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The Love Poem the Rabbis Read as a War Diary

A woman dark from the sun, a bridegroom calling from the mountains. The rabbis cracked the poem open and found Egypt, circumcision, and the Red Sea.

Curated by Arthur · Told by Maggid ·
Table of Contents
  1. The Tents That Held Treasure
  2. The Dark Skin and Where It Came From
  3. The Wars Hiding in the Love Song
  4. Moses at the Center

The Tents That Held Treasure

The bride in the poem speaks first about her skin. I am black, she says, but comely, like the tents of Kedar, like the curtains of Solomon. Kedar was a desert clan whose tents were famous for being ugly. Sun-scorched goatskin blackened by smoke and years of hard use, the tents of people who owned nothing a traveler would want to steal. An embarrassment from the outside.

The rabbis asked the question no one else thought to ask: what was inside those tents?

Their answer was gems and fine cloth and riches piled in the corners that the exterior gave no hint of. The scholar who looks unimpressive, they said. The awkward man in the threadbare coat who carries the Mishnah in his memory and the Talmud in his chest and the aggadah piled up in all the corners of his mind. The bride who looks like nothing from the road and holds the entire tradition inside.

Israel, the rabbis read, is the bride saying this about herself. The nations see Kedar's tent. They ride past. They do not stop. They cannot smell the balsam through the goatskin. But the bride is telling the bridegroom, and the bridegroom already knows what is inside.

The Dark Skin and Where It Came From

The poem says the sun has darkened the bride. Do not stare at me because I am dark, she says, because the sun has looked upon me. My mother's sons were angry with me; they made me keeper of the vineyards, but my own vineyard I have not kept.

The tradition cracked this line open and found slavery inside it. The mother's angry sons who sent her to the vineyards were the overseers who sent Israel to the brickyards. The sun that darkened the bride was the Egyptian sun, beating down on the backs of people building cities they would never live in. The vineyard she had not kept was the Sabbath, the commandments, the practice she had no space to observe under Pharaoh's quotas.

But the tradition was not reading this as accusation. The bride is explaining her appearance to the bridegroom, and the bridegroom is not withdrawing. He is calling her from Lebanon. He is calling her down from the mountains. The condition the nations see as disqualifying, the darkness, the labor, the neglected vineyard, the bridegroom reads as the biography of his beloved, the record of what she endured before he could reach her.

The Wars Hiding in the Love Song

Lebanon, in the geography of Song of Songs, sat at the edge of the promised land. The tradition read Lebanon as the Temple. Come from Lebanon, my bride, the bridegroom calls. The verse that sounds like a lover calling his beloved down from the mountain was, in the rabbinic reading, the voice of God calling Israel back from exile. Come from Lebanon: come back from the places the enemy carried you. Come from the head of Amana, from the top of Senir and Hermon.

The rabbis named the enemies. They mapped the geography of exile onto the geography of the poem. Each mountain in the poem was a nation that had held Israel or threatened it, and the bridegroom calling was the voice that would not stop calling even through the lion dens and the leopard hills. The poem's most erotic landscape was also a military map, and the homecoming it described was also a redemption.

Moses at the Center

The tradition placed Moses at the center of this reading. The verse about the bridegroom coming with a roe or a young hart, leaping on the mountains, was in the larger tradition about God coming to redeem Israel, but the tradition also read Moses in the image: the leader who ran ahead of the people into the wilderness, who stood between them and the sea, who stood between them and the fire at Sinai, who stood between them and God's anger after the calf. The young hart running.

The tradition that read Song of Songs as a love story between God and Israel could not read it without including the man who ran between them. The poem's bridegroom was not a metaphor that excluded history. It was a metaphor that included everyone who had ever stood in the middle and held the relationship together when it was about to break.


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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.

Shir HaShirim Rabbah 5:4Shir HaShirim Rabbah

5) found in Shir HaShirim Rabbah.

The tents of Kedar, were known for being… well, not pretty. Black, tattered, worn. Outwardly, they seemed ugly. But the Rabbis of the Midrash (rabbinic interpretive commentary) ask us to consider what might be inside those tents. What if, despite the rough exterior, they held treasures – gems, pearls, untold riches?

This becomes a powerful metaphor for Torah scholars. The Rabbis suggest that Torah scholars, too, may appear "ugly and black" in this world – perhaps meaning they are humble, unassuming, or even socially awkward. But inwardly? They are filled with the riches of Torah: Bible, Mishna (the core of the Oral Torah), Midrash (interpretive stories), halakhot (Jewish laws), Talmud (the vast legal and ethical compendium), Tosefta (a collection of Tannaitic teachings), and aggada (stories and legends). The true value, the real beauty, lies within.

The Midrash doesn’t stop there. It continues to examine the verse, drawing further comparisons and contrasts. If the tents of Kedar don't require laundering, does that mean Israel is always pure? No, the verse counters, "Like the curtains of Solomon." Solomon's curtains get soiled and need cleaning. So too, Israel sins throughout the year, but Yom Kippur (the Day of Atonement) arrives to atone for them. As (Leviticus 16:30) states, “For on this day He will atone for you.” And (Isaiah 1:18) promises, “If your sins will be like scarlet, they will be whitened as snow; if they will be reddened like crimson, they will be like wool.” There is a cycle of imperfection and renewal, stain and cleansing.

What about stability? Are the Jewish people destined to wander like the nomadic tribes who used the tents of Kedar? Again, the verse provides an answer: "Like the curtains of Solomon," specifically, "the curtains of the One [of Whom it may be stated] that the peace is His, the One Who spoke and the world came into being." These curtains, the heavens themselves, haven't moved since creation. Rabbi Eliezer ben Yaakov adds, citing (Isaiah 33:20), "'A tent that will not be displaced [yatzan]' – it will not emerge [yetze] and will not move [yanua]." The Jewish people, despite their wanderings, are ultimately anchored by their covenant with God.

And what about freedom? Were the people of Kedar subject to the yoke of any creature? No! And Rabbi Ḥiyya teaches, drawing from (Leviticus 26:13), that God led Israel "upright," "without fear of any creature." This verse, referring to the Exodus from Egypt, is understood as alluding to the future redemption as well.

Finally, Rabbi Yudan brings in the story of Joseph. Joseph, sold to the tents of Kedar (Genesis 37:28), ultimately "purchased his purchasers," acquiring all the land of Egypt (Genesis 47:20). So too, Israel, as (Isaiah 14:2) prophesies, "They will be captors of their captors."

So, what's the takeaway? This Midrash on "Like the tents of Kedar" is a powerful reminder to look beyond the surface. To see the value in what might initially appear unattractive or unassuming. To recognize the cycles of sin and atonement in our lives. To trust in the ultimate stability of our connection to God. And to believe in the eventual triumph of the Jewish people. It's a message of hope, resilience, and the enduring power of inner beauty. And that’s something worth pondering, isn’t it?

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Shir HaShirim Rabbah 7:4Shir HaShirim Rabbah

The Rabbis, in their insightful way, connect verses from different parts of the Bible to illuminate the Exodus story. They begin by focusing on the verse "Behold the bed [mitato]." Now, in this context, "bed" isn't just about a place to sleep. It's a symbol. And it leads to a deeper dive into the phrases "his tribes [matotav]" and "his clans." The Rabbis link "matot" to the phrase "The oaths of the tribes [matot]" found in (Habakkuk 3:9), drawing a parallel between the tribes of Israel and their solemn commitments.

Then comes "of Solomon [Shlomo]," but it's not just about King Solomon, son of David. The Rabbis cleverly add, "of the king [of Whom it may be said] that peace [shalom] is His." This connects Solomon, whose name means "peace," to God himself, the ultimate source of peace. Pretty neat, huh?

Next, the text speaks of "sixty valiant men." But who are these men? According to Shir HaShirim Rabbah, these represent the six hundred thousand Israelites who left Egypt, all those twenty years of age and above. And what about "the valiant of Israel?" Those are the six hundred thousand who departed Egypt from twenty years of age and below. A whole nation, young and old, ready to start anew.

Here’s where it gets truly interesting. "Each armed with a sword, trained in war; each man, a sword on his thigh." This isn't just about physical weapons; it's about spiritual readiness. When Moses relayed God's commandment, "All uncircumcised shall not eat from it" (Exodus 12:48), every single man grabbed his sword and circumcised himself. Imagine that scene. A mass act of faith and obedience, right there in the desert.

But who performed all those circumcisions? The text presents two fascinating opinions. Rabbi Berekhya suggests that Moses was the circumciser, Aaron uncovered the skin (a necessary part of the ritual), and Joshua gave them something to drink afterward. A real team effort! Others say it was Joshua who performed the circumcisions, Aaron who uncovered the skin, and Moses who provided the drink. This alternative version links to (Joshua 5:2), where God commands Joshua to "Make flint knives for yourself and circumcise the children of Israel again, a second time."

Why "a second time?" Because, according to this interpretation, they had already been circumcised once before! Immediately, "Joshua made flint knives for himself, and circumcised the children of Israel at the Hill of the Foreskins" (Joshua 5:3).

And what's the deal with this "Hill of the Foreskins?" Rabbi Levi offers a powerful image: that the hill was actually made from the foreskins themselves. Can you picture that? A physical evidence of their commitment to God, a mountain of sacrifice rising from the desert floor.

So, what do we take away from this midrashic (rabbinic interpretive commentary) exploration? It's more than just a story about circumcision. It's about the unwavering faith and dedication of a people preparing to enter into a covenant with God. It's a reminder that sometimes, the most profound acts of faith require courage, sacrifice, and a willingness to embrace the covenant, even when it's challenging. And it makes you think – what "hills of foreskins" are we building in our own lives, what sacrifices are we making to live a life dedicated to the Divine?

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Shir HaShirim Rabbah 8:1Shir HaShirim Rabbah

The first reading, it’s a beautiful invitation. But as Shir HaShirim Rabbah, the rabbinic commentary on Song of Songs, reveals, there’s so much more going on.

The verse repeats, "With me from Lebanon, my bride, with me from Lebanon." The Rabbis ask, what’s the significance of Lebanon? Levanon in Hebrew, is cleverly connected to levenim, meaning bricks. The Holy One, blessed be He, is saying: “Come with Me from Lebanon.” But what does that even mean?

The commentary goes on to explain that normally, a virgin is given twelve months to prepare for her wedding once her husband asks to marry her, as we find in Ketubot 57a. She needs time to gather all her needs for the big day! But God didn't wait. As the Israelites were still toiling, still engaged in "mortar and bricks" in Egypt, He hastened to redeem them. He didn’t make them wait.

It's a powerful contrast to, say, the story of Ahasuerus in the Book of Esther, who subjected the women in his kingdom to elaborate beauty treatments: “Six months with myrrh oil [shemen hamor], [and six months with perfumes, and with women’s cosmetics]” (Esther 2:12). Rabbi Yehuda bar Yeḥezkel says that shemen hamor is oil of the boxwood. Rabbi Yannai says it's the oil of unripe olives, used to remove hair and soften the skin. But God’s love is different. He saw the suffering, and acted swiftly.

And that brings us to another powerful image: Rabbi Berekhya and Rabbi Yirmeya, citing Rabbi Ḥiyya bar Abba, recall Rabbi Levi ben Sisi's teaching from Neharde'a. They point to (Exodus 24:10): "They saw the God of Israel, and under His feet [was like the craftsmanship [kemaaseh] of sapphire brickwork]." Before the redemption from Egypt, they saw this vision. But after? The heavenly brick, representing the bricks of enslavement, was stored away, its purpose fulfilled. As Rabbi Berekhya says, it wasn't just the brick, but "it and all its accessories were placed there; it, its basket, and its trowel were placed." Wow.

Bar Kappara adds that until the Exodus, the impression of the brick was visible in the sky. But once Israel left Egypt, it disappeared, "as it is when it is clear of clouds," referring to the Targum Yerushalmi on (Exodus 24:10). The sign of their suffering was gone, replaced by a clear sky, a symbol of freedom.

The Holy One, blessed be He, then promises to always be with His people. "When you were exiled to Babylon, I was with you," as (Isaiah 43:14) states, "For your sake I was sent to Babylon." And the promise extends to the future: "When you return to the chosen House," – meaning the Temple – "I am with you. That is what is written: “With me from Lebanon, my bride." The Temple itself is linked to Lebanon because it was built with cedars from Lebanon!

But then Rabbi Levi asks a poignant question: Why "from Lebanon" and not "to Lebanon"? His answer is striking: First, God departs from the Temple, and then He exacts retribution from the nations of the world. It’s a powerful image of divine justice. Rabbi Berekhya adds that God exacts retribution from Esau and his chieftains at three junctures, citing the three-fold promise in (Isaiah 33:10): “Now I will arise, the Lord will say, [now I will ascend, now I will be exalted].”

And finally, Rabbi Shimon ben Rabbi Yannai paints a vivid picture: "As long as [Israel] is wallowing in the ashes, as it were, so is [the Holy One blessed be] He." Isaiah echoes this sentiment: "Shake the dust from you, arise and sit, Jerusalem" (Isaiah 52:2). At that moment, Zechariah proclaims, "Be silent all flesh before the Lord" (Zechariah 2:17). Because, as Rabbi Aḥa says, God is roused "like this hen that shakes its wings free from the midst of the ashes."

So, what does it all mean?

It's about remembering our past, the suffering and the redemption, and knowing that God is with us in both. It's about recognizing the symbols of oppression and celebrating their removal. It's about the promise of future redemption, and the assurance that even in exile, even in the ashes, God is present, ready to shake free and rise with us.

What "bricks" are holding you back today? And how can you find God in the midst of them, waiting to redeem you?

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