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Nakdimon Ben Gurion Borrowed Rain From Heaven

Nakdimon staked his fortune on twelve wells of water returning before sunset, then prayed until the clouds came and the sun turned back.

Curated by Arthur · Told by Maggid ·
Table of Contents
  1. The Bargain Made in a Drought
  2. The Prayer in the Temple Courtyard
  3. When the Sun Came Back
  4. The Name and What It Cost

The Bargain Made in a Drought

Three times a year the Torah required every Jewish man to make the pilgrimage to Jerusalem, for Pesach, Shavuot, and Sukkot. Tens of thousands of pilgrims came with children and animals, and in a drought year the city's cisterns could not hold them. One year the shortage became a crisis. Nakdimon ben Gurion, one of the three wealthiest men in Jerusalem, went to a Roman official who controlled twelve great cisterns outside the city and proposed a deal. Lend me the water. The pilgrims will drink. I will return the cisterns full by a fixed date, or I will pay you twelve talents of silver.

The Roman agreed. The pilgrims drank. The fixed date approached without a drop of rain. When the morning of the deadline arrived, the sky was an unbroken sheet of copper. The Roman official walked to the city gate before noon, already composing his demand. He found Nakdimon and said: "Return my water, or pay me my silver." Nakdimon said: "The day is not yet over." The Roman laughed and went to the bathhouse to wait.

The Prayer in the Temple Courtyard

Nakdimon went to the Temple. He wrapped himself in his prayer shawl and stood in the courtyard and prayed. In some versions of the story there are three wells, not twelve, and in some the amount owed is different, but the shape of the moment is constant: a man who has staked everything he has on the sky's cooperation, standing alone in a sacred space at the hour when the sky shows no sign of moving.

The clouds came. The rain fell. By evening the twelve cisterns were full. Nakdimon walked to the gate. The Roman official came out of the bathhouse and met him. "The cisterns are full and there is rain left over," Nakdimon said. "Pay me for the surplus." The Roman refused. The day was over when the rain came, he said. It came after sunset, after the legal deadline, and the debt stood. Nakdimon turned and went back to the Temple.

When the Sun Came Back

He prayed a second time. And the clouds parted. The sun came back. Not the next morning's sun but the same day's sun, reversing its course, filling the western sky with the light of an afternoon that had already passed. The deadline was not yet over. The day the Roman had declared finished was still, by the sun's own testimony, open. Nakdimon walked to the gate and collected his surplus.

The Talmud preserves a detail that the Roman did not let the moment pass without a challenge. He told Nakdimon that the cloud cover was what had made it seem like the sun came back, that the apparent miracle was a meteorological trick. Nakdimon, who had already had his day extended by the sun itself, did not argue. He had his money.

The Name and What It Cost

His name, Nakdimon, meant light, the one who made the sun shine. It was given to him, the tradition says, precisely because of this event. He had been born with a different name. The miracle renamed him.

The other half of his story belongs to a later generation. After the Roman siege of Jerusalem in 70 CE, Nakdimon's family was destroyed along with everything else. Rabbi Yochanan ben Zakkai, surviving the catastrophe, encountered Nakdimon's daughter picking grain from between the hooves of Roman horses. She had been one of the richest women in Jerusalem, raised on carpets laid in the street so her feet would not touch bare ground, her marriage contract specifying hundreds of thousands of dinars. The man whose prayer had held back the sunset could not hold back the empire. What the miracle gave, the empire took.

Nakdimon Ben GurionRainJerusalemPilgrimageMiraclesDestruction
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From the tradition

Sources

8 sources

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

Ta'anit 19b-20aHebraic Literature (1901)

Three times a year, the Torah commanded, every Jewish man should make the pilgrimage to Jerusalem for the festivals (Deuteronomy 16:16). Pesach, Shavuot, and Sukkot drew tens of thousands of pilgrims into the city. And water became a crisis.

One year there was a drought. The city's cisterns ran low, and thousands of pilgrims were arriving with thirsty children and thirstier animals. A nobleman of Jerusalem owned three great wells outside the city. A pious man named Nakdimon ben Gurion came to him and offered a deal.

Lend us the water in your three wells, he said. The pilgrims will drink. By a fixed date, rain will fall and I will refill your wells exactly as you left them. If I fail, I will pay you an enormous sum of silver.

The nobleman agreed. The water flowed. The pilgrims drank.

The day of reckoning arrived. No rain had fallen all season. The three wells stood dry. At dawn the nobleman sent a messenger to Nakdimon demanding the silver. Nakdimon looked up at the cloudless sky and answered calmly: The day is but begun. There is yet time.

The rest of this story, told in tractate Taanit 19b-20a, has Nakdimon going into the Temple, praying with all his force, and calling down a torrent that fills all three wells by sunset. But this passage, preserved in Hebraic Literature (1901), breaks off at the moment of faith, leaving Nakdimon standing in the sunlight saying, There is yet time. That line is the entire Jewish theology of prayer in a single breath.

Full source
Exempla of the Rabbis, No. 85Exempla of the Rabbis (Gaster, 1924)

In a year of terrible drought, Nakdimon ben Gorion, one of the three wealthiest men in Jerusalem, approached a Roman official and made a desperate bargain. He borrowed twelve wells full of water to supply the city's needs, promising to repay them by a certain date. If the wells were not refilled by then, Nakdimon would owe twelve talents of silver.

The deadline arrived. Not a drop of rain had fallen. The Roman came to collect his silver, practically gloating. Nakdimon asked for one more day. The Roman agreed. Noon passed. The afternoon wore on. The sky remained a sheet of burning copper.

The Roman went to the bathhouse, confident he would be richer by evening. At the same hour, Nakdimon went to the Temple. He wrapped himself in his prayer shawl, stood before God, and prayed: "Master of the Universe, it is known before You that I did not do this for my own glory, nor for the glory of my father's house, but for Your glory. So that the pilgrims would have water."

The sky darkened. Rain poured down in torrents. The twelve wells overflowed with fresh water.

The Roman emerged from the bathhouse to find the city drenched. But he had one objection: "The sun has already set. The rain fell after the deadline. You still owe me the silver." Nakdimon returned to the Temple and prayed again. The clouds parted. The sun broke through and shone once more before finally setting, extending the day itself beyond its natural limit. The Talmud in Taanit (19b-20a) records that the heavens bent twice for Nakdimon that day: once for rain, and once for sunlight.

Full source
Exempla of the Rabbis, No. 85Exempla of the Rabbis (Gaster, 1924)

Nakdimon ben Gorion was one of the wealthiest men in Jerusalem, and he had made a dangerous bargain. He borrowed twelve wells of water from a Roman nobleman, the Hegemon, promising to return them filled to the brim by a specific date. If he failed, he would owe a staggering sum of money.

The deadline arrived, and the wells were dry. No rain had fallen. The Hegemon rubbed his hands in anticipation of the fortune he was about to collect. He sent a message to Nakdimon: "Pay me my money, or return my water." Nakdimon asked for more time. "The day is not yet over," he said.

The Hegemon laughed. The sun was already sinking toward the horizon. What rain could possibly fall in the few hours remaining? He went to the bathhouse, confident in his victory.

Nakdimon went to the Temple and wrapped himself in his prayer shawl. "Master of the Universe," he prayed, "You know that I did not borrow those wells for my own honor, but for Yours, to provide water for the pilgrims coming to Jerusalem." The sky darkened. Clouds rolled in from nowhere. And the rain fell in torrents, filling all twelve wells to overflowing.

But the Hegemon had one last trick. "The sun has already set," he declared. "The rain came after the deadline. You owe me the money." Nakdimon returned to prayer, and God performed a second miracle: the sun broke back through the clouds, reappearing after it had already set. The day was extended. The wells were full. The debt was canceled. And Nakdimon received his name, from the word "nakad," meaning the sun broke through, because the sun itself reversed course for his sake.

Full source
Gaster, Exempla No. 85The Exempla of the Rabbis (1924)

Jerusalem was dying of thirst. Nakdimon ben Gorion, one of the wealthiest men in the city, made a desperate deal. He borrowed twelve great cisterns' worth of water from a Roman Hegemon, an occupying official, on a single condition: if Nakdimon did not return the twelve cisterns full of water by the end of a specified day, he would owe the Roman twelve talents of silver.

The day arrived. The cisterns were dry. The sky was clear. The Roman stood at the gate waiting for his silver, smiling. Nakdimon went into the Temple courtyard, wrapped himself in his prayer shawl, and prayed.

Clouds gathered. Rain began to fall. The cisterns filled one after another. Nakdimon returned to the Hegemon just as the last drop of water settled. But the Roman was ready for this too. "The sun has already set," he said. "The day is over. You are late. Pay me."

Nakdimon went back into the Temple and prayed again. The clouds broke apart. The sun reappeared, climbed back into the western sky, and shone as if it were still midafternoon. The Hegemon stood in the street, caught between a Roman calendar and a Jewish sun, and paid nothing.

Ta'anit 20a and Gaster's Exempla (1924), No. 85, explain his name. Nakdimon comes from the root nkd, to shine through, to pierce. The sun had broken through for him. His name was the miracle carved into his identity for the rest of his life.

A city can be saved by clouds. A deadline can be saved by a sun that refuses to stay set.

Full source
Ketubot 66b-67a; Gaster, Exempla No. 135The Exempla of the Rabbis (1924)

Nakdimon ben Gurion, one of the three wealthiest men of Jerusalem before the Roman siege, had been so rich that, according to tradition, his daughter's dowry alone was twelve thousand gold denarii, with a thousand denarii earmarked for perfume. During the siege he kept the city in food while his water miraculously filled three dry wells. His name meant light; his household shone.

Then the Temple burned in 70 CE. The Roman army ground Jerusalem into rubble. Nakdimon's fortune, like every Jewish fortune in the city, evaporated in smoke and ash.

Some time later, Rabbi Yochanan ben Zakkai, the sage who had smuggled himself out of the burning city and rebuilt Jewish learning at Yavneh, was riding his donkey out of town when he saw something that stopped him. A girl, barefoot, was following the animals of a rich man and picking barley grains out of their dung. She was sifting dung to eat.

He looked at her face. He knew it. My daughter, he asked, who are you?

I am the daughter of Nakdimon ben Gurion, she answered.

Where is all your father's wealth?

Rabbi, she said, in Jerusalem they used to say: the salt of wealth is its loss. Meaning: only giving preserves it; hoarded wealth spoils. My father gave generously, but not quite enough.

Rabbi Yochanan wept. Then he took action. He married her to one of his own disciples so that she would not starve and so that the bloodline of the great Nakdimon would not die picking dung in the road.

This story from tractate Ketubot 66b-67a, preserved in The Exempla of the Rabbis (Gaster, 1924), is a memorial stone for what the destruction did to Jerusalem. It also teaches that tzedakah, charity, is the only insurance a Jew truly has. What you give, you keep. What you hoard, the Romans take.

Full source
Exempla of the Rabbis, No. 135Exempla of the Rabbis (Gaster, 1924)

After the destruction of the Temple, the wealthy families of Jerusalem were reduced to utter destitution. The Talmud (Ketubot 66b) records the most heartbreaking example: the daughter of Nakdimon ben Gurion, once one of the richest men in all of Israel.

Nakdimon had been so wealthy that when his daughter walked to the synagogue, servants would spread fine woolen carpets before her feet so she would not have to step on bare ground. Her marriage contract specified astronomical sums, hundreds of thousands of dinars in support.

After the destruction, Rabban Yohanan ben Zakkai encountered her outside Jerusalem. She was picking barley grains from among the dung of Arab livestock. She was starving, dressed in rags, reduced to scavenging food from animal waste.

"My daughter, who are you?" Rabban Yohanan asked. "I am the daughter of Nakdimon ben Gurion," she wept. "And what happened to your father's wealth?" "Is there not a saying in Jerusalem: the salt of money is its diminishment?" She meant: wealth is preserved only through charity. And her family, despite its enormous fortune, had not given enough.

Rabban Yohanan ben Zakkai wept as well. "How blessed are you, Israel," he said. "When you do God's will, no nation can rule over you. When you do not do His will, you are handed over to a lowly nation. And not merely to the nation itself, but to its animals." The image of Nakdimon's daughter picking grains from dung became the indelible symbol of how completely fortune can reverse when a people loses God's favor.

Full source
Taanit 19b (via Hebraic Literature, 1901)Hebraic Literature (1901)

When Israel went up to Jerusalem for one of the three pilgrimage festivals (Exodus 34:23-24), a season came in which the wells ran dry. There was no water for the pilgrims to drink. Nicodemon ben Gorion, one of the wealthiest men of the city, went to a pagan neighbor and struck a bargain. He rented twelve enormous reservoirs of water, promising to return them full by a fixed day — or forfeit twelve talents of silver.

The day came. The sky was cloudless. There had been no rain all season. The creditor arrived at Nicodemon’s door grinning, certain of his silver, and went off to the bathhouse to celebrate early.

Nicodemon, heartbroken, went instead to the Temple. He wrapped himself in his tallit and prayed: “Master of the Universe, you know I did not enter this obligation for my own sake. It was for Your glory, that Your pilgrims might drink.”

As he prayed, the sky darkened. Rain poured down until the twelve reservoirs overflowed. Nicodemon emerged and met his creditor in the street. “Pay me,” he said, “for the water I have given you, which is worth more now than your silver.” The creditor replied, “The sun has already set; the rain came too late.” Nicodemon turned back to the Temple and prayed once more, and the clouds parted, and the sun shone again over Jerusalem just long enough for the bargain to be settled.

The storytellers note that his name was Buni — but he was called Nicodemon because, for his sake, the sun pierced through (nokeid) the clouds.

Full source
Talmud, Ketubot 66bHebraic Literature (1901)

One morning Rabban Yochanan ben Zakkai rode out of Jerusalem with his disciples. On the road, he saw a young woman bent over, picking individual barley grains out of the droppings left by cattle.

He stopped his donkey. He asked her name.

"I am the daughter of Nikodemon ben Gorion," she answered.

Yochanan knew the name. Nikodemon had been one of the three wealthiest men of Jerusalem before the Roman siege, famous for his storehouses of grain and wine. The sages told that he could feed the besieged city for weeks from his own granaries. His daughter's dowry alone had been a scandal of opulence.

"What has become of your father's riches?" Yochanan asked, stunned. "And what has become of your own dowry?"

The young woman answered with a proverb the sages themselves taught. "Do you not remember," she said, "that charity is the salt of riches?"

Her meaning was sharp. Riches preserved by generosity last. Riches hoarded decay. Her father had not been known for his charity, and so the storehouses had rotted with Jerusalem itself. She added: "Do you not remember signing my marriage contract?", reminding the Rabbi that he himself had been a witness to a fortune he now watched disappear from his roadside.

The Talmud (Ketubot 66b) preserves this encounter. Wealth without the salt of tzedakah does not survive the first disaster.

Full source