The Bible is the best-selling book of all time—and one of the least read. Even those who profess deep love for Scripture, quoting chapter and verse with ease, rarely read it from cover to cover. We tend to skip the hard parts—those passages that make us squirm.
Take Psalm 137. Its haunting lament—“By the rivers of Babylon”—is sung in synagogue, church, and even pop music (think Joan Baez or “Rivers of Babylon”). But its final, shocking line—“Happy is the one who seizes your infants and dashes them against the rocks” (v.9)—is nearly always left out. The Bible is not a sanitized children’s book. It speaks of human frailty, raw passion, and divine justice. Perhaps, given our culture’s appetite for drama, we should advertise Scripture’s more scandalous narratives!
This week’s haftarah is a perfect example. Hosea—one of the so-called minor prophets—carries one of the most scandalous, tender, and redemptive backstories in the entire canon. (And let’s be honest: “minor prophet” is terrible branding. It only means “short book,” not “unimportant.” Maybe if we called them “the very short but really important prophets,” people would pay more attention!)
The haftarah begins with an urgent cry: “Shuvah Yisrael ad Adonai Elohekha”—“Return, Israel, to the Lord your God.” This is no gentle suggestion; it’s an anguished plea: come home, leave your false lovers, and stop wounding yourself.
Hosea’s Living Parable
Hosea’s life becomes a prophetic drama. He is told to marry Gomer, a woman of dubious reputation, and to raise three children whose paternity is uncertain. Their names—Yizre’el (God sows), Lo-Ruchamah (Unpitied), and Lo-Ammi (Not My People) (1:2–8)—are themselves messages of judgment and hope. Naming a child “Yizre’el” would recall the blood-soaked valley of Jezreel, infamous for Ahab, Jezebel, and the Jehu dynasty—like naming a child “Auschwitz” or “Treblinka” today.
Gomer abandons Hosea for other lovers, pursuing pleasure and gifts, not realizing that her true security comes from the husband she spurned. Likewise, Israel pursues foreign gods and alliances, blind to the reality that every blessing flows from Hashem (2:10–11). Rabbinic tradition does not soften this scandal. The Midrash (Pesikta Rabbati 44) underscores that God’s command to Hosea—“Go, take for yourself a wife of harlotry”—was meant to make him feel, in his own flesh, the heartbreak God feels over Israel’s infidelity. Rashi comments that Hosea’s marriage dramatizes God’s enduring love: even when Israel strays, He does not cast her off forever.
Redemption at a Price
When Gomer’s lovers abandon her, she is stripped and sold. Hosea buys her back—fifteen pieces of silver and eight bushels of barley—and patiently restores her (3:2–5). The Talmud (Pesachim 87a) interprets God’s persistent love for Israel as a model: even in exile, He redeems His people again and again.
This story foreshadows the ultimate act of redemptive love. Just as Hosea redeems Gomer at personal cost, Yeshua lays down His life for an unfaithful world. Paul writes, “While we were yet sinners, Messiah died for us” (Romans 5:8). Hosea’s humiliation mirrors Yeshua’s willingness to bear shame on the cross—purchasing us not with silver or barley but with His own blood. The prophet’s longing for Israel’s return echoes Yeshua’s lament over Jerusalem: “How often I have longed to gather your children… but you were not willing” (Matthew 23:37).
Rabbinic voices also point toward this covenantal persistence. Rabbi Akiva taught (Yoma 86a) that great love is shown not merely in forgiving sin but in transforming sin itself into merit when repentance is sincere. Hosea’s forgiveness of Gomer prefigures the radical mercy revealed in Yeshua’s sacrifice: a love that not only redeems but transforms.
A Call to Us in the Days of Awe
The parallels are uncomfortably close. Like Gomer, like Israel, we chase after the glittering trappings of wealth, status, and fleeting pleasure. Our lovers are ego, ideology, and distraction. Have social media, politics, or ambition become our forbidden rendezvous? Have we forgotten who redeemed us at immeasurable cost?
Yet Hosea’s message is clear: even in our unfaithfulness, Hashem does not forsake us. We may choose to live in galut—self-imposed exile from intimacy with God—but His arms remain open. In these Yamim Nora’im, the Days of Awe, the question is not, “How much can I get away with?” but, “How long will I stay away?”
Our first Love is calling. The Holy One cries, Shuvah!—Return! Yeshua’s sacrifice stands as the ultimate demonstration that God’s mercy is not exhausted. The scandalous grace of Hosea and Gomer points to an even greater scandal—the cross—that transforms betrayal into belonging.
How long will we wait?