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King David Said Torah Sages Were Worth More Than Gold

David was warrior, king, and poet. The later tradition adds a fourth role: student of Torah. What he found there surprised him, and he wrote it down in Psalms.

Curated by Arthur · Told by Maggid ·
Table of Contents
  1. The King Who Had Known Both
  2. What David Said Charity Required
  3. Every Psalm Spoke for Everyone
  4. Joab and What Followed David
  5. The Kingdom in Songs

The King Who Had Known Both

David killed Goliath. He danced before the Ark. He wrote the Psalms. He also, in the rabbinic tradition, became a student of Torah, and when he immersed himself in it, he came out saying that Torah sages were more precious to him than gold.

The exact words are in Psalms. Sifrei Bamidbar, one of the earliest tannaitic collections of legal interpretation on Numbers, compiled in the second and third centuries CE, cites David directly: "And to me, how precious are Your loved ones, O God! How mighty is their sum!" (Psalms 139:17). Then: "Better to me is the Torah of Your mouth than thousands in gold and silver" (Psalms 119:72). Sifrei reads these verses as the testimony of a king who had experienced both wealth and wisdom and knew exactly which one lasted. Gold and silver could take a person out of this world and the World to Come. Torah brought a person into both.

What David Said Charity Required

Vayikra Rabbah, the midrash on Leviticus compiled in the Land of Israel in the fifth century CE, anchors a long meditation on charity to the verse in Leviticus about supporting a poor brother and to the promise in Psalm 41: "Happy is one who attends to the indigent; the Lord will deliver him in the day of evil." The rabbis built their entire case for the rewards of charitable giving on David's statement that attending to the poor constituted a fundamental form of goodness.

Abba bar Yimeya, quoting Rabbi Meir, said it was about crowning the good inclination over the evil inclination. Isi said it was as simple as giving the smallest coin to someone who needed it. Rabbi Yochanan said it was about burying an unattended corpse, performing a final act of dignity for someone completely alone. The rabbis were multiplying examples to make a single point: the obligation to attend to those with less was not a supplement to the religious life. It was the religious life, expressed in the most practical possible terms.

Every Psalm Spoke for Everyone

Midrash Tehillim, the collection of rabbinic interpretations on the book of Psalms assembled over several centuries in the late antique period, read Psalm 16 as more than David's private prayer. The dedication of the psalm, "to the conductor, for the servant of the Lord," meant the psalm was not personal. Rabbi Yudan, quoting Rabbi Yehuda, made this explicit: "Everything that David said in his book, he said corresponding to himself, to all of Israel, and to all times." Every word in Psalms, every emotional register, every cry and praise and question, was simultaneously the king's voice, the nation's voice, and the voice of every generation to come. David's individual prayer had become a communal inheritance without losing its personal weight.

Joab and What Followed David

Legends of the Jews preserves the scene of Joab's end, the general who had served David through everything and whose career ended under Solomon. When Solomon gave the order, Joab made a legal argument. David's curse had been laid on him and his descendants. If Solomon executed him while the curse remained, it would be double punishment for a single offense. Joab was arguing from David's own justice. He was saying: your father built a legal system, and this execution violates it. The argument was David's legacy turned back against David's son. Principles of law do not expire with their founder. They outlast him and bind those who come after him.

The Kingdom in Songs

Sifrei Devarim 352 closes its meditation on divine presence with an image that is the opposite of what one might expect from a text about power. A human king is surrounded by his court and may be accompanied by people taller or stronger or more impressive than he is. But God, the Sifrei says, is distinctive in the midst of the myriads of His holy ones. The word used is oth, a sign, a marker. God does not require attendants to enhance His presence. His presence makes the attendants meaningful, not the other way around. David the king, the warrior, the poet, the student, had spent his life in proximity to that kind of sovereignty, and what he said about it, in the Psalms, in his final songs, in his instructions to his son, was that it could not be purchased. It could only be studied, practiced, and passed on.

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The texts this telling draws on, in full. Open a card to read inline, or expand it for a wider, quieter read.

Sifrei Bamidbar 119:4Sifrei Bamidbar

Sifrei Bamidbar turns to David Discovers Torah Scholars Are More Precious Than Gold.

Sifrei Bamidbar, one of the ancient collections of Jewish legal interpretations, explores this very idea. It tells us that when David, the shepherd-turned-king, immersed himself in Torah and grew wise, he exclaimed (Psalms 139:17), "And to me, how precious are Your loved ones (i.e. Torah scholars), O G-d! How mighty is their sum!" And then, (Psalms 119:72) "Better to me is the Torah of Your mouth than thousands of gold and silver." King David, a man who knew wealth and power, valued Torah above all else. Why? Because, as the text explains, gold and silver can actually take a person out of this world and the next, whereas Torah brings a person to life in the world to come.

The passage goes even deeper. It references (II (Samuel 7:1)9), "This is the Torah of man," and then introduces a fascinating concept: the three crowns. Aaron, the High Priest, merited the crown of priesthood, and David, of course, merited the crown of kingdom. But what about the crown of Torah?

Here's where it gets really interesting. The crown of Torah, we're told, is deliberately left vacant, available to all who enter the world. Why? So no one can say, "If the crown of kingdom or priesthood had been available, I would have earned them!" The crown of Torah is there for anyone to seize, to dedicate themselves to, to master.

And the reward for claiming that crown? According to Sifrei Bamidbar, whoever merits the crown of Torah is accounted as if they merited all three! Conversely, whoever doesn't merit it is as if they merited none. Pretty high stakes. But which crown is the greatest? Rabbi Shimon b. Elazar poses a powerful question: Who is greater, the crowner or the king? The maker of officers or the officers? Obviously, the one who bestows the power is greater than the one who receives it. And all the power that inheres in the crowns of priesthood and kingship comes through the power of Torah. As it says in Proverbs (8:15-16), "Through me (Torah) do kings reign… Through me do princes rule."

The passage concludes by returning to the idea of "This is the Torah of man," and referencing Kohelet (Ecclesiastes) 12:13, "The end of the matter, all has been heard. Fear G-d and do His mitzvoth (commandments)" – His commandments. "For this (Torah) is all of man." Torah is the very essence of humanity.

So, what do we take away from this? It's not just about studying ancient texts, although that's certainly part of it. It's about recognizing the profound value of Torah – not just as a body of knowledge, but as a guide for living a meaningful life, a life connected to something larger than ourselves. The crown is there, waiting. Will you reach for it?

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Vayikra Rabbah 34:1Vayikra Rabbah

Vayikra Rabbah turns to Blessed Is the One Who Considers the Poor Says David.

Abba bar Yimeya, quoting Rabbi Meir, suggests it’s about “crowning the good inclination over the evil inclination.” In other words, choosing compassion over selfishness. Isi says it's as simple as giving a peruta, the smallest denomination of currency, to the poor. Rabbi Yoḥanan takes a different tack, saying it's about burying an unattended corpse – performing a final act of kindness for someone completely alone. These are all powerful acts of chesed (Lovingkindness), loving-kindness.

Then the Rabbis chime in, offering a politically charged interpretation: it's about extricating oneself from tyrants. According to some commentaries, this means refusing to participate in an oppressive regime, choosing integrity over power. (Etz Yosef). It's a reminder that helping others sometimes means standing up to injustice.

Rav Huna adds another dimension: visiting the sick. He even claims that each visit subtracts one-sixtieth of the sick person's illness! Now, some challenged this idea. Imagine sixty people visiting and magically curing someone instantly! Rav Huna clarifies that while a single visit might not cure everything, these visits still benefit the sick. They offer comfort, connection, and a reminder that they are not forgotten.

Each of these interpretations is then linked back to Psalm 41. If you crown the good inclination, “The Lord will protect him.” If you give a peruta, “And will sustain him.” If you bury the forgotten, “He will be made happy in the earth.” If you stand against tyrants, “You will not submit him to the will of his enemies.” And if you visit the sick, “The Lord will support him on a sickbed.” It's a beautiful chain of action and consequence, reminding us that our kindness ripples outward, affecting not only others but ourselves as well.

Rabbi Yona offers a particularly poignant example. He emphasizes that the verse doesn't say "happy is one who gives to the indigent," but rather "happy is one who attends to the indigent." It's not just about the act of giving, but about truly seeing the person in need. He describes how, when he encountered a once-wealthy individual who had fallen on hard times and was too ashamed to accept charity, he devised a clever plan. He would offer the person a loan, pretending to believe they had inherited money from overseas. When the person tried to repay the loan, Rabbi Yona would then reveal it was a gift. This is the kind of thoughtful, compassionate action that truly embodies "attending to the indigent."

Rabbi Levi, citing Rabbi Ḥama bar Rabbi Ḥanina, makes a powerful point: the word "Happy" (ashrei) appears twenty-two times in scripture, but only this instance – the one connected to helping the indigent – promises a reward: “The Lord will deliver him.”

What does this all mean for us today? It’s a reminder that helping others isn't just a nice thing to do; it’s an integral part of our own well-being. It's about choosing compassion, standing up for justice, and truly seeing the people around us. It’s about recognizing that when we lift others up, we also lift ourselves. As Moses cautions: "If your brother becomes poor…" it is an if that is also a when. How will we respond?

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Midrash Tehillim 18:1Midrash Tehillim

Midrash Tehillim reads Psalm 16 as more than David's private prayer.

The Midrash begins with the dedication of the psalm: "To the conductor, for the servant of the Lord." Right away, we're being told this isn’t just a personal cry, but a song for everyone.

Rabbi Yudan, quoting Rabbi Yehuda, makes a profound claim: "Everything that David said in his book, he said corresponding to himself, to all of Israel, and to all times." Every word, every emotion, every plea found in the Book of Psalms – it's not just David's story, but our story, and the story of generations to come. It speaks to the individual, the community, and the entirety of Jewish history. It’s a remarkable assertion of universality.

So, when David cries out, "Preserve me," who is really speaking? Is it just a king in danger? Or is it the voice of a people, yearning for protection throughout the ages? Is it your voice, today?

The Midrash then draws a beautiful parallel between the miracles God performed for our ancestors and our own expressions of gratitude. "Our Master, the Lord of the Universe," the text proclaims, "You performed miracles for us at night and we sang praises at night."

What’s the evidence? Well, the Midrash points to (Exodus 15:2), the Song at the Sea: "The Lord is my strength and my song, and He has become my salvation; this is my God, and I will praise Him." This verse, sung after the miraculous crossing of the Red Sea, is the ultimate expression of nighttime deliverance and praise. As (Isaiah 30:29) echoes, "You shall have a song, as in the night when a holy festival is kept; and gladness of heart..." The darkness itself becomes a stage for celebration.

But the miracles weren't confined to the night. "You performed miracles for us during the day and we sang praises to You during the day," the Midrash continues, referencing (Psalm 118:24): "This is the day that the Lord has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it." Each new day, each sunrise, is a renewed opportunity for gratitude, a fresh miracle to acknowledge and celebrate.

The Midrash highlights a fundamental rhythm in our relationship with the Divine: miracle, followed by praise. God acts, and we respond with song. Night and day, in darkness and in light, the cycle continues. We are forever invited to see the hand of God in our lives and to offer our heartfelt thanks.

What does this mean for us today?

Perhaps it's an invitation to look for the miracles, big and small, that surround us, even in the midst of challenges. Maybe it's a call to find our own song, our own way of expressing gratitude for the blessings in our lives. And perhaps, most importantly, it’s a reminder that we are not alone. We are part of a long and unbroken chain of those who have turned to God for refuge, and who have found strength in His presence. Just like David, just like our ancestors at the Red Sea, we too can find solace and hope in the words of the Psalms.

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Legends of the Jews 5:17Legends of the Jews

Solomon, David's son and successor, has given the order. But Joab, ever the strategist, isn't going down without a fight. He makes a plea to Benaiah, the man tasked with carrying out the king's command.

Joab essentially says, "Hold on a minute! Solomon can't punish me twice for the same crime!" He's referring to a curse that David had placed upon Joab and his descendants for the slaying of Abner. According to Joab, if Solomon wants to take his life, he first has to lift that curse. Otherwise, executing him would be a grave injustice.

Think about the implications here. Joab is arguing that the curse is a form of punishment in itself. To execute him and leave the curse intact would be double jeopardy, so to speak. It's a clever argument, playing on the principles of justice and fairness.

Solomon, a king known for his wisdom, recognizes the validity of Joab's plea. But here's where the story takes a truly fascinating turn. Solomon realizes that by executing Joab, he would effectively transfer David's curse from Joab's family to his own!

And that's exactly what happens. According to the tale, after Joab's execution, David's curse manifests in a series of misfortunes that plague Solomon's lineage. Rehoboam, Solomon's son, suffers from a persistent illness. Uzziah is afflicted with leprosy, a devastating skin disease. Asa requires a staff to walk. The righteous Josiah meets his end by the sword of Pharaoh. And Jeconiah, a later king, is reduced to living off charity.

The imprecations, those powerful pronouncements of ill-fortune, that David intended for Joab's family were ultimately fulfilled in his own. It's a dramatic illustration of the idea that actions, and especially words, have consequences that can ripple through time, impacting not just individuals, but entire families and dynasties.

What does this story tell us? Perhaps it’s a cautionary tale about the dangers of revenge, the enduring power of curses (or, more broadly, the power of our words and actions), and the unexpected ways that justice can be served. Maybe it's a reminder that sometimes, the very thing we try to avoid ends up finding its way back to us, or even to those we love.

It makes you wonder, doesn't it? What curses, spoken or unspoken, might we be carrying with us, and what unintended consequences might they unleash?

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Sifrei Devarim 343:12Sifrei Devarim

When a human king celebrates a special occasion, like a wedding, he shares his wealth and joy. But Sifrei Devarim, in its commentary on (Deuteronomy 33:2), challenges this very human analogy. "And He came from the myriads of His holy ones" doesn't mean God is like a king showing off all his possessions. Instead, it emphasizes that God's presence is fundamentally different. God doesn't reveal everything, not even to His most holy beings.

There's another interpretation, a powerful one. A human king, surrounded by his court, might be accompanied by people who are taller, stronger, or even more handsome than he is. But the Sifrei Devarim contrasts this with God's uniqueness: "He is an oth (אות), distinctive, in the midst of the myriads of His holy ones." The word oth here means a sign, a distinguishing mark. God isn't just among the holy ones; He stands out from them.

Think about the splitting of the Red Sea. As we learn in (Exodus 15:2), the Israelites, witnessing God's power, immediately recognized Him: "This is My G-d and I will extol Him; the G-d of my father, and I will exalt Him." God's presence was unmistakable.

This recognition sparks a fascinating dialogue with the nations of the world. In (Song of Songs 5:9), they ask Israel, "How does your Beloved differ from all others?" Why are you so dedicated, so willing to sacrifice everything? The midrash (rabbinic interpretive commentary) sees in the word alamoth (עַלְמָוֶת) in (Song of Songs 1:3) a hidden meaning: al maveth, "above death." Israel's love for God transcends even death itself, as we see echoed in (Psalms 44:23): "For because of You we are killed all of the day."

The nations, impressed by Israel's devotion, tempt them: "You are all comely; you are all strong – come and intermarry with us!" But Israel, unwavering in their faith, responds by describing the unique beauty and glory of God. They recite the praises found in (Song of Songs 5:10-16): "My Beloved is pure and ruddy, distinctive among a myriad. His head is fine gold … His eyes are like doves … His legs are pillars of marble … His palate is sweet …"

Hearing this, the nations are captivated and plead, "Let us come with you" (Song of Songs 6:1). They are drawn to the beauty and power that Israel describes. But Israel firmly declares, "You have no portion in Him. I am my Beloved's and my Beloved is mine" (Song of Songs 6:3). The relationship between Israel and God is exclusive, a bond of love and devotion that others cannot simply join.

This passage from Sifrei Devarim isn't just about God's appearance or power. It's about the unique relationship between God and the Jewish people, a relationship defined by love, sacrifice, and an unwavering recognition of God's distinctiveness in the world. It's a reminder that even when surrounded by the "myriads of His holy ones," God remains uniquely, undeniably, Himself.

What does it mean for us, today, to recognize that distinctiveness? How do we keep that relationship alive, even in a world that often tries to tempt us away?

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