Hearing the Little Bird: Elijah, King Solomon, and the Hope of Redemption
Can a small act of compassion help bring the coming of Mashiach closer?
When someone bends down to help a vulnerable creature, great events are rarely on their mind. Before them is a life in need: a bird that has lost its nest, a chick in danger, a cat with nowhere to shelter. At that moment, what matters is a pair of willing hands, attention, and care.
Yet Jewish tradition invites us to recognize a deeper meaning in such encounters.
The Zohar offers a moving image: a mother bird has been separated from her young, and the angel appointed over the birds appeals to the Almighty for compassion. Her suffering becomes an occasion to remember the people of Israel in exile, their devastated home, and the children awaiting their return.
In this account, a little bird is heard in heaven.
Devarim Rabbah, in turn, connects the commandment of sending away the mother bird with redemption and the promise to send Elijah the Prophet. These teachings illuminate different aspects of the commandment. Together, they invite us to see something beyond the nest itself: the pain of separation and the hope of coming home.
Elijah—Eliyahu HaNavi—is our Jewish prophet, a prophet of the people of Israel. His story belongs to the world of the Tanakh, the covenant, and the Torah, and continues through the Talmud and Midrash. He is also revered in Christianity and Islam. Here, however, we approach him within Jewish tradition, where his return is bound to the expectation of Mashiach, the Messiah descended from David, and the redemption of Israel.
In the Second Book of Kings, the account of Elijah’s earthly journey culminates in his ascent to heaven in a whirlwind. Jewish tradition understands him as a prophet taken alive, whose service continues. His life remains a gift from the Almighty: Elijah is God’s creation, servant, and messenger.
What moves me most is the purpose the prophet Malachi assigns to his return: to turn the hearts of parents toward their children and the hearts of children toward their parents. Maimonides explains that Elijah will come to establish peace and prepare people’s hearts. The precise unfolding of redemption, he reminds us, remains beyond our knowledge.
We await the herald of Mashiach. We can also ask, even now, whether our own hearts are ready for reconciliation, care, and responsibility.
The commandment concerning the bird deserves equally careful attention. Deuteronomy describes a person who encounters a nest and intends to take the eggs or young: the mother must first be sent away. The commandment places a limit on human power over another living creature. Yet separation remains separation. Its pain is precisely what the mystical teaching allows us to hear.
The Lubavitcher Rebbe noted that it is not our custom to seek out nests specifically to perform this commandment.
For me, this raises a moral question: if we hope to be a generation worthy of welcoming Mashiach, how attentively should we treat those more vulnerable than ourselves?
When a nest can be left undisturbed, let life continue within it. When a creature truly needs help, let us respond thoughtfully and gently. Rescuing a chick is a good deed with a meaning of its own; its value does not depend on identifying it with a different commandment.
The wish to preserve a bird’s family, provide an animal with safety, or relieve unnecessary suffering can cultivate our ability to recognize another being’s needs.
After all, the One who created us created them as well.
In Genesis, animals appear before human beings. Adam is given the opportunity to name them. Later, Noah is entrusted with preserving life through the Flood. Both clean and unclean animals find a place in the ark. We encounter a human being whom God has charged with caring for other creatures.
Shemot Rabbah tells how Moses followed a kid that had wandered from his flock. When he found it beside the water, he understood: the little animal had run away because it was thirsty. Moses lifted the exhausted kid onto his shoulders. The Midrash connects this compassion with his future calling to shepherd the people of Israel.
Moses recognized a need where he might have seen only disobedience.
That same attentiveness comes to mind in the words of King Solomon:
“A righteous person knows the needs of his animal.”
These words appear in Proverbs 12:10. They are the words of a king whose wisdom became part of our spiritual inheritance. They speak to anyone entrusted with a living creature.
To know an animal’s needs is to notice when it is hungry, frightened, or in pain. It is to understand that our affection must find expression in care the animal actually receives.
The laws of kashrut and the symbolic significance of animals address different questions. Kashrut determines what a person may eat. It does not release us from responsibility for the suffering of animals we do not eat.
The lion holds an honored place in Jewish symbolism. Pirkei Avot urges us to learn from animals qualities that can strengthen our service of God. And in Eruvin 100b, Rabbi Yochanan teaches that, had the Torah not been given, we could have learned modesty from the cat.
Our sages invite us to pause and look closely. A creature beside us may have something to teach us.
Here another remarkable image comes into view: the golden cat amid the splendor of King Solomon’s throne.
Targum Sheni, an expansive Aramaic rendering of the Book of Esther, describes golden animals upon the steps of the royal throne. On the fifth step stands a golden cat. This is an aggadic tradition associated with the interpretation of the Tanakh; the description does not appear in the biblical text of Esther itself.
It nevertheless belongs to Jewish tradition. The cat has a place in the magnificent portrayal of the throne of Solomon, son of David, the king who built the Temple in Jerusalem.
We do not know whether this golden figure had a living model—a cat that once inhabited the royal court. The tradition does not establish that. What it does give us is an image worth contemplating: a cat within a setting of royal wisdom and dignity.
This image is especially dear to me because of Kanaani, a cat breed developed in Israel, whose preservation has become a commitment in my life.
I see these cats as symbolic heirs to King Solomon’s golden cat. This is how I express my connection to the tradition and my responsibility toward living animals today: an inheritance of memory and meaning.
To call them the royal cats of Israel is, for me, to accept an obligation to care for them with dignity.
The golden cat of the ancient account needs neither food nor medical treatment nor a safe home. Living cats need all three, every day. If we admire the splendor of King Solomon’s throne, we should also listen to Solomon’s own words about knowing an animal’s needs.
Royal memory finds a living continuation in an act of care.
These reflections have long been connected, in my mind, with a song: The Little Bird. I learned it from my rabbi, Zalman Liberov. He sings it with great feeling. Listening to him, I hear tenderness, love, and a longing to return home. It is a song that asks to be sung from the heart.
The little bird is calling,
It wishes to return.
The little bird is wounded,
It cannot fly but yearn.
It’s captured by the vultures,
Crying bitterly,
Oh, to see my nest again,
Oh, to be redeemed.
The little bird is wounded. It longs for its nest. Later, the song reveals its meaning:
The little bird is Yisroel,
The vultures are our foes,
The painful wound is Golus,
Which we all feel and know,
The nest is Yerushalayim,
Where we yearn to be once more,
The eagle is the Moshiach,
Whom we are waiting for.
The bird is Israel. The wound is exile. The nest is Jerusalem. The eagle is Mashiach, whom we await.
After hearing this song, the image of a bird calling out in separation feels especially close. We hear our own longing for home within it. Perhaps, in recognizing our pain in that image, we can become more attentive to the living creature before us.
I do not know which good deed will be the last necessary step before redemption. None of us can identify that act in advance or promise that it will bring Mashiach.
But I hold to the hope that a life preserved, suffering relieved, and care extended to the overlooked and vulnerable have significance beyond what we can see.
This is how I understand my work caring for Kanaani cats. Through it, I try to answer King Solomon’s words with action: to preserve these living animals, give them a good life, and pass that responsibility on.
We await Elijah, the Jewish prophet who will prepare hearts for redemption. We await Mashiach and a world in which the promises of our prophets will be fulfilled.
While we wait, someone beside us needs help.
Perhaps today we are given the chance to hear the little bird.
And to answer.
