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Mount Sinai Existed Before the World Was Made

The rabbis asked why God gave the Torah in a wilderness. The answer led them before creation, to a mountain waiting thousands of years.

Curated by Arthur · Told by Maggid ·
Table of Contents
  1. The Mountain That Was Made on the Second Day
  2. Why It Had to Belong to No One
  3. God Revealed at the Mountain
  4. Why the World Was Made for the Torah

The Mountain That Was Made on the Second Day

The question sounds too simple to be interesting: why did God give the Torah in the wilderness? Not in Jerusalem, not in a city with walls and a name and a claim on the land. In the emptiest place the ancient world could imagine, a mountain in the desert that belonged to no people and had no history. The rabbis refused to let this pass without an answer.

The Legends of the Jews, drawing on earlier midrashic sources, provides one: Mount Sinai was among the things created on the second day of creation. That was the day God made the firmament, fire, the angels, and the foundations of Gehinnom. The mountain was not geological. It did not arise through the ordinary processes that raise rock from the earth over millions of years. It was placed. It was designated. It was made specifically because the Torah required a place, and the Torah's place had to exist before the Torah itself could be given. Sinai stood empty in the desert for thousands of years before anyone walked to its base, waiting for a moment that had been planned before the first morning.

Why It Had to Belong to No One

The wilderness was not a failure of planning. It was the plan. Bamidbar Rabbah, the great rabbinic commentary on Numbers compiled in Byzantine Palestine, explains: Torah must be given in a place that belongs to no one, because Torah is for everyone. If the law had been given in Israel, the nations of the world would have said it was not for them. If it had been given in any one country, that country would have owned it. The wilderness gave the law to no particular nation, which meant it could be claimed by all of them.

This argument extends the logic of the mountain's creation. Sinai was not assigned to any tribe, not annexed by any kingdom, not built on anyone's ancestral memory. It was empty and has stayed empty, which is exactly what it needed to be. The emptiness was the point.

God Revealed at the Mountain

When the moment came, the mountain shook. Fire and smoke and the sound of the shofar growing louder rather than fading, which was the opposite of how the shofar worked in human hands. The people stood at the foot of the mountain and were told not to approach, not to touch it, not to let even their animals graze near it. The tradition preserves this distance as sacred rather than excluding. The mountain was consecrated ground, and consecrated ground has rules.

How God revealed Himself at Sinai was a question the Midrash pursued with particular intensity. The tradition argued that God's voice went out in all seventy languages simultaneously, so that every nation could hear it in the tongue they understood. Israel heard it and experienced it as overwhelming, as terrifying, as something they could not bear directly without an intermediary. They pulled back and asked Moses to go up and bring the words down to them. Moses went up.

Why the World Was Made for the Torah

The Midrash that asks what Sinai reveals about the purpose of creation gives an answer that inverts the obvious sequence. The usual assumption is that God created the world and then, much later, decided to give Israel the Torah. The tradition insists the order is reversed. God created the world because the Torah needed a world to inhabit. The world was made for the sake of the Torah, not the Torah given to a world that already existed for other reasons. Sinai, made on the second day, was the visible sign of this priority: the place of the giving was built before the giving was announced, because the giving was the reason for everything else.

The claim says that a mountain in the Sinai desert, standing empty for thousands of years of geological time, was the purpose toward which the first morning had always been moving. The angels created on the same day understood this. The Torah given at Sinai was the thing the second day of creation had been for.


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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.

Legends of the Jews 1:26Legends of the Jews

On the second day of Creation, God didn't just whip up one thing, but four: the firmament, hell, fire, and the angels.

This firmament isn't just the "heavens" we talked about on the first day. Oh no, this is something else entirely. It's from this firmament that the heavens get their light, much like the earth gets its light from the sun.

Its job isn't just to be pretty. This firmament is a shield, a cosmic partition. It prevents the earth from being completely swamped by the waters above. Imagine a world without that protection! According to this legend, it's the divider between the waters above and the waters below.

So, how did this crystal canopy come to be? Well, according to the Legends, it was forged by heavenly fire. This fire, bursting forth, solidified the surface of the firmament, making it the barrier it is. This idea of fire creating division – separating the celestial from the terrestrial – is echoed later, during the revelation at Mount Sinai. It's a recurring motif, fire acting as a boundary between the divine and the earthly.

And here’s the kicker: this massive firmament, holding back unimaginable amounts of water, is supposedly only three fingers thick! I know. It's hard to wrap your head around. Yet, it separates the "waters below" – the foundations of the netherworld – from the "waters above," which form the foundations of the seven heavens, the Divine Throne, and the home of the angels. for a second. This incredibly thin barrier is holding back the very foundations of existence, both above and below. It's a powerful image, isn't it?

It makes you wonder about the unseen forces, the hidden structures, that are constantly at play in our world, holding things together in ways we can barely comprehend. What other "firmaments" are out there, protecting us from forces we don't even know exist? What invisible shields do we create, in our own lives, to work through the chaos and uncertainty around us?

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Bamidbar Rabbah 1:1Bamidbar Rabbah

The Israelites knew that feeling intimately. Our story begins in just such a place: "The Lord spoke to Moses in the wilderness of Sinai, in the Tent of Meeting, on the first of the second month, in the second year of their exodus from the land of Egypt, saying" (Numbers 1:1).

Why the wilderness? Why there, of all places?

Bamidbar Rabbah, a collection of rabbinic teachings on the Book of Numbers, dives right into this question, connecting it to a verse from Psalms: "Your righteousness is like the mighty mountains; Your justice is like the great depths" (Psalms 36:7). The text draws a fascinating parallel between God's righteousness, visible and towering like mountains, and God's justice, often hidden and mysterious like the depths of the ocean.

Rabbi Meir, a sage known for his sharp intellect, takes this idea further. He suggests that the "great depths" refer to the punishment of the wicked. It's a place of concealment. He finds analogies for both the righteous and the wicked in the words of the prophet Ezekiel. For the righteous: "In a good pasture I will herd them, and on the mountains of the height of Israel will be their grazing place" (Ezekiel 34:14). A place of elevation, of nourishment, of clear visibility.

But for the wicked? "So said the Lord God: On the day that it descended to the grave I caused mourning; I covered the depths for it" (Ezekiel 31:15). They are covered, hidden, buried in the depths.

Ḥizkiya bar Rabbi Ḥiyya offers a striking image: think of a clay vat, covered with a lid made of the same clay. The wicked, whose deeds are done in darkness – "Their actions are in the dark, and they say: Who sees us and who knows of us?" (Isaiah 29:15) – are ultimately covered by that same darkness. As it says in Genesis, "And darkness upon the surface of the depths" (Genesis 1:2).

So, God's righteousness is like towering mountains, plain for all to see. But God's justice? That can feel like a hidden thing. The Midrash (rabbinic commentary) asks: how can this be?

The destruction of Jerusalem, a pivotal moment in Jewish history, offers a powerful example. The Midrash tells us that the destruction occurred on the ninth of Av, a day of mourning. But when God showed the destruction to Ezekiel in a vision, He showed it to him on the first of the month. Why the discrepancy? To conceal the exact date of the tragedy. God's justice, in this moment of immense suffering, was shrouded in mystery.

But the Midrash doesn't leave us in despair. It contrasts this hiddenness with the future redemption of Israel. When the time comes to uplift Israel, God will reveal everything: the exact day, place, month, year, and era. There will be no more concealment. As the verse says, "[The Lord spoke to Moses in the wilderness of Sinai, in the Tent of Meeting, on the first of the second month, in the second year] of their exodus from the land of Egypt, saying" (Numbers 1:1). Everything is laid bare, precise, and clear. And what does He say? "Take a census of the entire congregation of the children of Israel" (Numbers 1:2). A new beginning, a fresh start, based on clarity and truth.

What does this mean for us? Perhaps it's a reminder that even when we can't see the full picture, even when we're wandering in the wilderness, there's a purpose. And that one day, the hidden things will be revealed, and justice will shine as brightly as the mountains.

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Legends of the Jews 2:47Legends of the Jews

Legends of the Jews turns to Sinai, Giving of the Torah.

What happened at Sinai wasn't just a simple exchange. Oh no. Picture this: the heavens themselves ripped open. Mount Sinai, no longer bound to the earth, ascended skyward, its peak piercing the heavens. A dense cloud enveloped its slopes, reaching toward the very foot of God's throne. It's an image of immense power and awe.

God wasn’t alone, of course. He was accompanied by legions of angels. Ginzberg, in his Legends of the Jews, describes a breathtaking scene. On one side were twenty-two thousand angels, carrying crowns specifically for the Levites. Why the Levites? Because, according to tradition, they were the only tribe that remained steadfast in their faith during the episode of the Golden Calf. A powerful reward for their loyalty!

Then, on the second side, were sixty myriads – that's 600,000 – three thousand five hundred and fifty angels. Each one bore a fiery crown, one for every single Israelite present. Now, double that number of angels appeared on the third side. And on the fourth side? Well, there were so many they simply couldn’t be counted. Innumerable.

The account goes on to say that God didn't appear from just one direction, but from all four simultaneously. Imagine that! It didn't diminish His glory, though. His presence filled both heaven and earth. It's hard to even wrap your head around that kind of spectacle, isn’t it?

Despite the sheer number of angels gathered on Mount Sinai, there was no chaos, no crowding. There was room for everyone. A miracle in itself. Every angel was there to honor Israel and the giving of the Torah, the teachings. But there was also a condition. According to the Legends of the Jews, these very same angels had received orders to destroy Israel if they refused the Torah. Talk about high stakes!

It makes you think, doesn't it? The giving of the Torah wasn't just a nice story, a feel-good moment. It was a pivotal moment with profound consequences, an awesome display of divine presence coupled with a very real choice. What would have happened if they had rejected it? It's a chilling thought, and a powerful reminder of the weight of our choices and the enduring significance of that revelation at Mount Sinai.

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Midrash Tehillim 8:3Midrash Tehillim

Midrash Tehillim 8, a commentary on the Book of Psalms, explores the very heart of that moment, revealing a surprising twist about who actually guaranteed the Torah's acceptance by the Jewish people.

The passage begins with a verse from Proverbs (6:1): "My son, if you have become surety for your neighbor, if you have struck your hand for a stranger." The Midrash (rabbinic interpretive commentary) interprets this in multiple ways. At one level, it speaks to the responsibility of scholars and leaders. When someone is appointed to a position of authority, they become a guarantor for the community. They must be careful to avoid calling "the impure pure, and the pure impure, that the forbidden is permitted, and the permitted is forbidden," lest they be "obligated to the words of [their] mouth." In other words, they must uphold justice and truth, guided by Torah.

The Midrash doesn’t stop there. It takes a fascinating turn, applying this idea of surety to the giving of the Torah at Mount Sinai. God wanted to give the Torah to Israel, but He asked for guarantors, someone to ensure that the people would uphold it. The people initially offered their ancestors as guarantors. But God, as the Midrash puts it, essentially said, "They are already obligated to me! I want someone who can stand on their own.”

It's like going to a bank for a loan and offering a guarantor who’s already in debt. The bank wants someone with a clean slate, someone who can truly vouch for you.

So, who could possibly be guarantors, completely free of prior obligations? The answer is astonishing: the infants! According to the Midrash, the Jewish people brought the infants before God. Can you picture it? These tiny, innocent beings, measured "their cubits and the circumferences of their heads," standing firm, "like a brick of an artisan, like the appearance of glass." They even saw God "from within the brick" and spoke with Him. This imagery is powerful!

As (Psalm 8:3) says, "From the mouths of babes and sucklings hast Thou founded strength."

God then laid out the terms of the covenant, reciting the Aseret haDibrot, the Ten Commandments. To each commandment, the infants responded with a resounding "Yes!" The Midrash emphasizes that it was from their mouths that God gave the Torah to the people. This is no small detail: "there is no strength except in Torah, as it is said (Psalms 29:11) 'The Lord gives strength to His people.'"

But why infants? What’s so special about them? Perhaps it’s their innocence, their purity, their complete and utter trust. They represent the potential for unwavering faith and commitment, untainted by the complexities and compromises of the adult world. They are a blank slate upon which the Torah can be inscribed.

The Midrash goes on to warn about the consequences of neglecting the Torah. When Israel abandons its teachings, they are held accountable. As (Hosea 4:6) says, "My people are destroyed for lack of knowledge."

The passage concludes with two differing interpretations by Rav and Levi of what happened to the infants after this momentous event. Rav suggests that they "became like the beams of a palace, shining like the brightness of the firmament," while Levi says that the "last miracle was greater than the first," as everything returned to normal, with the infants going back to their swaddling cloths and graves. Regardless of which interpretation is correct, both agree that the infants opened their mouths and sang a song, fulfilling the verse in (Psalms 8:3).

So, what does this all mean for us today? It reminds us that the Torah is not just a set of laws or stories from the past. It’s a living, breathing covenant, constantly being renewed and reaffirmed. It reminds us that even the smallest and seemingly insignificant among us can play a vital role in upholding its teachings. It challenges us to approach the Torah with the same innocence, trust, and unwavering commitment as those infants at Sinai. And it reminds us that the future of the Torah, and indeed the world, rests in the hands of each new generation.

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Iggeret Teiman 142-143Iggeret Teiman (Maimonides)

Iggeret Teiman (Maimonides) turns to How God Revealed Himself At Mount Sinai.

It wasn't a divine downpour, like hailstones from the sky. Instead, according to Iggeret Teiman, as quoted in Tree of Souls, God revealed Himself slowly, gradually. Imagine it: moving from mountaintop to mountaintop, a divine presence drawing closer, culminating in His descent upon Mount Sinai.

What exactly did our ancestors see at this momentous occasion? According to Eliyahu Rabbah, they saw "no form resembling a human being, nor resembling the form of any creature. nor resembling the form of anything that has breath." So, what did they see? They saw only God. Just… God. The one God, whose kingdom, as it is said, endures in heaven and on earth. The Lord your God is the God of gods and the Lord of lords (Deut. 10:17).

This might sound a bit paradoxical. We’re told that God revealed Himself, but also that the people didn't see anything resembling something they could understand. How do we reconcile that?

Think of it this way: Maimonides, interpreting (Deuteronomy 33:2) (“Yahweh came from Sinai and rose from Mount Seir to them; He shone forth from Mount Paran”), suggests that God’s presence wasn’t a sudden, jarring event, but a gradual unveiling. Rashi echoes this idea, emphasizing a step-by-step revelation.

But the crucial point, highlighted in Eliyahu Rabbah, is the absence of a human form. Why is this so important? Because it serves as a vital corrective to what could be called anthropomorphic tendencies in Judaism. Remember (Genesis 1:26), "In the image of God He created them"? This verse, and the rich tradition surrounding it, can sometimes lead us to envision God in human terms.

The tradition insists that God cannot be limited to a physical representation. The people saw something, they saw God, but what they saw transcended human description. It was a revelation of the divine essence, beyond form and image.

So, what does this all mean for us today? Perhaps it reminds us that our understanding of God can never be complete. We strive to connect with the divine, to glimpse the infinite, but ultimately, God remains beyond our full comprehension. And maybe, just maybe, that's the point. The mystery, the awe, the recognition that we are in the presence of something infinitely greater than ourselves. It’s a humbling, and ultimately, a deeply inspiring thought.

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