The book of Job asks, "Who set wisdom batuḥot?" (Job 38:36). The Midrash, specifically Vayikra Rabbah, explores this, asking, what even is batuḥot? The answer it gives is striking: It's the innards. And then, the verse continues: “Or who gave understanding to the sekhvi?” (Job 38:36). What's a sekhvi? According to Rabbi Levi, in Arabia, that's what they call a hen!
But this isn't just a random bird fact. The Midrash uses the hen as a powerful metaphor. : a hen, when her chicks are small, gathers them, protects them under her wings, warms them, and even digs for food for them. She pecks around in the garbage heap, finding nourishment for her young ones. But something changes as they grow. If one of her grown chicks tries to snuggle under her wing, she pecks at its head, saying, "Go and dig in your own garbage heap!" Harsh, maybe, but necessary.
The Midrash connects this to the story of the Israelites in the desert. For forty years, manna fell from the sky, a spring miraculously provided water, quail were readily available, clouds of glory surrounded them, and a pillar of cloud guided their way. Everything was provided. But then, they entered the Land. Moses then tells them, "Let each one of you take his spade and go out and plant trees." It was time to take responsibility, to dig in their own "garbage heap," so to speak. As we find in the verse, “When you will come into the land and plant.”
Now, this is where the story really takes off.
The Midrash tells a story about Hadrian, the Roman Emperor – may his bones be crushed, the text adds – who was traveling near Tiberias. He saw an elderly man digging holes, planting trees. Hadrian, in that characteristic way of powerful people, couldn't resist commenting. He said, "Old man, if you woke up early, you shouldn't stay awake all night. You toiled in your youth, no need to toil in your old age."
But the old man had a different perspective. He replied, "I woke up early and I remain awake late, and what is good for the Master of Heaven, He will do." Hadrian, intrigued, asked how old he was. "One hundred years old," the man replied. Hadrian was incredulous. "You're one hundred years old and planting trees? Do you think you'll even eat from them?"
The old man's answer is timeless. "If I am privileged, I will eat. If not, just as my fathers toiled on my behalf, so I will toil on behalf of my children." What a powerful statement of intergenerational responsibility!
Hadrian, impressed, told him, "If you are privileged to eat of them, inform me."
Time passed, and eventually, the trees bore fruit. The old man picked a basket of figs and went to the palace. When asked his business, he replied, "To enter before the king." Once inside, he told Hadrian the whole story, presenting him with the figs.
Hadrian, true to his word, honored the old man. He ordered a golden chair for him to sit on and commanded that the basket be emptied and filled with dinars – gold coins. His servants protested, asking if he would really bestow such honor on a Jewish man. Hadrian responded, "His Creator has honored him, will I not honor him?"
But here's where the story takes a turn, highlighting the complexities of human nature. The wife of the old man's neighbor, seeing all this, thought she had a brilliant idea. She told her husband, "Fool, see that this king loves figs and exchanges them for dinars!" So, the neighbor filled a sack with figs and went to the palace, claiming he heard the king loved figs and exchanged them for gold.
Hadrian, not easily fooled, saw through the man's greed. He ordered him to stand before the palace gate and have everyone who entered or exited throw a fig at his face. By evening, the man was ejected, humiliated. He went home to his wife, saying, "I must repay you for all this honor." Her sarcastic response? "Go and boast to your mother that they were figs and they were not citrons, and they were ripe and not unripe!" Basically, at least they were soft!
So, what do we take away from this story in Vayikra Rabbah? It's not just about figs and emperors. It's about understanding our role in the world, about working for future generations, and about the dangers of greed and envy. The hen teaches her chicks to find their own food, and we, too, must learn to cultivate our own gardens, both literally and figuratively. And it reminds us that true honor comes not from seeking shortcuts, but from honest labor and a commitment to something larger than ourselves.