Judges 9

Hook

Picture this: It is late Saturday night, the final moments of Shabbat at camp. The sun has dipped below the treeline, leaving a bruised purple sky reflecting off the lake. Several hundred of us are packed together on the damp benches of the campfire circle. The air smells of sweet pine needles, insect repellent, and the faint, comforting smoke of a dying fire.

Someone strikes a chord on an acoustic guitar—a slow, climbing, minor-key niggun. Let’s sing it together right now, wherever you are. Close your eyes and let this simple refrain rise in your chest:

Lai-lai-lai, lai-lai-lai-lai, lai-lai-lai-lai, lai... Lai-lai-lai, lai-lai-lai-lai, lai-lai-lai-lai, lai...

It starts as a whisper, a low rumble of voices vibrating in the wood of the benches. Then, it builds. We sway, shoulder to shoulder, feeling the collective warmth of the community we’ve spent weeks building. In this circle, you aren't judged by your grades, your social media feed, or your career path. You are just here, rooted in the soil, part of a living, breathing forest of human beings.

But then, the song ends. The Havdalah candle is extinguished in the cup of sweet wine with a sharp ssssssssht. The darkness of the woods suddenly feels a little deeper, a little colder.

How do we take that feeling of deep, organic connection and carry it back to the concrete, high-stakes world of our everyday lives? How do we stop our homes, our workplaces, and our relationships from turning into competitive battlegrounds?

Today, we are diving into one of the wildest, most cinematic, and deeply psychological chapters in the entire Tanakh: Judges 9. It is a story about trees, power, fire, and what happens when we forget who we are in our rush to rule over others. Grab a seat by the fire, get comfortable, and let's bring this ancient campfire Torah home.

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Context

To understand the raw, untamed landscape of Judges 9, we need to orient ourselves in the terrain of biblical history.

• The Wild West of Ancient Israel: The Book of Judges takes place in a chaotic, transitional era. Joshua is dead, and there is no centralized leadership. The recurring theme of this book is: "In those days there was no king in Israel; everyone did what was right in their own eyes" Judges 17:6. It is a world of decentralized tribes, sudden foreign invasions, and charismatic but deeply flawed leaders (the "Judges") who rise up to save the day, only for the people to fall back into old habits as soon as the leader dies.
• The Power Vacuum: Gideon (also known as Jerubbaal), a legendary judge, has just passed away. He famously refused to establish a dynastic monarchy, declaring that only God should rule over Israel Judges 8:23. However, Gideon left behind a massive family—seventy sons from his various wives, plus one son born to a concubine from the city of Shechem. That son’s name is Abimelech, which literally translates to "My father is king." Talk about family baggage!
• The Canopy and the Bramble (An Outdoors Metaphor): Think of a healthy forest canopy. A mature forest is a masterclass in cooperative living. The giant oaks, the ancient pines, and the deep-rooted maples don't fight to crowd each other out; their roots form a subterranean network (mycorrhizal fungi) that actually shares nutrients, water, and warning signals when pests attack. They grow slowly, focusing on depth, strength, and producing fruit or seeds. But when a forest is clear-cut or damaged, the first thing to rush in is the opportunistic undergrowth: thorny brambles, briars, and weeds. These plants don't have deep roots, and they don't produce shade or valuable timber. They are aggressive, prickly, and highly flammable. They take over the clearing quickly, but they are the first to catch fire and burn the whole place down. In Judges 9, we are looking at a society that has clear-cut its spiritual roots, leaving a vacuum where only the thornbushes can thrive.

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Text Snapshot

Here is the heart of Jotham’s famous parable, delivered from the cliffs of Mount Gerizim to the people below:

“Once the trees went to anoint a king over themselves. They said to the olive tree, ‘Reign over us.’ But the olive tree replied, ‘Have I, through whom God and humans are honored, stopped yielding my rich oil, that I should go and wave above the trees?’

So the trees said to the fig tree, ‘You come and reign over us.’ But the fig tree replied, ‘Have I stopped yielding my sweetness, my delicious fruit, that I should go and wave above the trees?’

So the trees said to the vine, ‘You come and reign over us.’ But the vine replied, ‘Have I stopped yielding my new wine, which gladdens God and humans, that I should go and wave above the trees?’

Then all the trees said to the thornbush, ‘You come and reign over us.’ And the thornbush said to the trees, ‘If you are acting honorably in anointing me king over you, come and take shelter in my shade; but if not, may fire issue from the thornbush and consume the cedars of Lebanon!’” — Judges 9:8-15

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Close Reading

Let's unpack this remarkable text. Jotham, the sole survivor of Abimelech’s brutal massacre of Gideon’s seventy sons, climbs Mount Gerizim. He doesn't bring an army; he brings a story. He uses the language of the natural world to hold up a mirror to a dysfunctional society.

Through the lens of our classic commentators, we can find two profound, life-altering insights about how we build our homes, raise our families, and lead our communities today.

Insight 1: The Temptation to "Wave Above the Trees" vs. Producing Your True Fruit

Let's look closely at the responses of the three noble plants: the olive tree, the fig tree, and the grape vine. Each of them is invited to "reign" over the other trees. In the Hebrew text, the phrase used for reigning is lanu'a al ha-etzim (לָנוּעַ עַל הָעֵצִים), which literally means "to wave over," "to hover over," or "to drift aimlessly above" the trees.

The great commentator Malbim (on Judges 9:10) notices a deep psychological distinction here. He explains that different types of people seek different types of leadership. When the "wise and good" could not find a worthy leader, they stopped looking. But then a second class of people—the materialists, those who seek physical comfort and sensory pleasure—decided to seek a leader who could cater to their physical desires.

The Malbim writes:

"ויאמרו העצים לתאנה... בכ"ז לכי והשתדל בזה עד שתמלוך, וזה במשל שיבקשו איש עשיר גבור חיל אשר יוכל לכלכלם בתפנוקים וחיים הערבים." "They said to the fig tree... 'Go and strive for this until you reign.' This is a parable for those who seek a wealthy, powerful man who can sustain them with luxuries and sweet, pleasant living."

The fig tree represents this pull toward the sweet, comfortable things of life. As Metzudat Zion notes on Judges 9:11, the Hebrew word motki (מָתְקִי) means "my sweetness" (מלשון מתוק), and tenuvati (תְּנוּבָתִי) means "my fruit" (פריי).

The fig tree has to make a choice: Does it give up its innate sweetness—the unique, delicious fruit it was created to produce—just to "wave over" the other trees in a display of empty status?

The olive tree makes a similar calculation. Steinsaltz, in his commentary on Judges 9:10, points out that the olive tree is sturdy, ancient, and stately. Its oil is used to light the Menorah in the Temple and to anoint kings and priests. It brings honor to God and humans. Why would it abandon its sacred purpose to engage in the political theater of "waving" over others?

And the vine, too, refuses. Its wine gladdens hearts. It has a real, tangible, joyful impact on the ground.

Each of these noble plants understands something that we modern adults so easily forget: Real influence is about depth and fruitfulness, not status and control.

The Home/Family Translation

In our modern, hyper-connected lives, we are constantly tempted to "wave above the trees." We want the title, the promotion, the perfect Instagram aesthetic, the feeling of being "above" or in control of our social circles. We spend so much energy trying to project authority, success, and influence.

But Jotham's parable asks us a devastating question: What "fruit" are you sacrificing in order to wave over others?

• Are you sacrificing your "Olive Oil"—your spiritual marrow, your quiet moments of prayer, meditation, and integrity—just to win an argument or secure a promotion?
• Are you sacrificing your "Fig Sweetness"—the warmth, patience, and sweet presence you offer to your partner, your children, or your friends—because you are too busy, stressed, and exhausted from trying to climb the ladder?
• Are you sacrificing your "Wine"—your joy, your laughter, your ability to celebrate life's simple moments—in exchange for the cold, transactional power of being "in charge"?

When we play the game of "waving over others," we become disconnected from our roots. We stop producing the very things that make our homes warm, safe, and beautiful.

Let's look at the grammar for a second. Minchat Shai (on Judges 9:11) makes a subtle grammatical note on the word motki (מָתְקִי):

"המם בקמץ וה"א חטוף" "The letter mem is with a kamatz, and the [pronunciation is unique]..."

This precise, careful preservation of the word's vocalization reminds us that "sweetness" is not a generic, sloppy feeling. It is a precise, cultivated quality. It requires attention to detail. It requires us to protect our inner lives.

If we abandon our unique calling—our specific way of bringing light (oil), sweetness (figs), and joy (wine) into our homes—we leave a vacuum. And who steps into that vacuum? The thornbush.

Insight 2: The Fire of the Thornbush and the Breach of the Walls

The thornbush in Jotham’s parable represents Abimelech. Let’s look at how Abimelech rises to power.

According to Steinsaltz on Judges 9:1, Abimelech goes to Shechem, to his mother’s brothers, and plays the card of identity politics: "Remember, I am your own flesh and blood." He doesn't offer a vision, a strategy, or spiritual integrity. He offers tribalism. He says, "I'm one of you. Let's keep the power in the family."

The citizens of Shechem are won over. They give him seventy shekels from the temple of Baal-berith (a pagan deity). And what does Abimelech do with this money? He hires "worthless and reckless men" to follow him Judges 9:4. Then, in a act of unspeakable cruelty, he murders his seventy half-brothers on a single stone.

The thornbush has no real shade to offer. It is low to the ground, dry, and covered in sharp needles. Yet, in the parable, the thornbush says: "If you are acting honorably in anointing me king over you, come and take shelter in my shade; but if not, may fire issue from the thornbush and consume the cedars of Lebanon!" Judges 9:15.

This is the ultimate irony. A thornbush cannot shade a cedar of Lebanon! A cedar is a magnificent, towering tree. The thornbush's offer of "shade" is a lie, and its default setting is threat: Submit to me, or I will burn you all down.

And indeed, that is exactly what happens. Within three years, a "spirit of discord" (ruach ra'ah) enters the relationship between Abimelech and the people of Shechem Judges 9:23. The transaction falls apart. The very people who put him in power turn on him. In response, Abimelech wages a brutal campaign against his own citizens, burning down the Tower of Shechem with a thousand people inside, before finally meeting his own ignominious death at the hands of a woman who drops a millstone on his head from a tower roof Judges 9:53.

The Tzom Tammuz Connection

Today is Tzom Tammuz (the Fast of the 17th of Tammuz). This day marks the beginning of the "Three Weeks" of mourning, commemorating the day the walls of Jerusalem were breached by the Roman invaders, eventually leading to the destruction of the Temple.

But our sages teach us that the walls of Jerusalem were not breached simply because the Roman army was strong. They were breached because of sinat chinam—baseless hatred and internal division among the Jewish people themselves. The structural integrity of the city had already crumbled from within before the first battering ram ever touched the stone.

The story of Abimelech and the citizens of Shechem is the ultimate archetype of an internal breach. It is a relationship built entirely on transactional utility, tribalism, and shared greed. There is no covenant. There is no shared higher purpose.

When we build our relationships on transaction—on "what can you do for me?" or "we are the same tribe, so we must stick together against everyone else"—we are planting thornbushes. And thornbushes are highly flammable. The moment the transaction stops being profitable, the "spirit of discord" enters, and the fire of conflict consumes everything we’ve built.

The Home/Family Translation

How do we prevent "breaches" in the walls of our own homes?

Think about your family dynamic. It is so easy for a household to slide into a transactional model.

• "I do the dishes, so you have to take out the trash."
• "I pay the bills, so I get to make all the decisions."
• "If you get good grades, I will love and approve of you; if you struggle, you are a disappointment."

This is "thornbush" parenting and "thornbush" partnership. It is low-rooted, prickly, and highly sensitive to sparks. When we treat our partners or children as transactions, we are setting up a system where any small mistake, any shift in the wind, can cause a massive firestorm of resentment, shouting, and emotional distance.

To build a home with "cedar-like" strength, we must move from transaction to covenant.

A covenant is not about "what do I get out of this?" A covenant is about: "How do we nurture each other? How do we protect each other's ability to produce our unique fruit?" In a covenantal home, we don't demand that our family members "take shelter in our shade" (submitting to our control). Instead, we walk out into the fields together, appreciating the unique sweetness of the fig, the rich oil of the olive, and the joy of the vine.

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Micro-Ritual

How do we ground this lofty, campfire Torah into a concrete practice we can do this very week?

We are going to introduce a beautiful, sensory tweak to your Havdalah ritual at the end of Shabbat. We call this "The Sweetness and the Shade: The Havdalah Alignment."

Havdalah is the perfect moment for this because it naturally uses the elements of Jotham's parable: the wine of the vine, the sweet scent of spices (like the sweetness of the fig/dates), and the fire of the candle (which can either be a destructive forest fire or a warm, guiding light).

Here is how to do it:

Step 1: The Gathering (The Olive and the Vine)

When you gather your family, roommates, or partners around the Havdalah candle, don't just rush through the blessings. Start by singing a wordless, climbing niggun together.

As you hold the cup of wine or grape juice, pass it around and let everyone take a look at it. Recall the vine's response in the parable: "Have I stopped yielding my new wine, which gladdens God and humans?"

The Prompt: Ask each person to share one thing from the past week that brought them genuine, unpretentious joy—a moment where they felt fully aligned with their own "fruit," rather than trying to "wave over" others.

Step 2: The Scent of Sweetness (The Fig)

Next, take your spice box (the besamim). Traditionally, we use cloves or cinnamon, but for this ritual, try adding some dried figs, dates, or sweet-smelling wood shavings to the mix.

Pass the spices around. Take a deep, slow breath. Recall the fig tree's response: "Have I stopped yielding my sweetness...?"

The Prompt: Have everyone share one way they want to bring "sweetness" (patience, kind words, presence) into the home during the coming week. Who in the house needs a little extra sweetness this week, and how can we support them?

Step 3: The Fire and the Shade (The Candle)

Now, light the multi-wick Havdalah candle. Watch the flames join together into one bright, dancing column of light.

Look at the shadows cast by the flame on your fingernails. Recall the warning of the thornbush: "May fire issue from the thornbush and consume the cedars of Lebanon!"

The Prompt: Take a moment of silent reflection. Look at the flame and ask yourself: Where in my life right now am I acting like a thornbush? Where am I using control, anger, or transactional demands to get my way? How can I transform that wild, destructive fire into the warm, holy light of this Havdalah candle?

Step 4: The Extinguishing

Extinguish the candle in the wine cup. As the sweet smoke rises, sing the final lines of Havdalah together with gusto, hugging or high-fiving the people around you.

By engaging all five senses—the taste of the wine, the scent of the sweet spices, the sight of the flame, the sound of the niggun, and the physical touch of the circle—you are physically anchoring the lesson of Jotham's parable into your body, ready to carry it into the busy, demanding week ahead.

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Chevruta Mini

Find a partner—your spouse, a close friend, or one of your old camp buddies—and explore these two questions together over a cup of coffee or a beer:

1. The "Waving" Audit: In what areas of your life (work, parenting, social relationships) do you feel the strongest pull to "wave above the trees" (seeking status, control, or external validation)? What is the specific "fruit" (peace, creativity, relationships) that you tend to sacrifice when you give in to that pull?
2. The Structural Integrity Check: Thinking about today's context of Tzom Tammuz and the "breach of the walls," where in your close relationships have you noticed "brambles" or transactional thinking starting to grow? How can you consciously shift that specific relationship from a transactional "thornbush" model back to a covenantal, cooperative "forest canopy" model?

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Takeaway

My friends, the ultimate message of Judges 9 is that we do not have to live as isolated, competitive thornbushes, constantly threatening to burn each other down in a desperate grab for power and survival.

We were created to be a forest.

We are the olives, the figs, and the vines. Each of us has a unique, sacred purpose—a rich oil to light the world, a deep sweetness to comfort those around us, and a sparkling wine to bring joy to God and humanity.

The next time you feel the pressure to climb higher just to look down on others, remember Jotham standing on the cliffs of Mount Gerizim. Remember the deep, cool shade of the ancient cedars.

Step off the ladder. Dig your roots deep into the soil of your values, your heritage, and your family. Focus on producing your true, beautiful fruit.

Let's sing our way out of this campfire circle and into a week of growth, sweetness, and deep, unbreakable connection.

Lai-lai-lai, lai-lai-lai-lai, lai-lai-lai-lai, lai... Shavua Tov! May it be a week of blessing, peace, and abundant fruit!