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Rabbi Yehudah Asked Which Vine You Actually Come From

The Song of Moses describes a vine whose fruit is poison and whose clusters are bitter. Then Rabbi Yehudah interrupts to ask the reader a personal question.

Curated by Arthur · Told by Maggid ·
Table of Contents
  1. The Interruption
  2. What the Vine of Sodom Produced
  3. What the Holy Planting Was
  4. The Question That Could Not Be Ducked

The Interruption

The Song of Moses had been describing a vine. Its grapes are grapes of poison. Its clusters are bitter. The vine is from Sodom. The fields are from Amorah. The image is comprehensive and bleak: a people who have become precisely the opposite of what they were planted to be, producing the exact wrong thing from the roots of the exact wrong lineage.

Then Rabbi Yehudah, whose teaching is preserved in Sifrei Devarim, turns the question on Israel itself. "Are you of the vine of Sodom or the planting of Amorah? Are you not from a holy planting?"

It is not a rhetorical question. It is an accusation shaped as a question, and it requires an answer.

What the Vine of Sodom Produced

Sodom had laws. This is important. It was not a lawless city but a city that had systematized its cruelty, turned legal institutions into instruments of harm, and maintained its wickedness with the full bureaucratic apparatus of an organized society. The judges of Sodom bore names that became, in Eliezer's retelling, mocking translations: Shakra, meaning lie; Shakrura, meaning great lie; Kezobim, meaning falsehoods; Matzlodin, meaning hunters of wealth. Courts built to catch money. Laws designed to injure strangers.

The wickedness of Sodom was not the chaos of ordinary human failing. It was systematic. It required organization. The Sodomites built their cruelty the way other cities built their granaries: with planning, investment, and institutional maintenance. Jubilees says God burned them with fire and brimstone and destroyed them until this day, emphasizing the permanence of the destruction as evidence of the seriousness of the offense.

A vine that comes from this soil produces what its soil produces. Poison grapes. Bitter clusters. The character of the origin determines the character of the fruit.

What the Holy Planting Was

Rabbi Yehudah's other option is a holy planting. This is not simply the opposite of Sodom as a geographic or ethnic category. It is a description of the covenant lineage, the line of descent from Abraham and Sarah, from Isaac and Rebecca, from Jacob and Rachel and Leah, a line defined not by bloodline alone but by the choices made within it.

Noah planted a vineyard after the flood, and the scene that followed was ugly. He drank and was uncovered and what happened in the tent became the occasion for a curse. A man who had been righteous before the flood, who had built the vessel of survival, who had planted the first vineyard in the new world, was also capable of the scene in the tent. Planting does not guarantee the fruit. A holy planting requires ongoing choices about what to cultivate.

The Question That Could Not Be Ducked

Rabbi Yehudah's question does not allow the comfortable answer that one is automatically a holy planting by birth. To come from a holy planting and produce poison grapes is to become a vine of Sodom regardless of lineage. The origin matters. The fruit matters more.

The Song of Moses was not describing ancient Sodom as a curiosity from Genesis. It was describing Israel in a particular moment of apostasy, Israel that had become, through its choices, indistinguishable from the vine whose soil was the Jordan valley city that burned. The accusation landed on people who knew their own ancestry and had failed to live it.

Are you not from a holy planting? The not in the question carries the full weight of the accusation. You are from a holy planting. You are producing poison grapes. Both things are true simultaneously, and the question is whether the second fact will finally override the first, whether the vine will be cut down and judged by what it grew.

SodomIdentityJeremiahIsraelRepentanceMidrash AggadahDeuteronomy
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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.

Jasher 19Book of Jasher

The familiar story centers on their destruction, but the Book of Jasher, a non-canonical Jewish text that elaborates on stories from the Hebrew Bible, really paints a vivid picture. Chapter 19 gives us some truly disturbing details.

It starts with the judges of Sodom and Gomorrah – Serak, Sharkad, Zabnac, and Menon. Eliezer, Abraham's servant, apparently had a few choice nicknames for them, changing their names to Shakra, Shakrura, Kezobim, and Matzlodin – perhaps a satirical commentary on their wickedness.

The real horror begins with the beds. Yes, beds. The people of Sodom, driven by their judges, set up beds in the streets. And if a stranger happened to wander into town, they'd be forced onto these beds. Six men would measure the poor soul, and if he was too short, they’d stretch him until he screamed. Too tall? They’d hack off bits of him until he fit. “Thus shall it be done to a man that cometh into our land,” they’d say. Can you imagine?

The cruelty didn't stop there. They'd give a poor man silver and gold, but then forbid anyone from giving him food. The Book of Jasher tells us that if the stranger died of hunger, the townspeople would snatch back their coins and even fight over his clothes before dumping his body in the desert.

Eliezer himself witnessed this depravity firsthand when he visited Sodom to check on Lot. He saw a Sodomite stripping a poor man and, intervening, was promptly stoned in the forehead. The attacker then demanded payment for removing the "bad blood"! When Eliezer refused, he was dragged before Shakra (the judge), who sided with the attacker. Eliezer, in a moment of grim justice, then stoned the judge, arguing that he should now pay the attacker, since he was the one enforcing the twisted law.

It’s a brutal, eye-for-an-eye moment.

The story then shifts to Lot's daughter, Paltith. A poor man was starving to death in Sodom, just as described earlier in the chapter. Moved by compassion, Paltith secretly fed him bread, hiding it in her water pitcher. People were amazed at how this man survived for so long without food. They spied on her, caught her in the act, and, according to the Book of Jasher, burned her alive for the crime of showing kindness.

A similar fate befell a young woman in Admah. She gave a thirsty traveler bread and water, and for that act of hospitality, she was covered in honey and left to be stung to death by bees. The text makes it clear: "Her cries ascended to heaven."

It's no wonder, then, that the Lord was provoked. The Book of Jasher emphasizes that Sodom and its sister cities were not suffering. They had plenty, but they refused to share. As it says, "they had abundance of food, and had tranquility amongst them, and still would not sustain the poor and the needy." This lack of compassion, this active cruelty, made their sins "great before the Lord."

This brings us to the familiar story of the angels' arrival, Lot's hospitality, and the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah. Lot, his wife, and his daughters are warned to flee. But Lot’s wife, Ado, looks back. The Book of Jasher tells us it wasn’t out of mere curiosity, but because her compassion was moved for her daughters who remained in the city. And, as we know, she turned into a pillar of salt. A pillar of salt that, according to the Book of Jasher, was perpetually licked by oxen, only to regenerate each morning.

Lot and his two remaining daughters fled to a cave. Believing the world was destroyed, the daughters got their father drunk and slept with him. The resulting offspring were the ancestors of the Moabites and Ammonites. The firstborn called her son Moab, saying, "From my father did I conceive him." The younger also called her son Benami. It’s a disturbing conclusion to an already disturbing story.

Abraham, rising early the next morning, saw the smoke rising from the cities "like the smoke of a furnace."

So, what are we left with? The story of Sodom and Gomorrah isn't just about sexual sin, as it's often portrayed. The Book of Jasher highlights the utter lack of compassion, the institutionalized cruelty, and the horrific treatment of the vulnerable. It's a chilling reminder that a society's moral compass can become so twisted that even basic human kindness becomes a capital crime. And it leaves us to consider: what are the "Sodoms" of our own time, and what can we do to avoid repeating their mistakes?

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Book of Jubilees 16:11Book of Jubilees

This ancient Jewish text, considered canonical by some but not included in the standard Hebrew Bible, gives us a vivid, almost apocalyptic, picture. It paints a stark image of divine retribution.

Jubilees 16 pulls no punches. It says God "burned them with fire and brimstone, and destroyed them until this day." A total wipeout, meant as a lasting lesson. The text emphasizes the sheer wickedness of the Sodomites. It wasn't just about violating some arbitrary rule. It was about being "wicked and sinners exceedingly," defiling themselves, committing fornication, and spreading uncleanness across the earth.

The Book of Jubilees is really hammering home the idea that these actions have consequences, not just for individuals but for the land itself. It’s like a spiritual pollution that demands cleansing. This idea of the land being defiled by sin is a recurring theme in ancient Jewish thought.

It doesn’t stop with Sodom. The text goes on to say that God will execute judgment on any place that mirrors the "uncleanness of the Sodomites." It’s a chilling warning, a direct comparison, stating that the punishment will be "like unto the judgment of Sodom." This is a serious, serious threat.

But there's a glimmer of hope, a reminder of divine mercy amidst the destruction. LOT. "But Lot we saved; for God remembered ABRAHAM, and sent him out from the midst of the overthrow." It’s a powerful evidence of the idea of intercession. Abraham's righteousness, his covenant with God, provided a shield for Lot. It’s a reminder that even in the face of overwhelming judgment, compassion and protection can be found.

So, what do we take away from this fiery passage? It's more than just a condemnation of a particular city's sins. It’s a reflection on the enduring consequences of our actions, the interconnectedness of humanity and the land, and the ever-present possibility of redemption. It makes you think, doesn't it? About the choices we make, and the world we're building.

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Book of Jubilees 7:9Book of Jubilees

Book of Jubilees turns to Noah Plants a Vineyard - A Scandalous Scene in Jubilees.

It's considered apocryphal by some, meaning it's not included in the canonical Hebrew Bible, but it's a treasure trove of tradition and insight into how ancient Jews understood their own history.

In this particular passage from Jubilees, Chapter 7, The waters have receded, the Ark has landed, and it’s time to give thanks. Big time.

What does Noah do? He doesn't just offer a quick prayer. No, no. He builds an altar. And what does he sacrifice? The text is very specific: "the ox and the ram and the sheep." The best of the best. He lays all their flesh upon the altar, mixes their offerings with oil, and then,

Can you picture it? The smoke rising, the aroma of roasted meat mingled with the scent of incense, a "sweet savour" ascending to God. It’s a powerful image. Then, Noah and his children rejoice. They drink of the wine. This isn't a somber, restrained affair. This is a celebration!

And here’s where the story takes a turn that's both very human and, well, a little awkward. "And it was evening, and he went into his tent, and being drunken he lay down and slept, and was uncovered in his tent as he slept."

Whoa.

Talk about a buzzkill. After this incredible act of devotion, after this joyful celebration, Noah gets drunk and exposes himself in his tent. It's a stark reminder that even the most righteous among us are flawed.

What are we supposed to make of this? Is Jubilees trying to diminish Noah's greatness? Maybe. Or perhaps it's offering a more nuanced portrait. Noah is a hero, yes, but he's also a man. He's fallible. He's capable of making mistakes, even after surviving the apocalypse.

This little snippet from Jubilees offers a powerful reminder that the stories we tell about our heroes are rarely simple. They're complex, messy, and full of unexpected turns. And maybe, just maybe, that's what makes them so compelling.

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Sifrei Devarim 323:8Sifrei Devarim

That feeling, that struggle… it’s ancient. And it’s right there in the Torah.

Sifrei Devarim, a commentary on the Book of Deuteronomy, grapples with this very question. It's not just about ancient Israelites; it’s about us, now.

Rabbi Yehudah, in his interpretation, poses a piercing question: "Are you of the vine of Sodom or the planting of Amorah! Are you not of a holy planting?" Ouch. He's basically asking: Are you destined for destruction, like those infamous cities, or are you meant for holiness? Shouldn't you be from a holy planting, a chosen stock?

It’s a powerful image, isn't it? The vine. We're all supposed to be connected to something greater, something nourishing. We’re meant to bear good fruit. But sometimes… we don’t. Sometimes, we become something twisted, something… alien.

And that brings us to the prophet Jeremiah. God says, "I had planted you from a choice vine, entirely of the seed of truth. How, then, have you turned yourself into an alien vine before Me!" (Jeremiah 2:21). The heartbreak in those words! The disappointment! It's like a gardener tending to a precious plant, only to watch it wither and become unrecognizable. We begin with such promise, such potential, and yet…

But the Sifrei Devarim doesn’t stop there. It dives deeper, into the very source of our human condition. "Their grapes are grapes of gall (rosh)." Now, rosh can mean "gall," a bitter poison. But it also sounds like rishon, meaning "first."

The commentary connects these two ideas, suggesting: "You are sons of the first man (rishon), who decreed death upon all his descendants who came after him, until the end of all the generations."

Whoa. Adam, the first man, through his actions, brought mortality into the world. He tasted the fruit he wasn't supposed to, and that act has consequences that ripple through all of humanity. We are, in a sense, all inheritors of that original choice, that first transgression. The grapes we now bear… they're tainted by that initial bite. They have a touch of rosh to them.

So, what are we to do? Are we doomed to be bitter fruit, forever burdened by the actions of our ancestor? Is there any escape from this inherited fate?

The text doesn’t explicitly say. But within the question itself lies a glimmer of hope. We are asked if we are of the vine of Sodom. We are reminded that we should be a holy planting. Perhaps the very act of recognizing our potential for both good and evil, of acknowledging the rosh within us, is the first step towards cultivating a different kind of fruit. Maybe understanding the source of our struggle is the key to overcoming it.

It’s not easy. It's a constant battle, a constant striving. But maybe, just maybe, by acknowledging our inheritance, we can choose to grow something new, something sweeter, something… truly holy. What kind of vine will you choose to be?

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