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Terah Was Born Into a World the Ravens Were Eating

Mastema sent ravens to strip the fields bare when Terah was born. The famine that named him shaped the world his son Abraham would one day defy.

Curated by Arthur · Told by Maggid ·
Table of Contents
  1. The Year the Birds Came
  2. Mastema's Bargain After the Flood
  3. A Name Born From Hunger
  4. The Fourteen-Year-Old Who Fought Back

The Year the Birds Came

In the year Terah was born, the ravens arrived. Not a few birds picking at the edges of fields. A systematic destruction. Mastema, the chief of spirits who had bargained God into allowing him a tenth of his forces to remain active among human beings, was using those forces to strip the earth bare. The ravens descended on the seed before it could be ploughed under. They took it from the surface of the ground. They cleaned the fields the way fire cleans a room.

The people ate what they had stored and planted again and the ravens came back. They planted a third time and the birds came back again. The fruit of the trees was stripped before it could ripen. What little grain survived the birds was scratched out of the earth with enormous effort. The generation that Terah was born into was starving slowly, year by year, in a world that should have been capable of feeding them.

Mastema's Bargain After the Flood

After the flood, when God bound the demons who had corrupted the world before the waters came, Mastema had come forward with a negotiation. "Let some of them remain before me," he said. "Let them hearken to my voice." He argued that without demons active among human beings, he could not execute the power of his will on the sons of men. He needed agents. He needed the capacity to lead astray and corrupt and test.

God agreed. Nine-tenths of the demonic forces were bound in the place of condemnation. One-tenth remained, active in the world, answerable to Mastema. This was the arrangement that governed the world Terah was born into. The ravens were Mastema's permitted instruments. The famine they created was the exercise of his legal right under the post-flood covenant.

A Name Born From Hunger

The word terah carries the sense of delay, of lingering, of a thing that does not move when it should. Some traditions connect it to the stalled journey, the man who set out for Canaan and stopped in Haran. Others connect it to the dry and dusty quality of the world into which he was born, a world that the ravens had scraped clean of seed and left hollow.

He grew up in that hollow world. The idol trade that his father Nahor practiced was partly a product of the famine years, when desperate people would pay for any object that promised to mediate between their prayers and the sky. Terah learned the business from his father, learned to carve the figures and set the prices, learned to treat the gods as merchandise in a market that never went satisfied.

The Fourteen-Year-Old Who Fought Back

The tradition preserves one strange detail that interrupts the picture of passive suffering. When Abraham was fourteen years old, he drove away the ravens. Not with nets or traps or organized effort. He went out into the fields his father's household worked and he stood in them and he spoke, and the birds left. The Book of Jubilees records this without explaining how it worked, without offering a mechanism. The boy who would later discover the God above the sky simply stood in the field that Mastema's birds had been stripping for years and drove them off.

He drove them off for the whole season. That year the earth produced abundantly. The fields yielded what they were supposed to yield. The family harvested enough to eat and enough to store. It was the first full harvest in years, and it happened because a boy stood in a field and refused to let the birds take the seed.

TerahMastemaRavensJubileesAbramChaldeesFamineDemons
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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.

Book of Jubilees 10:14Book of Jubilees

Here, we get a glimpse into a celestial negotiation, a cosmic bargain struck about the fate of humanity. It's a negotiation that hinges on a character you might not know so well: Mastêmâ.

Who is Mastêmâ? He's described as the "chief of the spirits," and in this passage from Jubilees 10, he approaches the Creator with a request. It’s not exactly a humble request, either. He essentially asks for a workforce, a retinue of spirits to carry out his will.

Why?

The Mastêmâ says these spirits are essential. He argues that without them, he won't be able to "execute the power of my will on the sons of men." In other words, he needs these spirits to tempt, to corrupt, and to lead humanity astray. He claims "these are for corruption and leading astray before my judgment, for great is the wickedness of the sons of men." Sounds like he's blaming humanity for his own need to tempt them, doesn't it? The text implies a cosmic system where temptation, the yetzer hara (the "evil inclination"), is not just a random occurrence but an active force, managed and deployed. What are we to make of it?

So, what's the divine response? Does God grant Mastêmâ’s wish completely?

No. There's a compromise. God decrees that only a tenth of the spirits will remain with Mastêmâ, while the other nine-tenths are cast down "into the place of condemnation." It's a fascinating image, isn't it? A celestial bureaucracy, haggling over percentages of demonic influence.

But even with only a tenth, Mastêmâ still has power. He still has the ability to influence humanity. It raises some serious questions. Does this absolve us of responsibility for our actions? Are we merely puppets dancing to the tune of demonic influence? Jewish tradition generally argues against that. We are endowed with free will, the ability to choose good over evil, even when the whispers of temptation are loud.

Perhaps the story of Mastêmâ and the spirits is not meant to be taken literally. Perhaps it's a metaphor for the internal struggles we all face, the constant battle between our higher and lower selves. Maybe the "spirits" are simply the negative thoughts and impulses that we must learn to control.

Whatever the interpretation, this passage from the Book of Jubilees offers a powerful glimpse into the complex and often unsettling world of Jewish angelology and demonology. It reminds us that the struggle between good and evil is not just an external battle, but an internal one as well. And it's a battle that, ultimately, we have the power to win.

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Book of Jubilees 11:17Book of Jubilees

Book of Jubilees turns to Terah and the Heavenly Realms.

So, what does Jubilees tell us about Terah?

Jubilees 11 tells us that Terah's father, whose name is not mentioned here, taught him the "researches of the Chaldees." What does that mean? It means he taught him divination and augury, reading the signs in the heavens. In other words, astrology and other forms of predicting the future were part of his upbringing. It was a world steeped in what we might call pagan practices.

Can you picture it? A world where people looked to the stars for guidance, trying to decipher the will of the divine through celestial patterns.

The text goes on to tell us that in the thirty-seventh jubilee (Jubilees divides time into these 49-year periods), in the sixth week, in the first year of that week, Terah took a wife. Her name was ’Îjâskâ, the daughter of Nêstâg of the Chaldees. And seven years later, she bore him Terah. So, we even get a little family genealogy!

But here's where things get even more interesting. The Book of Jubilees doesn’t just give us family history. It also offers a glimpse into the spiritual battles that were supposedly raging at the time. That Prince Mastêmâ – we might think of him as a kind of chief of the evil spirits – sent ravens and birds to devour the seed that had been sown in the land. His goal? To destroy the land and rob humanity of their hard work.

Why? What’s Mastêmâ’s motivation? Perhaps it's simply to sow chaos and prevent prosperity. Or maybe it’s a more targeted attack, an attempt to prevent the birth of someone significant. After all, Terah is the father of Abraham, a pivotal figure in the history of monotheism. Could this be an attempt to thwart God's plan?

It makes you wonder about the forces at play in the world, seen and unseen. The Book of Jubilees paints a picture of a world constantly under threat, where even the simple act of sowing seeds is a battle against cosmic forces. It adds a layer of drama and intrigue to the familiar story of Abraham's origins.

What does this all mean for us? Well, it reminds us that even the most important figures in our tradition came from complex, often messy, backgrounds. Abraham didn’t emerge from a vacuum. He was the son of Terah, who was raised in a world of astrology and spiritual conflict. It emphasizes the idea that transformation is possible, that people can rise above their circumstances and choose a different path. And perhaps, it also serves as a reminder to be mindful of the seeds we are sowing, both literally and figuratively, and the forces that may try to thwart our efforts.

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Book of Jubilees 11:31Book of Jubilees

Let me tell you a story from the Book of Jubilees, an ancient Jewish text that expands on stories from the Torah.

It’s sowing season. The time when farmers scatter seeds, entrusting their future harvest to the earth. Everyone’s out in the fields, working together, but also guarding their precious seeds. Why? Because ravens love to swoop down and snatch them up. And Abram, a mere lad of fourteen years, is right there with them.

The scene: A dark cloud descends – a swarm of ravens, hungry and ready to devour the freshly sown seeds. Disaster looms! But young Abram? He doesn't panic. He runs towards the approaching menace.

Here’s where the story takes a turn that’s pure Jewish folklore. Abram doesn't just wave his arms or shout. He speaks to the ravens. He cries out, "Descend not! Return to the place whence ye came!"

And here’s the kicker: They listen. The ravens turn back.

Can you believe it?

The Book of Jubilees tells us that Abram turned back the clouds of ravens seventy times that day. Seventy times! And not a single raven managed to steal a single seed in the land where Abram stood guard.

What does this story tell us? It's not just about a boy shooing away birds, is it?

It's a glimpse into the unique character of Abraham. Even as a young boy, he possesses an innate authority, a power of speech, a connection to the world around him that transcends the ordinary. He understands that words have power, that intention matters. That even the natural world responds to a righteous heart. We often see Abraham as the patriarch, the founder of a nation, the man who made a covenant with God. But stories like this, from texts like the Book of Jubilees, remind us that even the greatest figures start somewhere. They have moments, even as children, that hint at the extraordinary destiny that awaits them.

This small episode in the field becomes a powerful symbol. It speaks to Abraham's inherent ability to protect, to nurture, and to command respect, not through force, but through the sheer force of his will and the purity of his intention. Perhaps, in those fields long ago, he was already sowing the seeds of faith, the seeds of a legacy that would resonate for millennia.

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