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When the Rabbis Heard Vayhi They Braced for Disaster

Five times Scripture opens with the same two Hebrew words and five disasters follow. The rabbis heard them as a sob hidden in the grammar.

Curated by Arthur · Told by Maggid ·
Table of Contents
  1. Two Words That Made the Sages Flinch
  2. The Eye of Justice in the Dust
  3. A King Without a Lamp
  4. Olive Oil and the Irreplaceable Light

Two Words That Made the Sages Flinch

The third word had barely landed before the rabbis were already bracing. Vayhi bi-mei. It was in the days of. The phrase sounds neutral, the kind of opening that sets a historical scene. But whenever it appeared at the beginning of a passage, the sages of fifth-century Palestine reached the same conclusion. Something terrible was coming.

Vayikra Rabbah, the great Palestinian midrash on Leviticus, preserved Rabbi Shmuel bar Nachman's count. Five places in Scripture where the formula appears. Five disasters waiting on the other side of those two words. The rabbis even heard a cry hidden in the grammar itself. Vay-vay. Woe, woe. They imagined the people shouting it aloud each time the catastrophe arrived, the syllables of the warning phrase turning into the sounds of grief after the fact.

The Eye of Justice in the Dust

The first cry rose under Amrafel. Genesis 14:1 opens with the formula and immediately reports four kings marching against five, a coalition of armies crashing through the Jordan plain. Abraham was still new in the land, still the friend whom God had brought into this province and installed the way a king installs a beloved guest in a provincial town. When raiders strike that town, the locals do not just fear the swords. They fear that the special protection the king sent with his guest will be withdrawn.

Vayikra Rabbah reads a place name in the battle report as a code. Ein Mishpat, which is Kadesh: Ein means eye, Mishpat means justice. The attackers, in the midrashic reading, were aiming at the eye of justice itself. Rabbi Hiyya read the verse this way: when the armies of Amrafel moved, people said the eye of the world was about to be put out. They meant Abraham, through whom the light of divine presence was still visible in the world. And behind that fear was the deeper one: without Abraham, the covenant itself might become invisible.

A King Without a Lamp

The second disaster falls in the days of Ahaz. Isaiah 7 opens with the formula and describes Aram and Israel marching together against Judah while Ahaz, the king of Jerusalem, stands trembling. The midrash treats his terror as a failure of knowledge rather than a failure of nerve. Ahaz did not understand what he had. He had the Temple. He had the priesthood. He had the prophets, including Isaiah, who was right there telling him the siege would come to nothing. But Ahaz could see only the armies.

The rabbis connected the Ahaz passage to the one about God's lamp, which appears in the same cluster of Vayikra Rabbah teachings. God tells Adam: your lamp is in my hand. This exchange, which the midrash stages as a direct conversation between creator and creature, is about who holds the light and who is the light. Ahaz had forgotten that the lamp was not in his hand to protect. It was in God's hand, and armies marching against it were marching against something they could not extinguish.

Olive Oil and the Irreplaceable Light

The third teaching in this cluster concerns the Menorah and why only olive oil, and no other oil, is acceptable for its lamps. The midrash's answer is physical before it is symbolic. Other oils flicker and smoke. Olive oil burns clean and steady. The lamp that burns in the sanctuary has to be the same lamp that burns all night without interruption, the same unbroken light that corresponds to the divine light the sanctuary is built to house. A lamp that gutters out in the middle of the night is not holy. It is decorative.

The rabbis connected this to the vayhi formula through the logic of irreplaceability. Each of the five disasters under the formula was an attack on something that could not be replaced: Abraham's covenant, the Temple's sanctity, the king who was supposed to carry the line of David. The olive oil was holy not because of what it was but because of what it could not be replaced by. The disasters that follow vayhi bi-mei are all attacks on things that, if extinguished, leave nothing equivalent in their place.

NoahAdam EveMidrash RabbahVayikraAmrafelOil
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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.

Vayikra Rabbah 11:7Vayikra Rabbah

Our Sages certainly did. They paid close attention to the nuances of the Hebrew language, believing that even a seemingly small word could unlock profound insights.

In Vayikra Rabbah 11, a fascinating discussion unfolds around the phrase "vayhi bi-mei" – "it was in the days of." Rabbi Tanhuma, Rabbi Ḥiyya, and Rabbi Berekhya, citing Rabbi Elazar HaModa’i, suggest that this specific construction, "it was in the days of," is a harbinger of trouble. for a second. Is it just coincidence, or is there something deeper going on?

Rabbi Shmuel bar Naḥman takes this idea and runs with it, identifying five instances where this phrase appears, each followed by a period of strife. The source unfolds one: "It was in the days of Amrafel" (Genesis 14:1). What trouble arose then? War, plain and simple. (Genesis 14:2) tells us, "They waged war, etc."

The Midrash (rabbinic interpretive commentary) then offers a powerful analogy. Imagine a king's beloved friend visiting a province. The king, out of love for his friend, takes special care of that province. But then barbarians attack! Everyone fears that the king will no longer care for the province as he once did.

So too, with Abraham, our patriarch. He was so beloved by the Holy One, blessed be He, that God watched over the entire world for his sake. As (Genesis 12:3) states, "[All the families of the earth] shall be blessed in you.” But when the Chaldeans came and confronted Abraham, people worried that God would withdraw His protection. This is reflected in (Genesis 14:7): "They returned and came to Ein Mishpat, which is Kadesh.”

Rabbi Ḥiyya interprets “Ein Mishpat” as the "eyeball of the world," with Abraham being as precious to the world as the eye is to a person. The attackers sought to blind the eye that confronted injustice. Rabbi Aḥa adds that “Kadesh” implies that it was Abraham who sanctified (kiddesh) God's name by descending into the fiery furnace. The kings cried "Woe, woe" – “vayhi in the days of Amrafel the king of Shinar.”

The Midrash continues, exploring other instances. "It was during the days of Aḥaz" (Isaiah 7:1). The trouble? Aram and the Philistines attacking Israel. The analogy here is chilling: a king entrusts his son to a steward who hates him. The steward, fearing punishment for outright murder, decides to starve the son by withholding his wet nurse. Aḥaz, in this analogy, is the corrupt steward. He reasons that without children, there are no students; without students, no scholars; without scholars, no Torah; and without Torah, God’s presence will not dwell in the world. So, he locks the synagogues and study halls. (Isaiah 8:16) says, “Bind the testimony, seal the Torah in my disciples.” Rabbi Huna, citing Rabbi Elazar, explains that Aḥaz was named so because he "seized" (ahaz) the synagogues. People cried, "Woe, woe – vayhi during the days of Aḥaz.”

What about “It was during the days of Yehoyakim son of Josiah” (Jeremiah 1:3)? The trouble then was utter desolation, as (Jeremiah 4:23) says: “I saw the land, and behold, it is emptiness and disorder, [and the heavens, and their light is not].” The analogy: a king's letters are treated with reverence in every province but his own, where they are ripped and burned. (Jeremiah 36:23) tells us how Yehoyakim cut up the scroll with a scribe's razor and threw it into the fire. Again, the cry of despair: "Woe, woe – vayhi during the days of Yehoyakim.”

Then there's “It was during the days of Aḥashverosh” (Esther 1:1). The trouble? A plot "to destroy, to kill, and to eliminate" (Esther 3:13) the Jewish people. The analogy shifts to a king's vineyard attacked by three enemies: Pharaoh, who killed the baby boys (Exodus 1:22); Nebuchadnezzar, who exiled the elite (II (Kings 24:1)6); and Haman, who sought to uproot the entire Jewish people. When people saw Aḥashverosh selling and Haman buying their destruction, they cried, "Woe, woe – vayhi during the days of Aḥashverosh.”

Finally, “It was during the days when the judges judged” (Ruth 1:1). The trouble? “There was a famine in the land” (Ruth 1:1). This time, the analogy involves a province that mistreats the king's tax collector. Similarly, Israelites would mistreat their judges. God, witnessing this disrespect, brought famine upon them.

But wait, there's a twist! Shimon bar Rav Abba, citing Rabbi Yonatan, offers a different perspective: Vayhi signifies either unparalleled trouble or unparalleled joy! Rabbi Yishmael challenges this, arguing that vayhi never indicates joy, while vehaya never indicates trouble. A series of objections and counter-objections follow, examining verses from Genesis to Samuel, each debated and reinterpreted. For example, the creation of light ("God said: Let there be light, and there was [vayhi] light") is deemed not pure joy because the world wasn't worthy of that light. Even when it says “The Lord was [vayhi] with Joseph and he was a successful man" (Genesis 39:2), it's not pure joy, because that success led to Potiphar's wife's advances.

The debate culminates with Rabbi Yishmael conceding that “It was [vehaya] when Jerusalem was captured” (Jeremiah 38:28) wasn’t entirely trouble, because Israel received retribution for its sins, preventing even greater calamity.

So, what do we take away from all of this? Is "vayhi bi-mei" a guaranteed sign of trouble? Perhaps not in every single instance. But the Sages are pointing to something important: that certain phrases, certain historical moments, carry a weight, a shadow of potential suffering. They remind us to be vigilant, to learn from the past, and to recognize the subtle signs that might precede difficult times. And perhaps, most importantly, to appreciate those moments of true joy when they arrive, for they are precious and, as this Midrash suggests, not always easy to find.

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Vayikra Rabbah 36:3Vayikra Rabbah

The verse from Proverbs sets the stage: “One hand to another will not be absolved from evil, [but the descendant of the righteous will escape]” (Proverbs 11:21). This raises the question: can a connection to righteousness save someone from the consequences of their actions?

Bar Kappara offers a stark assessment: Ahaz, along with other wicked kings of Israel, has no portion in the World to Come. Ouch. The evidence? (Hosea 7:7): “All their kings have fallen, none of them calls to me.” Sounds pretty definitive.

Despite this harsh judgment, Ahaz is included in the list of kings during whose reigns Isaiah prophesied: “In the days of Uziyahu, Yotam, Aḥaz, Hezekiah, kings of Judah” (Isaiah 1:1). How can we reconcile this? Why is he listed alongside righteous kings if he was so wicked?

Rav Aḥa, quoting Rabbi Elazar and Rabbi Yosei in the name of Rabbi Yehoshua ben Levi, suggests it was because of his humility. Humility? What?! Apparently, when the prophet came to rebuke him, Ahaz would deliberately go to a place of impurity, believing that the Divine Presence wouldn’t dwell there. The Etz Yosef commentary explains that he was embarrassed to hear the prophet’s rebuke and tried to avoid it, even if it meant missing out on potential prophecy. It’s a strange kind of humility, isn't it? Avoidance masquerading as deference.

The text then plays with the Hebrew. Isaiah is told to go to Ahaz at the "end of the channel of the upper pool, on the path of the launderer's field [sede khoves]" (Isaiah 7:3). But Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi suggests we read khoves not as "launderer," but as khovesh, meaning "lower." When the prophet rebuked him, Ahaz would lower his face in shame.

Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi offers another perspective: perhaps Ahaz was tormented by the death of his firstborn son, as described in II (Chronicles 28:7). “Zikhri, a mighty warrior of Ephraim, killed Maaseyahu the king’s son, and Azrikam chief official of the house, and Elkana the viceroy.” The Etz Yosef commentary suggests that this suffering atoned for his sins.

Rabbi Hoshaya the Great offers yet another explanation: Ahaz's father was righteous. Hezekiah laments in (Isaiah 38:17), “Behold, with peace, it is very bitter for me [mar li mar].” Hezekiah sees bitterness both before him (Ahaz) and after him (Menashe).

This leads to a crucial point: Menashe's father was righteous, but his son was wicked. Ahaz's father was righteous, and his son (Hezekiah) was righteous. Rabbi Simon emphasizes this point, noting that the verse doesn’t say “descendant of the righteous [tzaddik (a righteous person)]” (singular) will escape, but “descendant of the righteous [tzaddikim (the righteous)]” (plural). Ahaz, sandwiched between two righteous figures, finds a measure of redemption.

Rabbi Pinḥas shifts gears, warning against performing a mitzva (good deed) with the expectation of immediate reward. He argues that someone who seeks instant gratification for their good deeds is wicked and will leave nothing to their children. Why? Because the merit will be used up! Rabbi Simon illustrates this with a man who demands payment upfront: "Here is the sack, here is the sela (coin), here is the se’a (measure); arise and take.” If the patriarchs had demanded immediate reward for every minor mitzva, what merit would have been left for their descendants? As it says, "I will remember My covenant with Jacob."

So, what are we left with? A complex and nuanced portrait of King Ahaz. Was he wicked? Yes, according to some. But was he also capable of humility, tormented by loss, and ultimately, perhaps, redeemed by the righteousness of his father and son? The text leaves us pondering the mysteries of judgment, atonement, and the enduring power of legacy. It reminds us that even in the darkest of figures, glimmers of light might still be found. And perhaps, that's a message worth remembering.

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Vayikra Rabbah 31:10Vayikra Rabbah

Rabbi Ḥiyya, in Vayikra Rabbah 31, makes a point of stressing that it's specifically olive oil that’s important. Not sesame, walnut, turnip, or almond, but "olive oil from your olive trees." Why this insistence? Rabbi Avin offers an illuminating analogy: Imagine a king whose legions rebelled, except for one loyal legion. That one, steadfast group would be rewarded above all others.

The Zohar tells us that the olive tree holds a similar distinction. This olive tree brought light to the world during the time of Noah. iconic image: "The dove came to him at evening time and, behold, a plucked [taraf] olive leaf was in its mouth" (Genesis 8:11).

What does taraf really mean here? Some interpret it as "killed" or "mauled," linking it to the verse, "Joseph was mauled [tarof taraf]" (Genesis 37:33). One explanation is that the dove actually nipped off a budding olive tree, preventing it from becoming a great tree. That's quite a sacrifice!

Where did this crucial olive leaf come from? Rabbi Abba bar Kahana says it was brought from the Mount of Olives. Rabbi Levi suggests it came from the branches of the Land of Israel itself. According to this view, the Land of Israel was untouched by the Flood! As we find in Midrash Rabbah, God says through Ezekiel, “Son of man, say to it: You are a land that has not been purified, [that has not been rained upon on the day of fury]” (Ezekiel 22:24). So powerful was the flood, Rabbi Yoḥanan notes, that even large millstones were obliterated, making the Land of Israel the only possible source for that olive leaf.

But Rabbi Berekhya takes it even further. He says the gates of the Garden of Eden opened for the dove, and it brought the leaf from there.

Now, Rabbi Aivu raises a good point: If the dove was in Eden, why not bring back something truly spectacular, like cinnamon or balsam? The answer is profound. The dove brought the olive leaf as a message: "My master, Noah, [I prefer something] bitter like this from the hand of the Holy One blessed be He, and not something sweet from your hand." In other words, a small offering from God is more valuable than any extravagance from elsewhere.

And so we return to the olive oil, constantly burning in the Mishkan (Tabernacle) and later the Beit Hamikdash (Temple). “Outside the curtain of the testimony, in the Tent of Meeting, Aaron shall arrange it from evening until morning before the Lord continually; an eternal statute for your generations” (Leviticus 24:3). It represents that enduring light, that unwavering faith, that quiet devotion that chooses the "bitter" offering from God over any other temptation. It’s a reminder that even in times of destruction, hope – and light – can be found.

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