The ancient rabbis did, and their answer, found within the pages of Devarim Rabbah, is both surprising and deeply comforting.
The verse from Deuteronomy (28:12) sets the stage: “The Lord will open for you His good storehouse, the heavens, to provide the rain of your land at its time, and to bless all your handiwork; you will lend to many nations, but you will not borrow.” It's that phrase, "The Lord will open [yiftaḥ] for you His good storehouse," that sparked their curiosity.
Rabbi Yonatan, in a moment of profound insight, declared that there are three keys (mafteḥot) held solely by the Holy One, blessed be He. Not an angel, not a seraph—no created being has power over these. What are they? The key of the revival of the dead, the key of barrenness, and, yes, the key of rain.
Mind blown, right? Let's unpack this. Where does this idea come from? Well, the proof texts are pretty compelling. The key to reviving the dead is derived from Ezekiel 37:13: “You will know that I am the Lord when I open your graves.” The key of barrenness? Genesis 29:31: "[The Lord]…opened her womb." And, of course, the key of rain from our original verse: "The Lord will open for you His good storehouse."
But why rain? Why is rain elevated to the same level as life and death, the ability to create and the ability to resurrect? The Rabbis saw rainfall as so powerful, so essential, that it was equivalent to the revival of the dead! Hosea 6:3 says, "He will come to us like the rain, like the late rain that satiates the earth." What follows in Hosea 6:2? "He will revive us after two days.” This connection is so strong that it became incorporated into the Amidah prayer, the central prayer of Jewish worship, in the blessing for the Revival of the Dead.
Rabbi Eliezer ben Yaakov took it a step further. He said when rain falls, business is blessed. “To provide the rain of your land at its time, and to bless all your handiwork.” It's not just about physical sustenance, but prosperity too. Even the fish in the sea rejoice! There's a story told of fishermen in Akko. Before the rain, a fish weighed 200 litra, but they estimated it should have been 300. An old man wisely said, "Had rain fallen, they would have found that it weighed more." And, sure enough, after the rains came, a fish estimated at 200 litra actually weighed 300.
It wasn't just about quantity; it was about blessing, about abundance.
Rav Yehuda bar Yeḥezkel was so awestruck by the rain that he would recite a special blessing: May the name of the One who spoke and the world came into being be glorified, exalted, and blessed, as He appoints thousands of thousands and myriads of myriads of angels over each and every drop that falls. Why such reverence? Because, as he understood it, the distance from Earth to the heavens is a journey of five hundred years, and yet each raindrop falls without merging, each a tiny miracle in itself!
The Midrash doesn't stop there. It draws parallels between rain and resurrection, finding echoes of one within the other. The word “opening” [petaḥ] is used for both. The "hand" [yad] of God is invoked in both. And even "song" is associated with both. Ezekiel 37:13: “When I open [befitḥi] your graves." Deuteronomy 28:12: “The Lord will open [yiftaḥ] for you.” Ezekiel 37:1: “The hand [yad] of the Lord was upon me.” Psalms 145:16: “You open Your hand [yadekha].” Isaiah 42:11: “Rock dwellers will sing.” Psalms 65:14: “They shout for joy, and they sing.”
What does it all mean? Perhaps that rain isn't just about water, but about renewal, about hope, about the constant possibility of rebirth. It reminds us that even in the darkest of times, the heavens can open, and life can spring forth again. Maybe the next time we feel the rain on our faces, we can remember that we're experiencing a miracle on par with the greatest miracles of all.