The ancient rabbis wrestled with this tension, too, especially when thinking about moments in Jewish history when the people faltered.
Let's dive into a passage from Shir HaShirim Rabbah, a collection of rabbinic interpretations on the Song of Songs. Here, the verse "that the sun has tanned me" is used as a springboard to discuss the sins of the Jewish people. It's a fascinating, and frankly, a little unsettling interpretation.
Rabbi Abba bar Kahana, quoting Rabbi Ḥiyya the Great, points to the verse in Jeremiah 2:13: "For My people have performed two evils." But wait a minute, didn’t they break way more than just two commandments? So what’s going on here?
The rabbis suggest that the people committed one sin so severe, it was as if they’d committed two. What was this act of ultimate betrayal? It was prostrating themselves to idols while simultaneously turning their backs on the Temple in Jerusalem. Ouch.
Think about the symbolism here. They were literally turning their backs on God's dwelling place, the very center of their faith, and bowing down to false gods. It's a powerful image of divided loyalty. The prophet Ezekiel (8:16) describes it chillingly: "He brought me to the inner courtyard of the House… [there were] twenty-five men, their backs toward the Sanctuary of the Lord and their faces to the east… worshipping the sun.”
It's like the rabbis are saying, “You can’t have it both ways.” You can't claim allegiance to God while simultaneously embracing idolatry. It creates a spiritual "blemish," as Leviticus (22:25) puts it: "Their corruption is in them, a blemish is in them.”
But the interpretation doesn't stop there. "That the sun has tanned me," could also mean something else entirely. It could mean that "I prepared horse-drawn chariots for the sun." What’s that about?
Here, the rabbis are drawing on a historical practice. 2 Kings 23:11 tells us: "He abolished the horses that the kings of Judah had designated for the sun, from going to the House of the Lord." Apparently, the kings of Judah had these elaborate chariots that would rush towards the rising sun as a form of honor and, yes, worship. It was a way to try and appease the sun god, to gain favor.
So what’s the takeaway here? Perhaps it's about the subtle ways we can be drawn away from our core values. Maybe it’s about the dangers of syncretism, of trying to blend different beliefs in a way that ultimately dilutes our faith. Or maybe it's a reminder that true devotion requires a singular focus, a willingness to turn our backs on anything that distracts us from the Divine. Whatever the lesson, this ancient interpretation of a simple verse continues to challenge us today. What "sun" are we tempted to build chariots for? What are we turning our backs on in the process?