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The Temple Stood Where Adam Learned to Return

Adam settles on Mount Moriah after Eden because the gate he can no longer enter is close, and the place of return becomes the place of the Temple.

Curated by Arthur · Told by Maggid ·
Table of Contents
  1. Adam Was Given an Address
  2. David Could Not Outrun What God Already Knew
  3. Jerusalem Fell but the Geography Remained
  4. Exile Does Not Have to Be the Last Word

Adam Was Given an Address

Genesis says God sent Adam out to till the ground from which he had been taken. It does not say where Adam went. Midrash Tehillim 92:5 supplies the detail that changes the whole sound of the expulsion: Adam settled on Mount Moriah, because the gates of the Garden of Eden were close by.

This is not nostalgia. Adam did not camp near the gate because he hoped the cherub would get distracted and he could slip back in. He settled there because that was the place where the path between the created world and the place he came from was still visible, still present, still real, even if the gate was closed and the sword was turning in every direction.

The midrash makes one further claim: God took Adam from the place of the Holy Temple. The dust from which Adam was shaped was taken from the site of the altar. He was formed at Moriah. He was expelled toward Moriah. The expulsion returned him, exiled, to the place of his making.

David Could Not Outrun What God Already Knew

Midrash Tehillim 139:2 reads Psalm 139 as an inventory of what God knew before David could speak it. God knew David's sitting and his rising. God knew David's lying down and his waking. God knew the flight from Saul, the years in the cave, the decision at each crossroads. God knew the desire for the Temple, the longing to build it, the grief of being told he would not, before David had assembled the words to express any of it.

You have searched me and known me, the Psalm says. The midrash does not make this surveillance feel oppressive. It makes it feel like being seen. A person who is fully known by God does not have to perform unknowing. The cover story falls away. What remains is the actual David, who wanted the Temple so badly that God credited the wanting as if the building had been built.

David's connection to Mount Moriah runs through his longing. He prepared the materials. He gathered the silver and the gold and made all the arrangements he could. He could not lay the first stone. But he had been drawn toward the same site that drew Adam after Eden, the site where the human being's relationship with God is most nakedly present.

Jerusalem Fell but the Geography Remained

Midrash Tehillim 79:1 watches Jerusalem fall. The nations have entered God's inheritance. They have defiled the holy Temple. They have laid Jerusalem in ruins. The Psalm's cry is unguarded: how? How did this become real?

The midrash does not offer a comfortable answer. It holds the question alongside the two earlier moments: Adam expelled to the site of his making, David longing toward the site he could not build. The pattern is not one of continuous blessing interrupted by disaster. It is one of the same site holding the same gravity across every disruption, every expulsion, every burning.

After Adam left Eden, Mount Moriah was where the gate was visible. After the Temple burned, Mount Moriah was still where the Temple had been. The location does not stop being what it is because what stood on it is gone. The geography of return outlasts the buildings that mark it.

Exile Does Not Have to Be the Last Word

Adam on Mount Moriah, David unable to build, Jerusalem burning: each one is a form of exile from what the site promises. Each one is also a person or a people remaining near the place, not forgetting it, not moving to a different address that would be easier to bear.

The first Sabbath psalm, which the midrash says Adam sang on Mount Moriah, is a psalm of praise. He sang it not from inside the garden but from outside, standing near the gate that would not open, singing about the goodness of the One who had made him and the place he was standing and the Sabbath that had spoken for him.

Midrash TehillimAdam EveDavidTempleJerusalemExileRepentance
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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.

Midrash Tehillim 92:5Midrash Tehillim

A collection of insightful interpretations on the Book of Psalms, Adam, the first man, wasn't just plopped down anywhere. After being driven from the Garden of Eden, he settled on Mount Moriah. Why there? Because, the Midrash (rabbinic interpretive commentary) explains, the gates of Eden were close by. It's a powerful image, isn't it? Adam, expelled but still lingering near the source of all creation.

The text goes on to say that God took Adam from the place of the Holy Temple and returned him to the earth outside the Garden on Mount Moriah, to till the soil from which he was taken, as it says in Bereshit (Genesis 3:23). So, in this view, the Temple Mount is not just significant later in Jewish history, but intimately connected to the very beginning of humanity.

Midrash Tehillim then pivots to Psalm 92, "It is good to give thanks to God," attributing this sentiment directly to Adam himself. The idea here is profound: that even after the expulsion, even after the mistake, gratitude is the appropriate response. This teaches all generations that confessing and abandoning sins leads to salvation. There's a beautiful cycle of repentance and redemption woven into the fabric of existence. It highlights that God's kindness extends into the next world, a perpetual morning, while His faith sustains this world, like the enduring night.

Get this: The Midrash emphasizes the importance of communal testimony. It notes that many significant acts require a quorum of ten people (a minyan). From playing the harp, reminiscent of King David’s melodies, to legal testimonies, circumcision, blessings, and property redemptions – the presence of ten emphasizes the weight and validity of these acts. As it says, “And Boaz took ten men” (Ruth 4:2). It’s a reminder that we are not alone on this journey; community and shared experience strengthen our connection to the divine.

The text then quotes God as saying, "I do not want a song with a harp from Israel, but rather the meditation of their lips," referencing the verse, "My meditation on Him shall be sweet" (Psalm 104:34). This suggests that while outward expressions of praise are valuable, inward reflection and heartfelt prayer are even more cherished. It's about the sincerity of our connection, not just the spectacle.

Then comes a fascinating anecdote involving Rabbi Shimon ben Yochai, a central figure in the Kabbalah, and his students. Rabbi Hezekiah, son of Rabbi Jeremiah, recounts how one of Rabbi Shimon's disciples became wealthy after visiting Hadakai. The other students, seeing this wealth, grew envious. To teach them a lesson, Rabbi Shimon miraculously filled a valley with gold coins, telling them they could take as much as they wanted. However, he warned them that whatever they took would be deducted from their reward in the world to come. Upon hearing this, the students wisely withdrew their hands and instead proclaimed, "My happiness is in your deeds, O Lord." It's a powerful reminder that true wealth lies not in material possessions but in spiritual fulfillment.

The Midrash concludes with a personal aspiration: "May the Lord make me happy and bring me into the Garden of Eden, and show me the place of the righteous. and show me the son of Jesse who will rule in the future, and I will add seventy years to my life." It's a prayer for divine grace, a glimpse into the rewards awaiting the righteous, and a longing for the messianic era.

So, what does it all mean? Perhaps it's a call to remember our origins, to appreciate the gift of repentance, to value community, and to seek true wealth not in material possessions but in a deep and meaningful connection with the Divine. It's a story that invites us to contemplate our place in the interplay of existence, from the Garden of Eden to the promise of a future filled with righteousness and peace. And maybe, just maybe, to cultivate a little more gratitude in our own lives, today.

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Midrash Tehillim 139:2Midrash Tehillim

Midrash Tehillim, a collection of rabbinic interpretations of the Book of Psalms, offers a profound and intimate look at this idea in its commentary on Psalm 139. This psalm, traditionally attributed to King David, opens with the powerful lines: "O LORD, thou hast searched me, and known me." It speaks to a God who sees us completely, flaws and all. But it's not just about being seen, it's about being understood.

The Midrash (rabbinic interpretive commentary) explores this idea through a series of reflections, connecting David's experience to other figures in Jewish history, even Adam himself. It uses the phrase, "You knew Shabti and Kumi, etc." What's Shabti and Kumi? They're not actually explained here, and their meaning is debated, but the core idea is clear: God knows us even in the most obscure and unknowable aspects of ourselves.

The text then brings in the story of David fleeing from his son Absalom. Even in his darkest hour, David doesn't cry out in protest against God. Instead, He maintains his faith, even when facing betrayal and hardship. It's a evidence of the unwavering trust he places in God's understanding.

Rabbi Judah offers a fascinating perspective, suggesting that Psalm 139 was actually first uttered by Adam, the first man. As the Midrash puts it: "O LORD, thou hast searched me, and known me. And you know that I could not have existed without a woman." This refers to (Genesis 2:18), "It is not good that the man should be alone." God knew Adam's inherent need for companionship, for connection, before Adam himself may have even fully understood it. It emphasizes God’s pre-existing and intimate knowledge of our very beings.

The Midrash gets even more evocative: "You knew Shabti and Kumi. Shabti in the Garden of Eden and Tirofi from within it. My paths and my quarters you have scattered." It paints a picture of God knowing us down to the smallest detail, even in the idyllic paradise of Eden. It's a reminder that God’s knowledge isn’t limited to our actions; it extends to our very essence, the fabric of our being.

What does it mean that our "paths and our quarters" have been scattered? The Midrash connects this to (Numbers 23:10), "Who can count the dust of Jacob?" It's a metaphor for the vastness and complexity of human experience.

And here's the really striking part: "Just as a person winnows in the threshing floor and takes the grain and throws away the chaff, so you have scattered the fourth part and have taken what you knew and made me from it." This is powerful stuff! It suggests that God took the essential elements, the "grain," from the scattered fragments of our potential, and from that, created us. It’s not just about being known, it's about being created from that knowledge, shaped by divine understanding.

So, what does all of this mean for us today? It suggests that we are not alone in our struggles, our doubts, or our imperfections. There is a force in the universe that knows us, truly knows us, even better than we know ourselves. And from that knowledge, we are formed, we are sustained, we are loved. It’s a comforting and challenging thought, isn’t it? To be seen so completely. To be understood so deeply. And to know that, in that understanding, lies the very essence of our being.

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Midrash Tehillim 79:1Midrash Tehillim

It’s a very human feeling. And it’s a feeling that resonates deeply within the words of the Midrash Tehillim, specifically in its commentary on Psalm 79.

The Midrash (rabbinic interpretive commentary) opens with a seemingly unrelated, but insightful, teaching. We hear in the name of Rabbi Abbahu, citing Rabbi Yochanan, that one should contemplate their actions. A seemingly simple statement, but it encourages us to be mindful, to avoid situations where we might burden others. Then Rabbi Yudan Meshkalisa comments on the instruments used to praise God, contrasting them with the "two-edged sword" mentioned in (Psalm 149:6), a metaphor for God's own instrument of justice.

Things really take off when the Midrash turns its attention to the Psalm itself: "God, nations have come into Your inheritance; they have defiled Your holy temple, they have laid Jerusalem in ruins." (Psalm 79:1). It’s a cry of anguish, a lament over the destruction of the Temple and the desecration of the Holy City.

That leads to a key question: how could this happen? How could Jerusalem, a city so divinely protected, fall?

The Midrash quotes (Lamentations 4:12): "The kings of the earth did not believe, nor all the inhabitants of the world, that the adversary and the enemy could enter the gates of Jerusalem." It was unthinkable! After all the miracles, all the times God intervened… remember King Hezekiah and the siege of Sennacherib?

The Midrash recounts earlier times when God intervened. When Amalekites attacked Ziklag, David sought God's guidance, asking "Shall I pursue after this troop? shall I overtake them?" (1 Samuel 30:8). God’s response? "Pursue: for thou shalt surely overtake them, and without fail recover all." David trusted, acted, and succeeded.

Or consider Jehoshaphat, who, facing a seemingly insurmountable enemy, admitted his weakness and asked God to fight for him. And as (2 (Chronicles 20:2)2) tells us, "when they began to sing and praise, the Lord set ambushments against the children of Ammon." God literally dressed the enemy in shining garments, causing them to attack each other.

Even Hezekiah, facing Sennacherib, simply declared, "I have no strength to chase or see the war, but when I sleep on my bed, You fight for us." And God did! "And it came to pass that night, that the Lord smote the camp of the Assyrians" (2 (Samuel 19:3)5). A hundred and eighty-five thousand soldiers, gone in a single night!

But how many actually survived that night? The Rabbis debate the precise number, drawing on different interpretations of verses in Isaiah. Rav says ten, based on the numerical value of the word for "young man." Rabbi Eliezer says six. Rabbi Yehudah says five, pointing to the image of gleanings left on an olive tree. Rabbi Tanchum bar Chiyya suggests nine, while another Rabbi Tanhum claims fourteen. It's a fascinating example of how midrashic interpretation – the art of Jewish textual interpretation – can yield multiple, equally valid meanings.

The Midrash then introduces the story of Nebuchadnezzar, the Babylonian king who ultimately destroyed Jerusalem. According to Rabbi Levi, a heavenly voice warned the people for eighteen years, but they wouldn't listen. Nebuchadnezzar himself hesitated, fearing the fate of Sennacherib. He performed divination to determine whether to attack Jerusalem. The arrows he cast towards other cities broke, but the arrow towards Jerusalem remained intact. It was a sign.

Seeing this, Nebuchadnezzar cried out, echoing the lament of the Psalm: "Master of the universe, who would have believed that the haters would enter Jerusalem and destroy it... Woe, for the kings of the earth did not believe!"

The Midrash leaves us with a chilling realization: even the mighty Nebuchadnezzar, the instrument of Jerusalem's destruction, was filled with disbelief at what he was about to do. He couldn't fathom that a city so beloved, so protected, could fall.

So what does this all mean for us? Perhaps it’s a reminder that even in the face of seemingly insurmountable odds, disbelief and destruction can still occur. But it is also a reminder of the power of faith, the importance of listening to warnings, and the enduring strength of the human spirit to lament, to question, and to ultimately rebuild. Because even in the darkest of times, the possibility of redemption, of renewal, always remains.

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