to a fascinating piece of Jewish thought from Midrash Tehillim, a collection of rabbinic teachings that interpret the Book of Psalms. This particular passage, focusing on Psalm 80, wrestles with the apparent unfairness of the world through the lens of…tears. Yes, tears.
The verse in question is "You have eaten the bread of tears…" (Psalm 80:6). The rabbis, in their characteristic way, zoom in on every nuance of the text. Here, they focus on a rather surprising culprit: Esau.
Now, if you remember your biblical stories, Esau wasn't exactly known for his piety. He famously traded his birthright for a bowl of lentil stew! (Genesis 25:29-34). Yet, according to Rabbi Elazar, even he shed tears. Not many, mind you. Just three.
But here's where it gets interesting. Rabbi Elazar breaks down these tears: one from the right eye, one from the left, and a third somehow connected to both. He then links this to the Psalm's language: "And you shall wet your bread with tears, a third part thereof" (Psalms 80:6). Notice it says "a third," not "three.” Rabbi Berachiah even refines it further, suggesting Esau shed only "one-third of a tear."
So, what's the big deal about these fractional tears?
Rabbi Avin, some say in the name of Rabbi Shemlai, brings it all together. The Knesset HaGedolah, the Great Assembly, essentially pleads with God. They argue, "Master of the Universe, because of the three tears (or perhaps, the third of a tear!) that the wicked Esau shed, you have given him control over the entire world, and you have given him peace in this world." The rabbis are suggesting that even a tiny bit of remorse, a mere hint of vulnerability from someone like Esau, was enough to earn him worldly success.
The Assembly continues, contrasting Esau’s fleeting sadness with the constant suffering of the Jewish people. "When you see the suffering of your children and their eyes overflowing with tears every day, just as it says, 'My tears have been my food day and night' (Psalms 42:4), have mercy on them, even if it is just a little."
The power of this passage lies in its raw honesty. It acknowledges the apparent imbalance in the world. It asks a question many of us have probably considered at some point: Why do those who seem to deserve it least often prosper?
The midrash doesn't offer a simple answer, but it does offer a plea. A plea for mercy. A plea for recognition of the suffering endured by those who do strive to live righteous lives. It’s a reminder that even the smallest gesture, even a single tear, can have profound consequences.
And perhaps, it's also a call to examine our own tears. Are they tears of genuine remorse? Tears of empathy for the suffering of others? Or are they just crocodile tears, shed to manipulate and deceive?
Ultimately, Midrash Tehillim challenges us to consider the weight of our actions, the power of our emotions, and the complexities of a world where justice often seems elusive. It reminds us that even in the face of apparent unfairness, we can still turn to God with our tears, hoping for a glimmer of compassion, a touch of mercy, even if it's just a little.