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Solomon Built Bigger Than Moses but God Never Forgot Which Came First

Solomon's Temple dwarfed the wilderness Tabernacle. He added ten golden candelabras to the one Moses made. Every evening the priests lit Moses's menorah first.

Curated by Arthur · Told by Maggid ·
Table of Contents
  1. The Lamp the Priests Lit First
  2. The Altar That Kept Its Old Name
  3. Solomon's Palanquin and the Structure of Creation
  4. Where Solomon Went Wrong
  5. The Fire That Was Never to Go Out

The Lamp the Priests Lit First

Moses made one menorah in the wilderness. He followed the exact specifications God dictated on Sinai, worked the gold himself, shaped the branches and the cups and the knops according to the pattern shown on the mountain. When Solomon built the Temple, he placed that menorah inside it, and then he added ten more candelabras, five on each side of the original, filling the sanctuary with light (1 Kings 7:49). A reasonable act of expansion. An act of devotion. An act that made the original menorah look small.

Every evening when the priests prepared the Temple lamps, Legends of the Jews records what happened: they lit Moses's menorah first. Always first. Not because it was the largest or the brightest. Solomon's ten candelabras gave more light. Moses's menorah gave precedent. The ritual acknowledgment was embedded in the lighting sequence, and it was maintained every evening the Temple stood.

The Altar That Kept Its Old Name

Solomon built a new altar for his Temple, larger and more magnificent than the wilderness altar Moses had constructed. But when he named the new altar, he kept the name of the old one. Legends of the Jews, drawing on the midrashic tradition, reads this as a complex gesture of honor that contained its own shadow. God, the text implies, prized Moses's original altar with an intensity that Solomon's grand replacement could not fully satisfy. The fire that had burned on Moses's altar continuously since its dedication, the text in Leviticus says, was never to go out. God's attachment to that particular flame was not transferred to Solomon's new structure. The new altar was accepted and honored. The old one was mourned.

Solomon's Palanquin and the Structure of Creation

Bamidbar Rabbah, the midrashic collection on Numbers compiled in approximately the eleventh century CE, reads the palanquin mentioned in the Song of Songs (3:9-10) as Solomon's construction standing in for the structure of creation itself. The palanquin's cedar posts represent the four directions. Its gold and silver represent the mixed materials of the cosmos, fire and water brought together in the firmament on the second day of creation. The Midrash identifies the builder of the palanquin not as Solomon the king but as the Holy One, the God who brought peace between opposing elements to make a habitable world.

Solomon understood this. His Temple was not an act of individual ambition. It was an attempt to build, in wood and gold and stone, the structure that creation itself was organized around. The mistake would be to think that succeeding at that attempt was the same as surpassing the Tabernacle that had made the attempt before him. The cosmic palanquin was always there before either structure. Solomon and Moses both built toward it, and neither arrived at anything more than an approximation.

Where Solomon Went Wrong

The tradition did not pretend Solomon was without fault. Legends of the Jews records the specific violations that the Torah had anticipated and forbidden. A king of Israel shall not multiply horses (Deuteronomy 17:16): Solomon multiplied horses. A king shall not multiply wives (Deuteronomy 17:17): Solomon multiplied wives. A king shall not greatly multiply silver and gold (Deuteronomy 17:17): under Solomon, silver and gold became so common they were used for ordinary household utensils. He thought, or the rabbis suggest he thought, that his wisdom was sufficient to slip past the prohibitions without being bound by them, that he could accumulate what was forbidden because his understanding exceeded the ordinary concerns that had produced the prohibitions in the first place. He was wrong in the specific way that the wisest people are wrong: he believed the rules applied to everyone except the person who understood them most fully.

The violation of the prohibition against accumulating gold is the one the tradition treats most seriously, because gold is what the Temple was made of, and what the menorah and the altar were covered in, and the gold that should have been devoted to God's service was also the gold that furnished Solomon's palace and filled his treasury and passed through the hands of his seven hundred wives.

The Fire That Was Never to Go Out

God's response to the continuous fire on Moses's altar was, in the rabbis' reading, a statement about what human devotion looks like from the divine side. The fire kept burning because someone kept feeding it. The act of continuous maintenance, the unspectacular daily work of keeping the flame from going out when the novelty of the original lighting had long since faded, was what God honored most. Solomon built magnificently once. Moses's priests maintained faithfully every day. The menorah lit first every evening in the Temple was the tradition's acknowledgment that the second kind of act is harder and, in God's accounting, more significant.

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Legends of the Jews 3:18Legends of the Jews

Legends of the Jews turns to Solomon Added Ten Candelabras but Moses's Came First.

Why ten candelabras in total? Solomon, in his wisdom, chose the number ten to mirror the Ten Commandments, the Ten Utterances revealed at Sinai. And each of these candelabras? They held seven lamps, bringing the grand total to seventy – a number corresponding to the seventy nations of the world. Ginzberg, in his Legends of the Jews, beautifully explains that as long as these lamps burned brightly, the power of those nations was held in check. But the moment those flames were extinguished. well, that's when the nations would gain ascendancy. A potent image, isn't it?

The placement of these sacred objects within the Temple was also deeply significant. The menorah stood on the south side of the sanctuary, while the table holding the showbread was placed to the north. This positioning wasn't accidental. The table, according to tradition, symbolized the delights that await the righteous in Paradise, which Jewish tradition often places in the north. And the light of the menorah? That represented the radiant presence of the Shekhinah (שְׁכִינָה), the divine presence. In the world to come, the ultimate delight, the ultimate reward, will be to gaze upon that divine light.

What became of this sacred object? It wasn't immune to the tides of history. The menorah, due to its immense sacredness, was among five holy items that God concealed when Nebuchadnezzar destroyed the Temple. Think about the weight of that for a moment: the Ark of the Covenant, the menorah, the altar’s fire, the Holy Spirit of prophecy, and the Cherubim– all hidden away.

The promise, as we find in various Midrashic (rabbinic interpretive commentary) sources, is that these objects will be restored when God, in His infinite loving-kindness, rebuilds His house and Temple. It's a powerful symbol of hope and resilience. A reminder that even in the darkest of times, the light – both literal and spiritual – will eventually return.

So, the next time you see a menorah, remember its rich history, its profound symbolism, and the enduring promise of restoration. It's more than just a candelabrum; it's a beacon of hope, a evidence of faith, and a reminder of the enduring presence of the Divine.

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Legends of the Jews 3:23Legends of the Jews

When he built the Beit Hamikdash, the Holy Temple, in Jerusalem, he constructed a brand new altar for offerings. But Solomon, in his wisdom, retained the original name for his new altar, acknowledging the profound significance of the original.

Did God appreciate this gesture? According to one telling, it seems God felt a little bittersweet about it. The text implies, almost with a sigh, that God prized Moses's original altar so much that he declared: "To reward Israel for having had 'a fire kept burning upon the altar continually,' I shall punish 'the kingdom laden with crime' by fire 'that shall not be quenched night or day; the smoke thereof shall go up forever.'" (Legends of the Jews). A powerful statement, isn't it? A potent reminder of the consequences when that sacred fire is extinguished through wrongdoing.

The story doesn’t end there. There were actually two altars: the brazen altar and the golden altar. And these two altars, according to tradition, represent something incredibly profound about us as human beings.

The brazen altar? That corresponds to the body. Think of the sacrifices offered there, the offerings of animals. Just as our bodies need sustenance, so too did this altar require offerings.

The golden altar, on the other hand? That represents the soul. Think about the spices, the sweet incense that were burned. The soul, finds delight in fragrance, in the ephemeral and spiritual.

Ginzberg, in Legends of the Jews, explains that just as gold is more valuable than brass, the soul is greater than the body. But here’s the key: both altars were used daily!

Why? Because we, as human beings, must serve our Creator with both body and soul. We can’t neglect one for the other. We need to nourish both, to tend to both. The sacrifices offered on the brazen altar mirror the food that nourishes our bodies, while the sweet incense on the golden altar symbolize the perfumes that delight the soul.

What a powerful image. It's a reminder to be present, to be embodied, and to engage in physical acts of service. But, at the same time, it's an urging to nurture our inner life. To seek out that which elevates and inspires us. Perhaps, in attending to both our "altars," we can find a little bit more of that eternal flame within ourselves.

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Bamidbar Rabbah 12:4Bamidbar Rabbah

Bamidbar Rabbah turns to Solomon's Palanquin as a Metaphor for All of Creation.

The Bamidbar Rabbah, a collection of rabbinic teachings on the Book of Numbers, offers us a stunningly creative interpretation of a verse from the Song of Songs (3:9-10): "King Solomon made himself a palanquin from the timber of Lebanon.." This isn't just about a fancy chair for royalty; it's a metaphor for the very structure of creation!

The text unfolds like a divine blueprint. This "palanquin," the Bamidbar Rabbah suggests, is the world. And who is King Solomon in this context? None other than the Holy One, blessed be He, who brought peace (shalom) between fire and water, combining them to craft the firmament, the shamayim – heaven itself. Remember how (Genesis 1:8) tells us, "God called the firmament heaven"? Well, shamayim is cleverly broken down into esh (fire) and mayim (water).

Where did the materials come from? "From the timber of Lebanon," says the verse. But Rabbi Yosei bar Ḥalafta offers a fascinating connection: This refers to the Foundation Stone, located in the inner sanctum of the Temple. This stone, he says, is what the world was founded upon. As it says in (Psalms 50:2): "From Zion, the epitome of beauty, God appeared."

And what about the palanquin's features? "He crafted its pillars of silver, its cushioning of gold, its seat of purple wool; its interior is inlaid with love, from the daughters of Jerusalem." (Song of Songs 3:10). The pillars of silver are the firmament, almost as if they "put the act of Creation to shame," mekhasef, because the heavens themselves relate the glory of God (Psalms 19:2). The cushioning of gold? That's the earth, producing fruits as varied and precious as gold itself. The seat of purple wool? That's the sun, riding on a chariot (merkavo) and illuminating the world, just like a bridegroom leaving his bridal chamber (Psalms 19:6). The sun's power brings rain and fruit, weaving sustenance for all creatures. In fact, the term argaman, purple wool, is linked to vayman from (Daniel 1:5), alluding to the portion allotted to humanity.

And the most intimate part, "its interior is inlaid with love"? This is Adam and Eve, created to rule over all of creation. They are the beloved, the reason for it all.

But there's more to this metaphor. The Bamidbar Rabbah presents another interpretation: The palanquin, apiryon, was created for procreation, lifriya. As (Isaiah 45:18) states, "He did not create it for emptiness; He formed it to be inhabited." The Holy One, blessed be He, created it so there would be peace (shalom) between creations, echoing (Isaiah 45:7): "Who forms the light and creates darkness, makes peace…"

The "timber of Lebanon" can also be understood as the counsel (shebaatzat) of the Torah, whose matters are clear (melubenet). It's through the Torah that God created the world, aligning with (Proverbs 8:14): "Counsel and resourcefulness are mine."

The Bamidbar Rabbah also connects this palanquin imagery to the Temple itself, the Ark of the Covenant, and even the Tabernacle. Each element – the pillars, the cushioning, the seat – finds a parallel in these sacred spaces. For example, the pillars of silver become the two pillars before the Sanctuary, and the cushioning of gold represents the gold overlaying the Temple.

Rabbi Azarya, quoting Rabbi Yehuda ben Rabbi Simon, sees the "interior inlaid with love" as the Divine Presence itself. It's a reminder that even behind the Ark cover, the Divine Presence is present.

So, what does it all mean? Perhaps it’s a reminder that the world around us isn't just a random collection of matter. It's a carefully crafted palanquin, a sacred space created with love, wisdom, and a profound purpose: for life, for peace, and for connection with the Divine. And just as the Bamidbar Rabbah weaves together seemingly disparate verses, maybe we too can weave together our understanding of the world, finding deeper meaning in every detail.

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Legends of the Jews 5:24Legends of the Jews

The story of Solomon, a king whose legendary wisdom was almost overshadowed by his transgressions.

Solomon for his wisdom, but let's be real: he wasn't perfect is familiar. He slipped up in a few key areas. For starters, he married a gentile woman, which, according to some interpretations, wasn't done for the purest of reasons. More than that, though, he broke some serious rules laid out in the Torah. He kept too many horses, something strictly forbidden for a Jewish king. And he hoarded gold and silver – another major no-no. The text makes it clear: "he amassed much silver and gold," and the law finds this abhorrent.

In Legends of the Jews, under Solomon, silver and gold became so common that people used them for everyday utensils! Imagine eating your breakfast with a golden spoon! But all this extravagance, all this flaunting of the rules…it came at a price. Solomon would have to atone for it later, and painfully so.

Let's not dwell only on the negative. Solomon's claim to fame, the thing that truly set him apart, was his legendary wisdom. Remember the story of God appearing to him in a dream in Gibeon? God offers him anything he wants. Now, only a few figures in Jewish tradition have had such an offer, like King Ahaz, and the promise of this opportunity for choosing will only be fulfilled by the Messiah in the future. What does Solomon choose? Not riches, not power, but wisdom. He understood that with wisdom, everything else would follow. Smart move. And boy, was he wise! The Scriptures tell us his wisdom was "greater than the wisdom of Ethan the Ezrahite, and Heman, and Calcol, and Darda, the three sons of Mahol." According to Ginzberg's retelling in Legends of the Jews, that means he was even wiser than figures like Abraham, Moses, and even Adam! isn't it?

Think about his proverbs. We only have about eight hundred of them today. But, as we find in Midrash Rabbah, each verse can be interpreted in multiple ways, effectively making it equal to three thousand! Solomon delved into the laws revealed to Moses, offering explanations for the rituals and ceremonies of the Torah. Without his insights, some of these practices might have seemed…well, a little strange.

The "forty-nine gates of wisdom," a concept familiar to both Moses and Solomon, were open to him. But Solomon, in his ambition, even tried to surpass Moses! He was so confident in his judgment that he considered dispensing justice without witnesses, if it wasn't for divine intervention. Can you imagine the potential for abuse of power?

So, what's the takeaway here? Solomon's story is a reminder that even the wisest among us are fallible. It's a story about the seductive nature of power and wealth, and the importance of staying true to one's principles. But it's also a evidence of the incredible power of wisdom, and its ability to illuminate the world around us. Solomon’s legacy isn’t just about his gold or his throne, but about the timeless wisdom he left behind, wisdom that continues to guide and inspire us today.

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