But in Bereshit Rabbah, that foundational midrashic text, the rabbis unpack layers of meaning from even a single word.

The verse uses the Hebrew word "nemaltem," meaning "you shall circumcise." But the rabbis, with their characteristic cleverness, see more than just a command. They break down "nemaltem" into an acronym: nomi maltem – “you cut off a mole.” Isn't that ingenious? It highlights the idea that what's being removed is something extraneous, something that doesn't belong.

And that brings us to a story. This tale, found in Bereshit Rabbah, involves King Monabaz and Izates, sons of King Ptolemy. Now, these weren't just any princes; they were grappling with profound questions of identity and faith. One day, as they sat together reading the Book of Genesis, they came across that very verse about circumcision.

Imagine the scene: Two brothers, heirs to a kingdom, suddenly confronted with this ancient command. The text tells us that both of them turned their faces to the wall and began to weep. Why the tears? Perhaps it was the realization of what this covenant demanded. Maybe it was the internal struggle of reconciling their upbringing with this new understanding. Whatever the reason, each brother, independently, went and became circumcised.

Think about the secrecy, the personal struggle. It wasn't a public declaration, but a private act of devotion. Days later, they're back reading Genesis, reaching the same verse. One says to the other, "Woe unto you, my brother." But the other responds, "Woe unto you, there is no woe for me." It's a moment of veiled revelation, neither brother fully understanding the other's journey. Eventually, they confess their actions.

Now, here's where the story takes another turn. When their mother finds out, she concocts a story for their father, King Ptolemy. She tells him that a "mole" grew on their sons' flesh, and the doctor ordered them to be circumcised. It's a clever deception, a way to explain the situation without revealing the true motivation. Ptolemy, none the wiser, agrees.

But what about Ptolemy? How was he rewarded for unknowingly allowing his sons to fulfill this commandment? Rabbi Pinḥas tells us that when Ptolemy went out to war, his enemies laid an ambush. But an angel descended and rescued him! A seemingly small act of allowing circumcision, even under false pretenses, resulted in divine protection.

What does it all mean? Well, it’s a story about the power of a single verse to spark profound change, about the hidden journeys of faith, and about the unexpected ways that even unintentional acts of righteousness can be rewarded. It highlights the importance of the brit milah (the covenant of circumcision) and its significance in Jewish tradition. This story, nestled within Bereshit Rabbah, reminds us that even in the most ancient texts, we can find echoes of our own struggles, our own questions, and our own paths toward meaning.