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Why Creation Needed Torah, Rain, and David

A Babylonian sage claims to know the streets of heaven as well as the streets of Nehardea, and Torah study turns out to be how he got there.

Curated by Arthur · Told by Maggid ·
Table of Contents
  1. The Sage Who Made a Startling Claim
  2. The Heavens That Speak Without Voices
  3. Rabbi Akiva's Son and the Wedding Night
  4. What Keeps Creation from Becoming Empty Sky

The Sage Who Made a Startling Claim

Rabbi Shmuel bar Abba sat in Nehardea, the Babylonian city where Jewish scholarship had rebuilt itself after the Second Temple fell. He knew every lane and courtyard of Nehardea, every shopfront and shortcut, the way a man knows a city he has lived in for decades. Then he made a claim that should have been impossible.

He knew the heavenly realm just as well.

Midrash Tehillim preserves this not as a boast but as a teaching about Psalm 19, which opens: "The heavens declare the glory of God." The obvious question is how they declare it, since clouds do not speak and stars do not lecture. The less obvious question is how a human being could ever receive that declaration. The even less obvious question is what kind of human activity could actually constitute listening to it.

Rabbi Shmuel's answer was Torah study. Not mystical ascent. Not prophetic vision. The daily discipline of sitting with the text, turning it over, letting its arguments press against previous arguments, following a chain of reasoning into territory that felt, at the end of it, like a place no human mind had built.

The Heavens That Speak Without Voices

Psalm 19 is a poem about two kinds of teaching: the silent speech of the natural world and the explicit speech of Torah. The sky pours out speech day after day, the psalm says, but there is no actual voice and no actual words. The whole earth receives the signal and no one can say exactly what it is.

Midrash Tehillim hears this gap and fills it with a pedagogical claim. Torah is how the silent speech becomes intelligible. The sage who studies Torah is not leaving the world of creation to enter a separate world of text. He is learning the alphabet of creation itself. When Rabbi Shmuel bar Abba said he knew the heavenly realm as well as he knew the streets of Nehardea, the midrash understood him to mean that Torah study had taught him how the sky was built, what the stars were saying, and what the rain was for.

Rabbi Akiva's Son and the Wedding Night

The second story the midrash preserves alongside the heavenly sage is harder and stranger. Rabbi Akiva's son had a wedding night unlike any other in the rabbinic literature. The details are compressed, almost hidden, but what the midrash wants to say through them is this: the deepest human intimacy and the deepest divine loyalty are not separate categories.

Rabbi Akiva had told his son that the relationship between God and Israel is the model for every human relationship built on faithfulness. The covenant at Sinai was not only a legal arrangement. It was a marriage. When the midrash places his son's unusual wedding night inside a teaching about Psalm 19, it is making a claim about where sacred speech lives. The heavens declare God's glory. Torah declares God's instruction. Human faithfulness, on the wedding night or in the law court or in the year of Jubilee, declares God's presence in the world below the stars.

What Keeps Creation from Becoming Empty Sky

Psalm 19 does not rest content with beautiful language about a singing universe. It ends with a request: let the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be acceptable before You. The psalmist who opened by watching the heavens declare glory ends by hoping his own words will reach the same destination.

Midrash Tehillim hears this as the psalm's core argument. Creation is not self-sustaining in its speech. It requires human beings who study Torah, who bring their whole mind to the text day after day, who build the same intimate knowledge of the divine realm that Rabbi Shmuel bar Abba had built of the streets of Nehardea. The rain falls. The stars burn. The heavens pour out speech. Without Torah-studying Israel below them to receive and transmit what the sky is saying, the speech goes unheard.

David wrote the psalm. The midrash suggests he understood this from experience. He had watched the sky over Bethlehem's hills as a shepherd boy, alone with the flocks before anyone expected anything from him. He had written poems about what he saw there. And Midrash Tehillim reads those poems as evidence that the man who would become Israel's king had already learned what Rabbi Shmuel bar Abba would later articulate: Torah is the path from the streets of this world to the streets of heaven, and the walk can be made without ever leaving your city.

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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.

Midrash Tehillim 19:3Midrash Tehillim

The Midrash Tehillim, a collection of rabbinic interpretations on the Book of Psalms, dives deep into this very question, exploring the mysteries of the heavens. It offers us not just a poetic sentiment, but a glimpse into the ancient Jewish understanding of the cosmos.

One fascinating interpretation hinges on this idea: the heavens themselves are constantly telling God's story. They're a living evidence of His creative power.

How can we, down here on Earth, begin to understand these celestial declarations? Rabbi Shmuel bar Abba makes a bold claim. He says, "I am familiar with the heavenly realm just as I am familiar with the streets of Nehardea.” Nehardea was a well-known city in Babylonia, a place Rabbi Shmuel knew intimately.

Did Rabbi Shmuel actually take a trip up to the heavens? Well, no. The Midrash (rabbinic interpretive commentary) clarifies that it was through his intense study of Torah – that is, the teachings and wisdom within Jewish scripture – that he gained such profound knowledge of what exists beyond our world. Torah study, in this view, becomes a telescope, allowing us to peer into the divine architecture. The idea that immersing oneself in sacred text can grant insight into the very structure of the universe? It's a pretty powerful idea, isn't it?

But what exactly is this heavenly realm that the Psalms are talking about?

Rabbi Hoshaya offers another layer of understanding. He tells us, "Just as there is a space between the lower waters and the sky, there is also a space between the upper waters and the sky.”

Wait, "upper waters?" What's he talking about?

The Midrash directs us to (Genesis 1:7), "And God made the expanse and separated the waters that were below the expanse from the waters that were above the expanse." Rabbi Pinchas HaKohen (a priest) bar Chama elaborates, explaining that these "waters above the expanse" are dependent on the air and are responsible for producing rain, quoting (Psalm 104:13): "He waters the mountains from his chambers; the earth is satisfied by the fruit of your work."

Again, we have Rabbi Hoshaya's profound understanding. Did he also literally ascend to the heavens? The Midrash makes the same point: No, it was through his dedicated study of Torah that he gained insight into the workings of the sky and the source of rain.

So, what do we take away from all this? It's more than just ancient cosmology. It's about the power of learning, the potential within sacred texts to unlock deeper truths about the world around us, and the constant dialogue between the heavens and the earth. Perhaps the heavens aren't just declaring God's glory. Perhaps they're inviting us to join the conversation, to seek understanding, and to be awed by the wonders of creation.

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Midrash Tehillim 59:3Midrash Tehillim

I've got a story for you, tucked away in Midrash Tehillim 59, that’s a real head-scratcher. It involves Rabbi Akiva, his son, and a rather unusual wedding night.

The tale begins with Rabbi Akiva's son marrying a woman. Now, what do you think he did when she entered his house? Did he celebrate? Did they get to know each other? Nope. He stood all night and read from the Torah! He even asked his wife, addressing her as "Grandmother," to bring him his sandals so he could continue studying. Night after night, she dutifully brought him his sandals while he studied until dawn. She, in turn, would open a book and read it from cover to cover.

Can you imagine?

The next morning, Rabbi Akiva, ever the observant father, approached his son and asked, "Did you find something or not?" His son replied, "I found something." To which Rabbi Akiva responded, "If one finds a wife, he finds goodness." It's an intriguing statement, especially given the… unconventional start to their marriage. What "goodness" was he referring to? Perhaps the dedication of his son, or the patience of his new daughter-in-law? It's left open to interpretation, isn't it?

But that's not all! The Midrash (rabbinic interpretive commentary) doesn’t stop there. It offers another interpretation of the saying, "If one finds a wife, he finds goodness," linking it to the story of Michal, the daughter of Saul, and her love for David.

Remember that dramatic scene from the Book of Samuel? Saul, consumed by jealousy, sends men to David's house to kill him. As we find in Midrash Rabbah, this is what prompts the verse "To the chief musician, 'Do not destroy.'" So how did David escape Saul's clutches?

Rabbi Ibu and other rabbis offer slightly different accounts, but the core of the story remains the same. One version suggests David had two doors, escaping through the unguarded one. Another, perhaps even more dramatic, says he had only one door, heavily guarded. So, what did Michal do? She took a teraphim – a statue, sometimes considered a household idol – and placed it in David's bed, covering it with a blanket. When Saul's messengers arrived, she claimed David was sick and couldn't be disturbed.

Deception! Intrigue! It's all there!

But the deception doesn't end there. To make the ruse more convincing, she put goat's hair under the statue’s head, as it is written, "And Michal took the statue." Saul, unconvinced, ordered them to bring David, bed and all. And what did they find? The statue!

Needless to say, Saul was furious. He accused Michal of betraying him and helping his enemy escape. But Michal, ever resourceful, retorted that Saul had threatened her life if she didn't help David. Because of her fear, she trembled and fainted, as it is written, "And the queen was greatly troubled."

The Midrash then takes a fascinating turn, connecting Michal's defiance to the symbolism of a calf that refuses to accept a yoke, referencing (2 Samuel 3:5): 'And the sixth [son's] name was Yitream, born to David from his wife, Ahinoam the Yizre'elite.' This, the Midrash claims, is Michal. Just as the calf doesn't accept a yoke, so Michal did not accept a yoke from her father, but she reprimanded him.

So, what are we to make of these two stories? The son who studies Torah all night, and the wife who bravely deceives her father to save her husband? Both are framed as examples of finding "goodness" in marriage. Perhaps the Midrash is suggesting that goodness isn't always found in conventional romance or obedience. Maybe it's found in dedication, even if that dedication takes an unusual form. Maybe it's found in loyalty and bravery, even when it means defying authority.

These stories, like so many in Jewish tradition, leave us with more questions than answers. They invite us to ponder the complexities of relationships, the nature of goodness, and the often-unexpected ways these things manifest in our lives. What does finding "goodness" in a relationship mean to you?

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