That feeling sits at the heart of a fascinating interpretation in Midrash Tehillim, a collection of rabbinic commentaries on the Book of Psalms. It focuses on Psalm 45, which begins with the cryptic instruction "For the conductor, on shoshanim (lilies)." What do lilies have to do with anything?
Well, the Midrash offers a parable. Imagine a noblewoman witnessing three men being led to crucifixion. Moved with compassion, she redeems them. Later, she sees aquiliferi – Roman eagle-bearers – parading the imperial standards, symbols of power and, perhaps, oppression. The Midrash doesn't explicitly state what happens next, but it invites us to consider the noblewoman's internal struggle: How does one reconcile acts of mercy with the overwhelming force of empire?
This image then connects to the story of Korah. Remember Korah's rebellion against Moses? A tragic tale, culminating in the earth swallowing him whole (Numbers 16). But what about his sons? They initially sided with their father, but then they repented. And here’s the really interesting part: they became prophets! They became like those shoshanim, those lilies – symbols of purity and redemption blossoming from a place of darkness. The sons of Korah, once associated with rebellion, transformed into voices of truth.
The Midrash continues, delving into the next verse: "My heart overflows" (Psalm 45:2). Another parable helps us understand. A man is about to ascend a platform – perhaps to give testimony or receive an honor. He’s given a blank parchment and asked to write on it. But he hands it back, empty, explaining, "I didn't have time."
The Midrash draws a parallel: the sons of Korah were so overwhelmed by remorse, so consumed by their internal transformation, that they "didn't have time to speak with their lips." Instead, "they spoke with their hearts." Their repentance, their profound change of heart, superseded the need for immediate vocal expression. It echoes the idea that true change begins within.
Finally, the Midrash offers one more layer. Imagine that same man, about to ascend the platform, when his creditor confronts him, demanding immediate payment. The man pleads, "Wait until I come down, and then I'll pay you." Similarly, the sons of Korah, overwhelmed by their situation, seem to say, "We don't have time to sing now, but when we're free, I will say: 'my deeds are for the king.'"
The phrase "My deeds are for the king" (Psalm 45:2) takes on new meaning. It's not just about outward actions or immediate displays of devotion. It’s about the internal work, the process of repentance and transformation, that ultimately aligns us with a higher purpose. It's a promise of future action, born from genuine change.
So, what does this all mean? This Midrash Tehillim on Psalm 45 isn’t just a historical curiosity. It's a powerful reminder that redemption is possible, even after profound mistakes. It suggests that true change often begins with silent, internal transformation, a shift of the heart that precedes outward action. It encourages us to be patient with ourselves and others as we navigate the complexities of loyalty, conscience, and the long journey toward becoming our best selves. Can we, like the sons of Korah, blossom into lilies even after being mired in the darkness?