That feeling, that sting of inner circle treachery, echoes through the ancient words of Shir HaShirim Rabbah, the collection of Rabbinic teachings on the Song of Songs.
Today, we're diving into Shir HaShirim Rabbah 6, where the verse "My mother’s sons were incensed at me" becomes a lens through which the Rabbis examine moments of national failure and internal conflict in Jewish history. It's a verse packed with accusation, regret, and a deep sense of lost potential.
Rabbi Meir, for example, interprets "my mother’s sons" (benei imi) as "the members of my nation" (benei umati), and specifically points a finger at Datan and Aviram. Remember them? They're the ones who, according to tradition, informed Pharaoh that Moses had killed an Egyptian, causing Moses to flee to Midian (as we see in Shemot Rabba 1:29). Rabbi Meir argues that Datan and Aviram "assailed me [nitgaru bi]" and "filled the Judge with enflamed wrath against me," ultimately prolonging the Israelites' enslavement in Egypt. Because of them, represented here by Moses settling a dispute involving the daughters of Yitro, Israel couldn't settle the dispute between itself and its brethren in Egypt. It's a potent image of internal discord delaying redemption. "I did not guard my own vineyard," the verse laments.
Rabbi Yosei offers another interpretation: the "mother’s sons" are the scouts who brought back a discouraging report about the Promised Land. Their negativity, their lack of faith, caused the Israelites to wander in the wilderness for forty years. Again, "I did not guard my own vineyard."
But the interpretations don't stop there. The text goes on to identify other "incensed" brothers: Yerovam ben Nevat, who led the northern kingdom of Israel astray with his golden calves. The Rabbis saw this as a failure to maintain the priestly and Levite watches, another example of a vineyard left unguarded.
Then comes a fascinating digression. Rabbi Levi tells a story about the day Solomon married the daughter of Pharaoh Nekho. On that day, the angel Mikhael supposedly caused a reed to create land in the sea, which became the location of Rome. The text continues, adding that on the day Yerovam established the golden calves, two towers were built in Rome, and they kept collapsing until water from the Euphrates was used in their mortar. The story introduces Abba Kolon, a wine merchant who secretly transported the water. According to the text, "Any province where there is no Abba Kolon cannot be called a province." This "Babylonian Rome," as it's called, is a subtle commentary on the interconnectedness of Jewish history and the rise of other empires.
The litany of betrayals continues. We hear about Ahab, who favored false prophets over the true prophet Mikhaihu, and Jezebel, who persecuted Elijah. Finally, there's King Zedekiah, who pampered false prophets while the true prophet Jeremiah was given only coarse bread, as we read in Jeremiah 37:21. Each figure represents a failure to "guard my own vineyard," a failure to protect what was most precious: truth, justice, and the relationship with God.
What are we to make of this relentless chain of accusations? Is it simply a historical blame game? Perhaps. But it’s also a powerful reminder of the fragility of community and the constant need for self-reflection. The "mother's sons" are always with us, those internal voices and external forces that threaten to lead us astray. The question, then, isn't just who betrayed us, but how can we better guard our own vineyard in the future? How can we create a community where truth and justice flourish, and where the voices of true prophets are heard and heeded? That, perhaps, is the enduring challenge of Shir HaShirim Rabbah 6.