Parshat Noach5 min read

Why the Rainbow Covenant Had Conditions Written Into It

The rainbow promise sounded absolute. The rabbis read it with a lawyer's eye and found survival credits, hardship clauses, and a hidden expiration date.

Curated by Arthur · Told by Maggid ·
Table of Contents
  1. The Promise That Sounds Unconditional
  2. Credit Toward Descendants Not Yet Born
  3. What Charity Holds Up
  4. The End of Darkness and the End of the Promise

The Promise That Sounds Unconditional

After the flood, God spoke to Noah and made a promise. Sowing and reaping would not stop. Cold and heat, summer and winter, day and night would not cease. The rainbow in the sky would be the sign of the covenant. No more flood to destroy the earth. The verses carry the weight of eternity. Anyone could walk away believing the world was safe from now on, guaranteed by divine promise, locked in by the arc of colored light after rain.

The rabbis of Bereshit Rabbah did not walk away believing that. They read the promise with a lawyer's eye and found conditions underneath the absolute language. Not because they distrusted God. Because they had watched history and knew what had happened to generations that believed they were safe.

Rabbi Abba bar Kahana opened the discussion with a brutal comparison. The ten tribes of Israel, he argued, did what the flood generation had not managed to do. Genesis says the flood generation planned evil all the day. Micah says the ten tribes plotted evil on their beds at night and then carried it out in the morning. The flood generation worked one shift. The ten tribes worked both shifts. The wickedness was more sustained, more deliberate, more organized than what drowned the world. And yet the ten tribes were not drowned. They were exiled. A remnant survived.

Credit Toward Descendants Not Yet Born

Rabbi Abba found the difference in a single word in Ezekiel. The prophet describes those who would be taken out from the ten tribes. The word for taking out carries, in the midrash's hearing, a hint of future descendants. The ten tribes survived on credit extended against children not yet conceived. The flood generation had no such credit. Nobody was coming after them who could redeem the moral debt. The generation that was drowned had exhausted not only its own account but the accounts of everyone who might have descended from it.

The covenant with Noah is therefore not unconditional in the way the text sounds. It is maintained, generation by generation, through a combination of factors: charity, suffering that serves as atonement, the existence of righteous individuals in each generation, and the credit of descendants not yet born who will eventually justify God's patience with their ancestors. Remove all those factors and the protection the rainbow represents could theoretically lapse.

What Charity Holds Up

Bereshit Rabbah brings another element into the argument. The world is sustained in part by acts of charity. The passage reads Proverbs: through charity and truth, iniquity is atoned. Through the fear of God, men turn from evil. The rabbis are building a list of what holds the covenant's protection in place. It is not simply the rainbow and the promise. It is the accumulated moral weight of the world's righteous behavior, season by season, year by year.

The covenant has a maintenance structure. Seasons do not cease because God made a promise. Seasons do not cease because the world keeps producing people and communities that give enough and suffer enough and fear enough to maintain the minimum floor that God set after the flood. When the rabbis contemplate what would happen if that floor collapsed entirely, they find themselves looking at the flood again as a possibility that has not been permanently foreclosed, only held back by the ongoing moral performance of the world.

The End of Darkness and the End of the Promise

The third element in the rabbis' reading of the covenant is the structure of nature itself. Day and night alternate because that alternation is part of the creation order. The promise that seasons will not cease is tied to the promise that the creation order will hold. But the creation order, the rabbis understand, is not permanent. It has an end written into it. The world as it is will eventually give way to the world to come. When that transition occurs, the covenant's terms for this world will be fulfilled and superseded.

The rainbow, in this reading, is not a sign of unconditional permanence. It is a sign of conditional stability. The world will not be flooded again while the conditions hold. The conditions include mercy, charity, righteous descendants, and the basic integrity of the creation order. When those run out, the sign will have done its work and something else will begin.

Midrash RabbahBereshit RabbahNoahCovenantFloodRainbow
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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.

Bereshit Rabbah 28:5Bereshit Rabbah

Bereshit Rabbah turns to Noah and Creation of Flood.

Rabbi Abba bar Kahana makes a pretty stark claim: that the ten tribes of Israel were even worse than the generation wiped out by the Flood. Can you imagine? The Flood narrative in Genesis is pretty devastating! He bases this on comparing verses. About the generation of the Flood, (Genesis 6:5) tells us "every inclination of the thoughts of his heart was only evil all the day." But (Micah 2:1) says of the ten tribes, "Woe, the devisers of iniquity and the evildoers on their beds" – meaning they were plotting evil even at night! And where do we learn that they acted on these evil plans during the day? The verse continues, "They perform it at the morning light."

So, the generation of the Flood only sinned all day, whereas these tribes sinned both day and night! Yet, here’s the really perplexing part: no one survived the Flood, but a remnant of the ten tribes remained. Why?

The answer, according to Rabbi Abba bar Kahana, lies in the future. He says it's because of the merit of righteous men and women who were destined to arise from them. This is supported by (Ezekiel 14:22): "But behold, a remnant has remained in it who are being taken out, sons and daughters.” Notice that the verse doesn't say "they are taking out [motziim] sons and daughters," but rather “who are being taken out [mutza’im], sons and daughters.” Rabbi Abba bar Kahana cleverly interprets mutza’im to also mean: "those who will emerge," implying that it's due to the merit of the righteous individuals who would descend from them in later generations.

Rabbi Berekhya takes a similar tack, arguing that the tribe of Judah and Benjamin were, in some ways, worse than the people of Sodom. Think about Sodom's reputation! (Genesis 18:20) says "their sin because it is very grave." But (Ezekiel 9:9) says of the house of Israel and Judah, "The iniquity.. is very, very great!" Again, Sodom was completely destroyed, but Judah and Benjamin survived as tribes.

Why? Bereshit Rabbah suggests that Sodom was "overthrown in a moment" (Lamentations 4:6) because they didn’t extend their hands to do charitable deeds. As Rabbi Tanhum explains, citing the same verse, "Hand did not reach out [halat] to hand" to assist one another. Judah and Benjamin, on the other hand, did extend their hands to do charitable deeds, even in the most horrific circumstances. (Lamentations 4:10) says, “The hands of merciful women cooked their children.” This isn’t meant to be taken literally. Instead, Rabbi Hanin interprets it to mean that these women kept food from their own children to provide first meals [havraa] for their mourning friends. What an intense picture of community solidarity!

Finally, Rabbi Hanin draws a distinction between the generation of the Flood and certain coastal cities. He points to (Zephaniah 2:5), "Woe to the inhabitants of the seacoast, nation [goy] of the Keretites," interpreting goy to mean "a nation that was worthy of total annihilation [karet]." The difference? The generation of the Flood had Noah, who survived. So, by what merit did these coastal cities endure? Rabbi Levi offers a fascinating suggestion. He suggests it's by the merit of one God-fearing man, whom they would produce each year. Alternatively, he interprets it favorably, suggesting that they endured because they were "a nation that established [karat] a covenant," just as (Nehemiah 9:8) says, "And established [vekharot] a covenant with him."

What are we to make of these comparisons? They paint a complex picture of sin, judgment, and redemption in Jewish thought. It seems that even when communities reach shocking depths of depravity, the potential for future righteousness, acts of selfless charity, and covenantal relationships can offer a path, if not to complete salvation, then at least to survival and the possibility of renewal. It makes you think about our own societies, doesn’t it? What are the seeds of destruction? And what are the seeds of hope and renewal that we can nurture, even in the darkest of times?

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Bereshit Rabbah 33:3Bereshit Rabbah

Bereshit Rabbah, a classic collection of rabbinic interpretations of the Book of Genesis, explores this very idea, exploring how God’s mercy permeates everything.

The verse from (Psalms 145:9), “The Lord is good to all, and His mercy is upon all His works,” serves as the springboard for a fascinating discussion. Rabbi Levi sees this as a direct connection: God is good because everything is His creation, His maasav. Rabbi Shmuel takes it a step further, arguing that mercy is simply God's inherent attribute, His very nature. It’s who He is.

Rabbi Yehoshua of Sikhnin, in the name of Rabbi Levi, suggests that God imparts some of this mercy to us, His creations. We become partners in this divine attribute, tasked with practicing compassion among ourselves. What happens when we fall short?

Rabbi Tanhuma and Rabbi Abba bar Avin, quoting Rabbi Aha, offer a powerful insight. Imagine a drought, a time of scarcity and hardship. In such times, people naturally develop compassion for one another. And, they suggest, this very human compassion stirs divine mercy in return, bringing forth the life-giving rain.

This idea is beautifully illustrated in a story about Rabbi Tanhuma himself. During a severe drought, the community implored him to decree a fast. He did so, not just once, but three times – and still, no rain. Rabbi Tanhuma then urges the people to fill themselves with mercy for one another, believing that this will, in turn, invoke God’s mercy. As they distributed charity, they noticed a man giving money to his former wife. Now, Jewish law at the time frowned upon such interactions. But when questioned, the man explained he saw her distress and was moved to compassion. At that moment, Rabbi Tanhuma, witnessing this act of unexpected kindness, turned to the heavens and pleaded, “Master of the universe, if this man, who has no obligation to support her, saw her in distress and became filled with compassion for her, then regarding You, of whom it is written: ‘Gracious and merciful,’ and us, who are the descendants of Your beloved ones… all the more so that You should become filled with compassion for us.” And then, the rain came.

It’s a potent reminder that our actions can ripple outwards, influencing not only our immediate surroundings but even the divine response.

But what about when we don't show compassion? The text offers another poignant story, this time about Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi, often simply referred to as "Our Rabbi," a central figure in Jewish history and the compiler of the Mishnah (the earliest code of rabbinic law).

He was once absorbed in Torah study when a calf, destined for slaughter, passed by, lowing in distress. Rabbi, unmoved, simply said, "What can I do? It was for this purpose that you were created." Shortly after, Rabbi was afflicted with terrible toothaches for thirteen years. During those thirteen years, no woman in the land of Israel miscarried or suffered during childbirth. Rabbi Yosei bar Avin suggests that Rabbi's suffering served as atonement for others. Later, when Rabbi saw his daughter about to kill a small creature, he stopped her, reminding her that “His mercy is upon all His works.” the verse says, Rabbi Yehuda came to believe that his suffering was a direct result of his earlier callousness towards the calf.

It's a powerful lesson about the interconnectedness of all living things and the importance of extending compassion even when it's difficult.

The text then veers into a seemingly unrelated anecdote about Rabbi's humility and his interactions with Rabbi Hiyya the Great, a prominent scholar. It highlights the importance of showing deference to those deserving of respect, even when one holds a higher position. It also emphasizes the value of Torah study and the lengths to which scholars would go to preserve and transmit Jewish knowledge. It's fascinating how these seemingly disparate stories are woven together, each contributing to the larger theme of compassion and its impact on the world.

Finally, Bereshit Rabbah offers a contrasting perspective: Rabbi Shmuel bar Nahmani observes that the wicked can transform God's attribute of mercy into strict justice, while the righteous can soften God's attribute of justice into mercy. He illustrates this point by contrasting how God is referred to in different situations. When describing acts of wickedness, the text uses the name "Lord" (associated with mercy) in contexts of regret and destruction. Conversely, when describing acts of righteousness, the text uses the name "Elohim" (associated with justice) in contexts of remembrance and covenant. Noah is remembered, the text suggests, not just because he was righteous, but because of his compassion for the animals in the ark.

So, what are we left with? Bereshit Rabbah 33 paints a compelling picture of a world shaped by compassion, both human and divine. It reminds us that we have the power to influence the flow of mercy in the world, either by embracing it or by turning away from it. It's a call to action, urging us to cultivate compassion in our own lives and to recognize its transformative potential.

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Bereshit Rabbah 34:11Bereshit Rabbah

We make them all the time – to loved ones, to ourselves, and, if we believe, God makes promises to us. But what happens when the very foundations of the world seem to shift? What then?

Our story begins in Bereshit Rabbah 34, a section of the ancient Midrash (rabbinic interpretive commentary) that wrestles with this very question. Specifically, it's about the promise God makes to Noah after the flood. You remember, the big one. God says, "As long as the earth endures, sowing and reaping, cold and heat, summer and winter, and day and night shall not cease" (Genesis 8:22). A pretty solid guarantee. But Rabbis in the Midrash are never ones to just take things at face value. Rabbi Yudan, quoting Rabbi Shmuel, asks a pointed question: Do Noah's descendants really believe this covenant is eternal? Is it an unconditional lifetime guarantee? According to them, it's not so simple.

The Midrash suggests that the promise is contingent. "As long as the heavens and the earth endure, their covenant is in effect," Rabbi Yudan explains. But what happens when the heavens erode and the earth wears away, as the prophet Isaiah (51:6) tells us will happen someday? At that point, Zechariah (11:11) says, "It will be annulled on that day…" Whoa. Suddenly, that forever promise has an expiration date!

Rabbi Aḥa adds a really interesting layer. He connects the flood generation’s rebellion with their easy lives. God asks, what made them rebel? They sowed but always reaped, they had kids, but didn't bury them because they outlived them. In other words, they lacked the natural hardships that keep people grounded. So, God says, from now on, "sowing and reaping" will include bearing children and burying them. "Cold and heat" will bring fever and chills. "Summer and winter" will mean birds of prey in summer, beasts of the earth in winter, echoing the words of Isaiah (18:6). Life will be less comfortable, less predictable.

There's even a story about a prominent leader, some say Rabbi Shmuel bar Naḥman, suffering from a headache. He laments, "Look at what the generation of the Flood brought upon us." A tiny headache as a reminder of cosmic upheaval.

Then Rav Huna, quoting Rabbi Aḥa, offers another perspective. He asks, what do the descendants of Noah believe? That the covenant is forever? Not so fast, he says. The promise lasts "as long as day and night endure." But Zechariah (14:7) speaks of a day that is neither day nor night. At that moment, the covenant is annulled. It all boils down to the continuity of the natural order.

Rabbi Yitzḥak brings in another angle, painting a picture of the pre-flood world. He says that once in forty years they would need to sow, because one crop would produce enough grain to last forty years and they were able to walk from one end of the earth to the other end in a short time. They were so mighty and gigantic they were uprooting cedars of Lebanon with their feet and [bites of] lions and leopards seemed to them like [tearing out] a hair from one’s flesh. It was eternally pleasant, as it is between Passover and Shavuot (the Festival of Weeks). All this power and comfort caused them to become haughty and sin.

Rabban Shimon ben Gamliel, quoting Rabbi Meir, offers a calendar-based breakdown of the seasons, grounding the promise in the cyclical nature of the year. Half of Tishrei, Marḥeshvan and Kislev – that is “sowing”; half of Kislev, Tevet, and half of Shevat – “winter”; half of Shevat, Adar, and half of Nisan – “cold”; half of Nisan, Iyar, and half of Sivan – “reaping”; half of Sivan, Tamuz, and half of Av – summer; half of Av, Elul, and half of Tishrei – “heat.” You can almost feel the rhythm of the seasons, the constant turning of the wheel.

But even that is debated! Rabbi Yoḥanan says the constellations didn't function during the flood. Rabbi Yonatan counters that they did, but their effect wasn't palpable. And Rabbi Eliezer and Rabbi Yehoshua even disagree on whether the seasons ceased during the flood itself! Rabbi Eliezer says no, Rabbi Yehoshua says yes. Even the Rabbis can't agree on the details.

So, what do we take away from all this?

Perhaps it’s that even the most seemingly eternal promises are intertwined with the very fabric of creation. They're dependent on the cycles of nature, the balance of day and night, the changing seasons. And maybe, just maybe, they're also dependent on our own behavior, on our ability to appreciate the gifts we've been given and not let comfort lead to hubris.

The Midrash reminds us that "forever" is a big word, a powerful concept. But it's a concept that demands our constant attention, our constant questioning, and our constant striving to live in a way that honors the covenant, whatever form it may take. Because even the heavens and the earth, as vast and enduring as they seem, are not promised forever. And neither are we.

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