Welcome in, it is good to sit with a question like this, one that has travelled through centuries and still stirs the heart like wind over old pages of scripture.

What do Jews believe Isaiah 53 and Psalm 22 are referring to?

Well now, this is one of those questions that opens like an old doorway in Jerusalem stone, and once you step through it you find yourself in a long corridor of interpretation, prayer, and story. In Jewish understanding, these passages are not read in isolation or as mysterious riddles pointing to a single hidden figure, but rather as living poetry rooted deeply in the story of Israel, the community, and the soul of humanity before the Holy One, blessed be He.

When we come to Isaiah 53, the image that rises in traditional Jewish interpretation is not of one isolated individual, but of the servant of God described across the earlier chapters of Isaiah, often understood as Israel itself. The prophet speaks of a servant who suffers, who is despised, who carries affliction, and yet through whom something profound is unfolding in the world. As the sages teach through Midrashic reflection, Israel is called the servant of the Holy One, not because of ease or triumph, but precisely because of endurance through exile, scattering, and return. There is a mystery here, a holy paradox, that suffering does not mean abandonment, but sometimes concealment of a deeper unfolding redemption.

In this way, the words of Isaiah are heard as Israel speaking in the voice of exile. A people who have been crushed among the nations, yet somehow remain alive, carrying within them a stubborn spark that refuses to be extinguished. As one might say in the old language of faith, a man plans, and Heaven has a wee chuckle, but in that laughter there is also guidance, shaping history in ways the human eye only slowly begins to understand.

There is also a mystical thread within Kabbalistic thought that sees the servant not only as the historical people of Israel, but as the collective soul that carries divine sparks scattered through the world. In this reading, the suffering described is not meaningless pain but the gathering of fragments, a spiritual work hidden beneath the surface of history. The Holy One, blessed be He, allows concealment so that restoration may become deeper than what was lost. Even sorrow, in this vision, becomes a kind of labour of repair.

Now when we turn to Psalm 22, we step into a very different voice, yet one that still resonates within the same spiritual landscape. This psalm is traditionally attributed to King David, and it opens with words of anguish, a cry of abandonment that echoes through the soul like a lone voice in a vast valley. Yet in Jewish reading, this is not taken as prophecy about another person far in the future, but as the lived experience of David himself, and by extension the experience of the righteous individual or the community in times of distress.

David often speaks in the psalms as both an individual and as a representative of Israel. In Psalm 22, the suffering is vivid, almost overwhelming in its imagery, yet it does not remain there. The psalm turns, as many psalms do, from despair toward trust and eventual praise. This movement itself is deeply important in Jewish thought. It is not the removal of suffering that defines the faith, but the ability to speak to the Holy One, blessed be He, even from within it.

As the Midrash gently suggests in various reflections on the psalms, David’s cries are the cries of Israel in exile, when nations surround and mock, when strength feels diminished, and yet the connection between Israel and God is never fully severed. Even in the darkest lines, there is a thread that does not break. It is said in a spirit of reverence that even Elijah had bad days, and so too the psalm reflects the honest voice of a soul not pretending that life is always smooth.

There is also a mystical reading that sees Psalm 22 as the journey of the soul itself. In Kabbalistic language, the soul descends into concealment, into moments where the divine presence feels hidden, and yet precisely there it begins its ascent. The opening cry is not the end of the story but the beginning of transformation. The psalm moves from isolation into praise, from fragmentation into wholeness, like a vessel being repaired through its very breaking.

So when Jewish tradition reads Isaiah 53 and Psalm 22 together, it does not see them as pointing away from Israel or David, but rather as expressions of their deepest spiritual reality. They are voices of suffering, yes, but also voices of endurance, identity, and ultimately return. The servant is not forgotten, the psalmist is not abandoned, and the people of Israel are not erased. Instead, they are held within a larger divine unfolding that often hides its meaning until the right moment of understanding arrives.

And perhaps that is the quiet wisdom woven through both passages. That human beings often stand in places where meaning is not immediately visible, yet the story is still being written by a hand greater than their own sight. As the Holy One, blessed be He, is understood in the old teachings, He is not absent in the darkness, but concealed within it, waiting like dawn behind a heavy curtain.

And so, when these texts are read in Jewish tradition, they are not so much puzzles waiting for a single answer, but mirrors held up to the life of a people and the life of the soul. They speak of suffering, yes, but also of endurance, faithfulness, and the strange and beautiful way that even broken places can become thresholds into deeper understanding.

And if one sits with them long enough, one may find that they are not only about ancient voices at all, but about the human heart itself, still learning, still turning, still whispering its way back toward light.