Midrash Tehillim, an ancient collection of homiletical interpretations of the Book of Psalms, uses a striking image to describe just such a predicament, and it's one that resonates deeply with the Jewish experience throughout history. It begins with the verse "You will plant a vineyard in Egypt." (Psalm 80). But what kind of vineyard is this?

The midrash paints a picture of a vine that is utterly silent, enduring being trod upon, yet ultimately, its wine "causes harm to a person and causes him to stumble." A plant suffers in silence, and then it’s blamed for the problems it inadvertently causes.

The midrash then draws a parallel to Israel among the nations. What is this vine, the text asks? It's one at which stones and thorns are thrown. Even when it manages to produce wine, that wine "rises to the person's head and he is punished." The implication is clear: Israel is constantly attacked, and even when it succeeds, it's still blamed and punished.

This idea is further reinforced by the verse from Jeremiah 2:3: "Israel is holy to the Lord, the first of His crops." So why, then, asks the midrash, "have you broken down its fences?"

It's a powerful question. Just like a vineyard that's left unprotected, Israel is vulnerable. "Just as with this vineyard," the text continues, "when it is broken down, all who pass by trample it and plunder it, so too is Israel." And the midrash doesn’t leave this as some abstract concept. It names the empires: Babylon, Media, Greece, and Edom (often understood as Rome). In each, they "were plundered and their army leaders were brought to Babylon as captives," just as Psalm 80:13 says: "All who pass by plunder him."

So what does this all mean? The message in Midrash Tehillim isn’t just about historical suffering, although that’s certainly present. It's about the constant vulnerability of a people, a community, that is seen as different, as "holy," and therefore becomes a target. It’s a reflection on the unfairness of being blamed for the very things that happen to you. It’s a stark reminder of the need for protection, for strong fences, both literal and metaphorical, to safeguard what is precious.

It also prompts us to consider: Where are the broken fences in our own lives, in our own communities? And what can we do to repair them, to protect the vulnerable, and to ensure that no one is blamed for the hardships they endure? Maybe, just maybe, by reflecting on this ancient midrash, we can start to build a more just and compassionate world.