not manna again!" It sounds almost unbelievable. But that’s precisely the situation we find ourselves in with the Israelites in the wilderness, as recounted in Ginzberg's Legends of the Jews.

The story goes that after being freed from slavery in Egypt and led through the desert, the Israelites began to tire of their divinely provided sustenance, manna. This miraculous food, manna (מָן‎), is described in the Torah as a "fine, flake-like thing" (Exodus 16:14) that appeared each morning. Tradition holds that it tasted like whatever the person eating it desired. But despite its miraculous nature and adaptability, the people grew weary. They cried out, "Our soul loatheth this light bread!" (Numbers 21:5).

Then, as Legends of the Jews tells it, a voice boomed from the heavens. It called out to all humankind, pointing to the example of the serpent. Yes, that serpent. The one cursed in the Garden of Eden to eat dust. The voice thundered, "Come hither and hearken!" Look at the serpent, the voice commanded. Even though it was condemned to eat dust, it never complained. But you, My people, whom I led from Egypt, for whom I rained down manna, quails, and water…you murmur!

The voice continues, "Let now the serpents come…and let them bite those who murmur though they have a food that possesses every conceivable flavor.” The Zohar elaborates, painting a vivid picture of the serpent as the first creature to slander its Maker, earning its punishment. Now, it would become the instrument to punish those who, failing to learn from its fate, blasphemed their Creator by decrying the heavenly food as something that would bring them death.

And what happened next was terrifying. According to Legends of the Jews, the very serpents that had been burned by the protective cloud of glory surrounding the Israelite camp during their forty-year journey – serpents that lay heaped up around the camp – were now resurrected to bite the people. Their venom burned the souls of those they attacked. A truly horrifying punishment for the sin of ingratitude.

The story highlights a profound lesson about the nature of gratitude and the dangers of entitlement. It’s not enough to simply receive blessings; we must also appreciate them. We must recognize the miracle in the mundane, the divine gift in the everyday.

What does this story tell us about our own lives? How often do we, like the Israelites, focus on what we lack rather than what we have? How often do we take the blessings in our lives for granted, forgetting the source from which they flow? Perhaps the tale of the complaining Israelites and the avenging serpents serves as a potent reminder to cultivate gratitude, even – and especially – when things are difficult. Because sometimes, the greatest blessings are the ones we least appreciate. And sometimes, the consequences of ingratitude can be more venomous than we ever imagined.

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Our ancestors did. Even Moses, the great lawgiver himself, felt it. In fact, according to Ginzberg's retelling in Legends of the Jews, Moses experienced such fear not just once, but three times in his interactions with God!

The first instance arose when God decreed, "Let each give a ransom for his soul" (Exodus 30:12). Moses, seized by alarm, wondered, "If a man were to give all that he hath for his soul, it would not suffice!" But God, in His infinite wisdom, reassured him, saying, "I do not ask what is due Me, but only what they can fulfil; half a shekel will suffice." It’s a powerful reminder that God doesn't demand the impossible.

Then, a similar fear gripped Moses when God commanded, "Speak to Israel concerning My offering, and My bread for My sacrifices made by fire" (Leviticus 21:21). Trembling, Moses exclaimed, "Who can bring sufficient offerings to Thee? 'Lebanon is not sufficient to burn, nor the beast thereof sufficient for a burnt offering!'" Again, God responded with grace, "I demand not according to what is due Me, but only that which they can fulfil, one sheep as a morning sacrifice, and one sheep as an evening sacrifice."

The third time? The third time really hits home.

The third instance occurred during the instructions for building the Mishkan (מִשְׁכָּן), the sanctuary. Picture it: God is laying out the plans for this sacred space, and Moses cries out in fear, "Behold, the heaven and heaven of heavens cannot contain Thee, how much less this sanctuary that we are to build Thee?" (1 (Kings 8:2)7). Can you feel the weight of that statement? Even the vastness of the cosmos can't contain God, so how could this little tent?

And, just as before, God reassured him, "I do not ask what is due Me, but only that which they can fulfil; twenty boards to the north, as many to the south, eight in the west, and I shall then so draw My Shekhinah (שְׁכִינָה) together that it may find room under them." The Shekhinah, often translated as divine presence, would dwell within the Tabernacle despite its physical limitations. It’s a beautiful image of God's willingness to meet us where we are, in the spaces we create.

Why was God so insistent on having a sanctuary? According to the tradition, it was the very condition upon which He led the Israelites out of Egypt. In fact, in a certain sense, the existence of the entire world depended on it! The construction of the sanctuary, as the rabbis teach, anchored the world, which had been swaying precariously until then.

The Midrash (rabbinic interpretive commentary) even draws parallels between the Tabernacle and the creation story itself. The Tabernacle, in its separate parts, corresponded to the heaven and earth created on the first day. As the firmament was created on the second day to divide the waters, so a curtain in the Tabernacle divided the holy from the most holy. As God created the great sea on the third day, so the laver in the sanctuary symbolized it. And as He designated plants for nourishment, so the Tabernacle held a table with bread.

The candlestick in the Tabernacle mirrored the sun and moon created on the fourth day, its seven branches representing the seven planets. The Cherubim (כְּרוּבִים), angelic beings, with their bird-like wings, corresponded to the birds created on the fifth day. And finally, as man was created on the sixth day in God's image, so was the High Priest anointed to minister in the Tabernacle before the Lord.

What does all of this mean? Perhaps it's a reminder that even in the face of overwhelming tasks, God asks not for perfection, but for our sincere effort. And that the spaces we create, even the imperfect ones, can become vessels for the divine presence. The Mishkan wasn’t just a building, it was a microcosm of creation, a evidence of the enduring relationship between God and humanity, a relationship built not on perfect offerings, but on heartfelt intention.

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