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When the Nations Asked Where Israel's Beloved Went

Israel searches at night and finds nothing, the nations taunt with absence, but Israel answers by naming what makes God unlike every other beloved.

Curated by Arthur · Told by Maggid ·
Table of Contents
  1. The Search Began in the Dark and Found Nothing
  2. Moses Showed Israel What the Beloved Looks Like
  3. The Nations Ask and Israel Has to Answer
  4. Abraham Stood at the Dawn of Creation
  5. What Makes God Different From Every Other Beloved

The Search Began in the Dark and Found Nothing

The woman in the Song searches for the one her soul loves at night, on her bed, and does not find him. The midrash on the Song refuses to make that night comfortable. The bed can mean illness. It can mean a people laid low, unable to rise, reaching for God in the dark and touching only the silence where He was.

Israel is allowed to say this. The midrash makes the admission sacred rather than scolding the seeker for making it. Covenantal love includes the terror of absence. There are nights when the beloved is not findable, not because the love has failed but because the search has not yet reached its end. The woman gets up and goes into the streets. She is not lying in bed accepting the absence. She is moving through it.

Moses Showed Israel What the Beloved Looks Like

When the midrash asks how Israel knows what God looks like in the language of love, the answer points to Moses. Moses is the one who saw behind the veil of ordinary existence. He stood in the cloud. He asked to see the glory and was shown what could be shown from the cleft of the rock. When Israel describes the beloved in the Song, they are drawing on what Moses brought back from Sinai: not an image but an impression of nearness, of the quality of the Presence that spoke from the mountain and filled the tent.

Moses and Joseph serve as two poles of this knowledge. Moses brings the revealed word. Joseph brings the lived word, the understanding of how God works through the ordinary events of a life, through brothers and slavers and interpreters and famines, toward an end that looks nothing like the beginning. Together they give Israel two vocabularies for talking about the beloved: the vocabulary of direct revelation and the vocabulary of hidden providence.

The Nations Ask and Israel Has to Answer

Where has your beloved gone, the nations ask, and the question has a sting. Israel is exiled, scattered, reduced. The nations watching this reduction cannot find the beloved anywhere in the picture. If Israel's God loves Israel, the nations want to know where that love has gone and why the evidence of it has disappeared so completely. The question is not friendly curiosity. It is the taunt of people who have watched the beloved's house burn and the beloved's people scattered.

Israel's answer in the Song, and in the midrash's reading of it, is not a denial of the exile or a pretense that things are fine. It is a description. The beloved has gone to his garden. He is among his lilies. He is still findable to those who know where to look, not in the places the nations are pointing at but in the places the covenant has always located him: in Torah, in prayer, in the community of those who carry his name.

Abraham Stood at the Dawn of Creation

The midrash reaches back to Abraham to establish what the beloved was before Israel's history of failure and exile began. At the dawn of creation, before the nation existed, before the exile was possible, God already knew Abraham. The recognition between them is older than the covenant made at the Covenant Between the Pieces. It is older than the call to leave Ur. It sits at the beginning of the world's moral structure, the moment when God looks at creation and sees in it the seed of the man who will be called His friend.

That ancient origin is part of the answer to the nations' question. Where has the beloved gone? He has not gone anywhere new. He was at creation's dawn, he was with Abraham, he was with Moses in the cloud, and he is in the garden where Israel knows how to find him. The exile is real. The beloved's absence from the places the nations are looking is real. But the beloved is not absent from the places the covenant has mapped.

What Makes God Different From Every Other Beloved

The midrash asks, through the Song, what distinguishes the beloved of Israel from every other beloved. The nations have gods. They have objects of devotion. What makes Israel's beloved different in kind rather than degree? The answer the midrash arrives at is not power or duration or creative capacity, though all of those are true. The difference is this: no other beloved creates the world and then enters into a love relationship with a particular people inside that creation. No other beloved descends into the sea and opens a path. No other beloved descends on a mountain and speaks from fire. The beloved of Israel is not worshiped from a distance. He closes the distance Himself.

Midrash RabbahSong Of SongsExileCovenant
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From the tradition

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Shir HaShirim Rabbah 1:1Shir HaShirim Rabbah

The Song of Songs, or Shir HaShirim in Hebrew, is filled with that kind of longing. It’s a love poem, yes, but Jewish tradition reads it as an allegory for the relationship between God and the people of Israel. And right from the start, it plunges us into this very intimate space.

Take the verse, "On my bed at nights I sought the one whom my soul loves; I sought him, but did not find him" (Song of Songs 3:1). Simple enough. But in Shir HaShirim Rabbah, the ancient Midrashic (rabbinic interpretive commentary) commentary on the Song of Songs, the Rabbis unpack this verse with layers of meaning.

Rabbi Abba bar Kahana offers a fascinating take. He connects "on my bed at nights" to illness, drawing a parallel to the verse, "And he does not die but falls into bed" (Exodus 21:18). Is the speaker ill, weakened, and therefore unable to find the Beloved? Is this a metaphor for spiritual sickness, a time when our connection to the Divine feels frail?

Then Rabbi Levi takes us on a sweeping journey through Jewish history. He imagines the congregation of Israel saying to God: "Master of the universe, in the past You would illuminate for me between nights and nights..." He’s talking about the periods of light and hope between eras of persecution. Between the night of Egypt and the night of Babylon, between Babylon and Media, Media and Greece, and finally, Greece and Edom – a rabbinic code word for Rome. Rabbi Levi is saying that throughout history, even in the darkest times, there were always moments of respite, glimmers of hope. But now? "Now that I have slumbered from the Torah and the mitzvot (commandments)," the congregation laments, "nights have become consecutive for me." The periods of persecution have become unending.

Rabbi Alexandra echoes this sentiment, stating that the nights became consecutive when the speaker "slumbered from the Torah and the mitzvot." It's a powerful image, isn’t it? This idea that our connection to God, to our traditions, is what keeps the darkness at bay.

And then there’s this beautiful wordplay: "On my bed at nights [balelot]," the nights came [ba’u lelot]." The Rabbis are drawing attention to the very sound of the words, linking the speaker's situation to the arrival of these difficult times.

So what does it all mean? This opening verse, and the Rabbis' interpretations, invite us to reflect on our own lives. When we feel that longing, that sense of separation from the Divine, could it be connected to a "slumber" in our own commitment to Torah and mitzvot? Are we, like the congregation of Israel, experiencing consecutive nights?

It’s a challenging thought, but also a hopeful one. Because if the "nights" are a consequence of our own actions, then perhaps we also have the power to bring back the light. By reawakening our connection to tradition, to community, and to the Divine, we might just find the One whom our soul loves, even in the darkest of nights.

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Shir HaShirim Rabbah 2:1Shir HaShirim Rabbah

That ache, that persistent search – it echoes through the ages, even finding its way into the ancient texts.

We turn to Shir HaShirim Rabbah, a collection of rabbinic interpretations of the Song of Songs, that most beautiful and enigmatic book of the Bible. It’s not just about romantic love; it’s about the love between God and Israel, and how that love manifests in our history. And sometimes, that love story is full of longing and searching.

The verse According to Shir HaShirim Rabbah, "On my bed at nights" alludes to the night of the Exodus from Egypt. The "one whom my soul loves"? That's none other than Moses himself.

Wait – she sought him, but did not find him? Why? The text explains that this refers to the three months Moses spent back in Midian after his initial encounter with God at the burning bush. Moses, chosen to be the leader, the redeemer, disappears for a time. The people are waiting, yearning, but he's nowhere to be found. It’s a moment of suspended hope, a test of faith, perhaps.

The text continues with the next verse: "I will rise now and go about the city, through the streets and the squares; I will seek the one my soul loves.’ I sought him, but I did not find him." (Song of Songs 3:2). The Rabbah tells us that the "city, streets, and squares" are metaphors for the cities and provinces. The search intensifies. Still, "I sought him, but I did not find him." The yearning persists.

What does it mean that Moses, the man destined to lead his people to freedom, was absent during a crucial period? Perhaps it highlights the human element in even the most divinely ordained missions. Moses wasn't a perfect, unwavering figure. He had his own journey to undertake, his own preparations to make. And in his absence, the people were left to confront their own faith and their own longing for redemption.

It’s a powerful image, isn’t it? The people of Israel, metaphorically wandering through the streets and squares, searching for their leader, for their hope. It reflects the feeling of being lost, of searching for something essential that seems just beyond our grasp. It mirrors times when we feel distant from God, or from our own sense of purpose.

This passage reminds us that even in the grand narrative of redemption, there are moments of searching, of doubt, of absence. But it also suggests that the search itself is meaningful. The yearning, the persistent pursuit of what we love – that's where growth happens, where faith is tested, and where we ultimately find ourselves ready for the moment of revelation, whenever – and however – it arrives.

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Shir HaShirim Rabbah 5:1Shir HaShirim Rabbah

Ever read the Song of Songs and thought, "Wait, is this... about breasts?" Well, you’re not wrong! But in the world of Jewish interpretation, things are rarely just what they seem. Take this verse from (Song of Songs 4:5): "Your two breasts are like two fawns, twins of a gazelle, that graze among the lilies." Beautiful imagery. But what does it mean?

Well, Shir HaShirim Rabbah, a classic rabbinic commentary on Song of Songs, takes us on a fascinating journey, connecting this sensual imagery to something far more profound: the leadership of Moses and Aaron.

The commentary states plainly: "Your two breasts – these are Moses and Aaron." Why? Because, it argues, just as breasts are a source of beauty, honor, and nourishment for a woman, so too were Moses and Aaron for the Israelites. Breasts are the "splendor and the glory" of a woman, and Moses and Aaron were the "splendor and the glory of Israel." Breasts are filled with milk, and Moses and Aaron filled Israel with Torah. As it says in (Exodus 4:28), "Moses told Aaron all the words of the Lord." The Rabbis even say that he revealed to him the Shem HaMeforash, the ineffable name of God! They shared the deepest secrets, the most profound wisdom.

Here's a beautiful detail: "Just as the breasts, one of them is not larger than the other, so it was with Moses and Aaron." We find this reflected in the way the Torah phrases their names at times, sometimes saying "Moses and Aaron" (Exodus 6:27), and other times "Aaron and Moses" (Exodus 6:26). Neither was greater than the other in Torah. Rabbi Abba uses the analogy of a king with two perfect pearls, perfectly balanced on a scale. That’s how Moses and Aaron were: equal in their greatness.

Rabbi Ḥanina bar Pappa even declares, "Blessed is the Omnipresent who selected these two brothers, who were created only for the Torah and for the glory of Israel."

Rabbi Yehoshua of Sikhnin, quoting Rabbi Levi, brings an interesting story from Alexandria. Apparently, there were two families of priests, one with a cold body temperature and the other with a hot one. Doctors found that a combination of tissue from both families created a healing ointment. Similarly, Moses and Aaron complemented each other in leading Israel. They brought different strengths to the table, creating a powerful and effective leadership.

Rava, in the name of Rabbi Shimon, shares a powerful idea about divine healing. Usually, we see the wound and then prepare the dressing. But God, in His infinite wisdom, prepares the remedy before the affliction. As (Jeremiah 33:6) says, "Behold I am bringing it a remedy and a cure, and I will heal them…" He prepared the cure for Jerusalem before He struck it. This idea is further reinforced by (Hosea 7:1), which states when God heals Israel, "the iniquity of Ephraim and the evils of Samaria will be revealed." Only after preparing the cure will they be taken to task for their wickedness.

This is contrasted with how God treats other nations, who are struck and then healed. As (Isaiah 19:22) states, "The Lord will strike Egypt, striking and healing." The commentary connects this to Moses and Aaron again, suggesting that the striking came by means of Aaron and the healing by means of Moses.

The passage concludes with a reiteration of the brothers' blessed status. It quotes the prophet Samuel saying, "The Lord who produced Moses and Aaron" (I Samuel 12:6). And then, full circle, back to where we started: "That is 'your two breasts' – these are Moses and Aaron."

So, the next time you read the Song of Songs, remember this interpretation. It’s a reminder that even the most sensual and earthly imagery can point us towards deeper spiritual truths. It's about the nourishing power of leadership, the importance of balance and complementarity, and the idea that true leaders, like Moses and Aaron, can be a source of glory and healing for an entire nation. What does it mean for us, today, to be "breasts" for our community – to nourish, uplift, and bring honor to those around us? That's something worth pondering.

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Shir HaShirim Rabbah 1:1Shir HaShirim Rabbah

Ever felt that sting of doubt, that little voice whispering, "Where is He now?" It's a question that's echoed through the ages, a challenge thrown at the heart of faith itself. And

The verse Where did your beloved turn, that we may seek him with you?”

It's the Rabbah, the great commentary, that gives it such a powerful twist. It imagines the nations of the world asking Israel, "Where did your beloved go?"

Think about the weight of that question. The Shir HaShirim Rabbah doesn't shy away from the hard stuff. It acknowledges the times when God's presence feels distant, when miracles seem like distant memories.

The commentary spells it out. The nations are saying, "In the past, God performed wonders for you in Egypt, at the sea, and at Sinai; but where is He now? He has abandoned you." Ouch. Can you feel the taunt? The implication that the divine connection is broken, a thing of the past?

Egypt, the Exodus, the splitting of the sea... all undeniable signs of divine intervention. Sinai, where the Torah itself was given! But what about now? Where is that kind of clear, world-altering presence today? It's a question that cuts deep, especially when you're facing hardship and uncertainty.

So, how does Israel respond? This is where it gets really beautiful. The congregation of Israel doesn't try to deny the apparent absence. Instead, they offer a profound statement of unwavering faith. "Why are you asking about Him, while you have no share in Him?"

It’s a powerful retort. the connection between Israel and God, in this view, isn't based on fleeting miracles or grand displays of power. It's something deeper, something intrinsic.

And it continues: "Now that I have cleaved to Him, am I able to separate from Him? Now that He has cleaved to me, can He separate from me? Wherever He is, He comes to me.”

It's a declaration of devekut (דְּבֵקוּת), that mystical clinging, that deep and abiding connection. The relationship isn't conditional. It's not dependent on constant proof or instant gratification. It's a bond forged in history, strengthened through trials, and sustained by unwavering commitment.

Wherever He is, He comes to me. Think about the implications of that line. It's not about needing God to be in a specific place or time. It's about recognizing that the connection transcends physical limitations. It’s about the constant potential for encounter, the promise that even in the darkest of times, the divine presence is accessible to those who seek it with a sincere heart.

So, the next time you find yourself wondering, "Where is He now?" remember the response of Israel in the Shir HaShirim Rabbah. Remember that the bond, once forged, is not easily broken. Remember that devekut means sticking with it, even when you don't see the signs. Because sometimes, the greatest miracles are the quiet, persistent whispers of faith that echo within our own hearts.

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Shir HaShirim Rabbah 9:1Shir HaShirim Rabbah

How is your beloved more than another beloved, that you administer an oath to us so?" (Song of Songs 5:9-10).

Essentially, they're asking, "What makes God so special? What makes Him different from all the other gods people worship?" It’s a question that echoes through the ages, and Israel's response is both simple and deeply powerful.

"My beloved is clear and ruddy," Israel replies, "more eminent than ten thousand" (Song of Songs 5:10). But what does that even mean?

Here, the commentary dives into the imagery. "Clear and ruddy" – these aren't just pretty words. They're metaphors. Shir HaShirim Rabbah explains that "clear" represents the attribute of mercy, while "ruddy" signifies the attribute of justice.

Think about the Exodus from Egypt. As we find in this Midrash (rabbinic interpretive commentary), God was "clear" – merciful – to the Israelites, shielding them from the plagues. "I will pass through the land of Egypt… and I will pass over you" (Exodus 12:12-13). But for the Egyptians? God was "red" – bringing justice upon them as it is stated, "The Lord hurled the Egyptians in the midst of the sea" (Exodus 14:27).

The same pattern repeats at the Red Sea. "Clear" for Israel, who walked through on dry land (Exodus 14:29). "Red" for the Egyptians, swallowed by the waves (Exodus 14:27). It's a vivid picture of a God who acts differently towards those who are faithful and those who are not.

But it doesn't stop there. The text goes on to say that God is "clear" in the World to Come, and "red" in this world. Now, that’s a little harder to swallow, isn’t it? Why would God bring hardship upon the righteous in this world?

Rabbi Levi bar Ḥaita offers a few perspectives. Perhaps God uses hardship to punish us for our sins, or to motivate us to become better people. Perhaps the reward for the righteous is reserved for the World to Come. He continues, "It is clear for me on Shabbat, and it is red for me all the days of the week. It is clear for me on Rosh HaShana, and it is red for me the rest of the year." These are powerful reminders that even in times of difficulty, moments of clarity and grace exist.

Finally, the text circles back to the idea of God being "more eminent than ten thousand." Rabbi Abba bar Kahana makes a striking comparison: earthly kings are known by their royal garb, their external displays of power. But God? He is fire. His very servants are fire! As (Deuteronomy 33:2) says, "He came [ve'ata] from the holy tens of thousands, [from His right, a fiery law to them] – it is a sign [ot] from the midst of the holy tens of thousands." It is a sign of His very Essence.

So, what's the answer to the nations' question? How is God different? It's not just about miracles or displays of power. It's about a complex relationship, a balance of mercy and justice, a constant presence in both our triumphs and our struggles. It's about a God who is so much more than any earthly comparison, a God whose very essence is fire.

And maybe, just maybe, the question isn't really about proving God's superiority, but about recognizing the unique and deeply personal connection each of us has with the Divine. What does "clear and ruddy" mean to you?

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Shir HaShirim Rabbah 9:1Shir HaShirim Rabbah

In Jewish tradition, it's often interpreted as an allegory – a story with a deeper, hidden meaning. And that's where Shir HaShirim Rabbah comes in. This is a collection of rabbinic interpretations of the Song of Songs, and it takes us on quite a journey.

One verse in particular, (Song of Songs 6:9), has captured the imagination of interpreters for centuries: "One is my faultless dove, one to her mother, pure to the one who bore her. Girls see her and laud her; queens and concubines, and praise her." Now, The first reading, this sounds like a lover praising their beloved. But Shir HaShirim Rabbah sees something much grander here. It sees the story of the Jewish people, embodied in our ancestors.

"One is my faultless dove" – who is this "one?" According to the Rabbis, this refers to Abraham. Why? Because, as it says in (Ezekiel 33:24), "Abraham was one." He was the singular individual who dared to challenge the idolatry of his time, the one who forged a new path toward monotheism. He was unique, a pioneer.

Who is "one to her mother?" This is Isaac, Abraham's son. Shir HaShirim Rabbah emphasizes that Isaac was an only child to his mother, Sarah. This highlights his special status, the weight of expectation placed upon him as the inheritor of Abraham's legacy.

Next, we have "pure [bara] to the one who bore her." This speaks to Jacob, the third patriarch. The text draws a clever connection here. "Pure" in Hebrew is bara, and the Rabbis link this to the idea that it was clear [barur] to his mother, Rebecca, that he was entirely righteous. Rebecca knew, deep in her heart, the special destiny that awaited Jacob. It was barur, clear, that he was destined for greatness.

But the allegory doesn't stop there. "Girls see her and laud her." Who are these "girls?" One interpretation sees them as the tribes of Israel. When Joseph's brothers arrived in Egypt, as we read in (Genesis 45:16), the news spread quickly: "The news was heard in Pharaoh's palace, saying, 'Joseph's brothers have come.'" This arrival brought hope and sustenance to the entire family, echoing the idea of praise and admiration. Alternatively, the Rabbis suggest this "girl" is actually Leah, Jacob's wife. They point to (Genesis 30:13), where Leah exclaims, "In my happiness, as women will be happy for me [ishruni]." There's a linguistic connection here between "laud her [vayashruha]" and "will be happy for me [ishruni]," linking Leah's joy and recognition to the verse in Song of Songs.

Finally, "Queens and concubines, and praise her." This refers to Joseph, Jacob's son, who rose to become a powerful figure in Egypt. As Pharaoh said to his servants in (Genesis 41:38), "Can we find someone like this?" The Rabbis emphasize the uniqueness of Joseph, his wisdom and insight. As the verse continues, "After God has disclosed all this to you, [there is no one as insightful and wise as you]" (Genesis 41:39). Joseph was so extraordinary that if you walked from one end of the world to the other, you wouldn't find anyone like him.

So, what does this all mean? Shir HaShirim Rabbah isn't just giving us a history lesson. It's teaching us that the love between God and the Jewish people is reflected in the lives of our ancestors. It's a story of faithfulness, resilience, and the enduring promise of redemption. It reminds us that even the most seemingly simple verses can hold layers of profound meaning, waiting to be uncovered. And perhaps, it encourages us to look for those hidden depths in our own lives and in the world around us.

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Shir HaShirim Rabbah 1:1Shir HaShirim Rabbah

The Song of Songs, that most passionate and allegorical of biblical books, wrestles with that very feeling. to a fascinating interpretation from Shir HaShirim Rabbah, a classical midrashic (rabbinic interpretive commentary) commentary on the Song of Songs, and see what we can uncover.

The verse we’re unpacking is (Song of Songs 8:1): "If only you were like a brother to me, who suckled the breasts of my mother! I would find you outside; I would kiss you, yet they would not despise me." It's a verse brimming with yearning, hinting at a relationship that transcends the ordinary. But what kind of brotherly love are we really talking about here?

The midrash immediately jumps into a series of thought experiments. "Like what brother?" it asks. Cain to Abel? Yikes. Remember that story? "Cain arose against Abel his brother, and killed him," as (Genesis 4:8) grimly reminds us. Definitely not the kind of brotherly affection the verse is aiming for!

Okay, how about Ishmael and Isaac? Nope. The midrash reminds us that Ishmael hated Isaac. Esau and Jacob? Again, no dice. "Esau hated Jacob," says (Genesis 27:41). Joseph’s brothers to Joseph? They were jealous, as (Genesis 37:11) tells us. So, if all these famous brotherly relationships are tainted with hatred and jealousy, where do we find the kind of pure, unadulterated love the verse is seeking?

The midrash pivots: "One who suckled the breasts of my mother – that is to say, like Joseph to Benjamin." Ah! Now we’re getting somewhere. Joseph, who loved his younger brother Benjamin wholeheartedly. Remember when "Joseph saw Benjamin with them" (Genesis 43:16)? The story goes on to say that Joseph wept when he saw Benjamin (Genesis 43:30). This is a love that moves you to tears; a love that overcomes obstacles.

Next, the midrash explores the phrase, "I would find you outside; I would kiss you." What does "outside" even mean in this context? "Outside," we're told, "is the wilderness, which is outside the settled area." A place of vulnerability, of rawness, away from the constraints of society. And the kiss? The midrash offers the example of Moses and Aaron. "He went, and he met him at the mountain of God, and he kissed him" (Exodus 4:27). A kiss of reunion, of shared purpose, filled with emotion.

Finally, "They would not despise me." This speaks to the fear of judgment, the worry about what others will think. Rabbi Pinḥas shares a story to illustrate this: Two siblings lived in different towns, Meron and Gush Ḥalav. When the house of the one in Meron caught fire, his sister from Gush Ḥalav rushed to him, hugging, embracing, and kissing him. She declared, "This does not demean me, as my brother was in dire straits and was delivered from them." Her love transcended social expectations.

Isn't that powerful? This midrash isn't just about sibling relationships; it's about the yearning for authentic connection, a bond so strong it defies societal norms and expectations. It's about finding that love in unexpected places, even in the "wilderness" of our lives. It's a reminder that true love – like the love between Joseph and Benjamin, or the reunion of Moses and Aaron – is worth fighting for, even if it means challenging the status quo. It makes you wonder, what "wilderness" are you willing to venture into for the sake of a truly meaningful connection?

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