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David Asked for Mercy When the Temple Burned

The Levites still had a verse in their mouths when the fire took the courtyard. David later asked not to be measured that closely.

Curated by Arthur · Told by Maggid ·
Table of Contents
  1. The Song Stopped Mid-Verse
  2. Jehoiarib's Watch
  3. What the Earth Stood On
  4. David Asked Not to Be Measured
  5. The Line They Never Finished

The Levites still had the verse in their mouths when the courtyard went to fire. It was the ninth of Av, the watch of Jehoiarib, first Temple and second. They stood on the platform and sang from Psalm 94: He inflicted their suffering upon them. They did not reach the next words. The enemy seized them with the line unfinished.

David Asked for Mercy When the Temple Burned Click for full size

The next words were supposed to be: May the Lord our God destroy them. Those words stayed in the air of the burning court and did not land.

The Song Stopped Mid-Verse

They had been singing about justice while justice, from every visible angle, was walking out of the gate. The note hung. Smoke took the place of the missing half. Men whose whole work was to finish psalms were dragged off the platform with a psalm unclosed.

The Temple burned. The singers were taken. What remained was a verse with its ending bitten off.

Jehoiarib's Watch

That rotation had been on duty both times the house fell. The calendar did not flinch. After Shabbat, after the fast, the same priestly course stood in the same place and watched the beams catch.

David had built the roster long before there were two Temples to lose. He had assigned watches so the song would never stop. On the day it stopped, the watch was Jehoiarib's, and the song was a justice psalm that did not get to its last request.

What the Earth Stood On

While the house burned, a different psalm kept asking a child's question. What does the earth rest on?

On the waters, said one. The waters on the mountains. The mountains on the wind. The wind in the storm. The storm on the arm of God, as it says, underneath are the everlasting arms (Deuteronomy 33:27).

Some said twelve pillars, the number of the tribes. Some said seven, the pillars wisdom hewed. Rabbi Elazar ben Shamua said one pillar, and its name was Tzaddik, the righteous one.

The Temple had been the visible meeting of heaven and earth. The Levites' song had been the audible proof. Both were going. The arm did not put the earth down. "For His love endures forever" kept repeating in Psalm 136 while the platform emptied.

David Asked Not to Be Measured

David had already prayed the only prayer that still fit a burned house. Do not enter into judgment with Your servant, for no living being is righteous before You (Psalm 143:2).

He knew the record. He asked for mercy that did not require him to be clean first. Job had wanted to be hidden in Sheol until wrath passed. God told him wrath would pass when judgment had passed. David took a different door. He asked not to be put on the scale at all, not because he claimed innocence, because no one on that scale walks away whole.

Abraham over Ishmael, Isaac over Esau, even the Lord over Israel: on that day faces go pale. David said, If You do justice with me exactly, who can stand?

The Levites had been singing exact justice when the fire came. The prayer that survived the fire was the one that asked for mercy instead.

The Line They Never Finished

They did not stop singing when the enemy entered the outer court. They sang until they were seized. The cut came from outside. The mouths were still open.

David's old request hung beside that unfinished verse. Do not judge Your servant too closely. The earth, for the moment, still had an arm under it. The Temple did not.


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The texts behind this telling. Some cards carry a translation of the source; others are our own retelling of it, and each card says which. Every card links out to the original.

Midrash Tehillim 95:1Midrash Tehillim

Retold in our words. Read the original at the link below.Rabbi Mike Feuer, Jerusalem Anthology · CC-BY

It's not always what you might expect. to a passage from Midrash Tehillim, a collection of rabbinic interpretations on the Book of Psalms, and see.

The passage begins with a stark statement: "And he inflicted their suffering upon them." This comes from (Psalm 94:23), and it's a verse dripping with pain. But the Ari, Rabbi Isaac Luria, the great 16th-century Kabbalist, gives us a chillingly specific context. He says that the destruction of the Temple – both the First and Second Temples – happened on Tisha B'Av, the ninth day of the month of Av, a day of fasting and mourning, which fell after Shabbat (the Sabbath). And, incredibly, it was the priestly watch of Jehoiarib that was on duty. Imagine: the very priests whose job it was to serve God, witnessing the ultimate desecration. The Levites, standing on their platform, were reciting this very verse: "He inflicted their suffering upon them." But, the Ari adds, they didn't even get to finish the next part, "May the Lord our God destroy them," before the enemy arrived and captured them.

The midrash (rabbinic interpretive commentary) doesn’t wallow in despair. It pivots, almost jarringly, towards joy. "Let us rejoice to God," it declares. How can this be? How can we rejoice after such suffering?

The key, it seems, lies in the downfall of the wicked. The midrash quotes (Zephaniah 3:14): "Sing, daughter of Zion; shout aloud, O Israel! Be glad and rejoice with all your heart, Daughter Jerusalem!" Why? Because, as (Micah 7:9) asks, the enemy has been deprived of his right to rule. The midrash then strings together a series of verses that celebrate the defeat of oppressors. (Isaiah 14:5-7): "The Lord has broken the rod of the wicked… All the lands are at rest and at peace; they break into singing." (Ezekiel 32:31) speaks of the earth rejoicing when the wicked are made desolate.

Is this…gloating? Maybe. But perhaps it's more about recognizing the cosmic balance. The destruction is terrible, yes, but the ultimate triumph of justice is cause for celebration. As (Proverbs 11:10) says, "When the wicked perish, there is rejoicing."

The midrash then emphasizes the importance of gratitude: "Let us approach Him with thanksgiving, let us sing psalms to Him, great is the power of gratitude." Even in the face of devastation, we can still find something to be thankful for. Even Jonah, trapped in the belly of the whale, vowed, "And I, with a song of thanksgiving, will sacrifice to You" (Jonah 2:10).

So, what does this all mean? It doesn't deny the reality of suffering. It acknowledges the pain, the devastation, the sheer horror of the Temple's destruction. But it also insists that we can, and perhaps must, find joy in the defeat of evil, in the restoration of justice, in the enduring power of gratitude. It's a reminder that even in the darkest of times, hope and thanksgiving can, and perhaps must, still find a voice.

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Midrash Tehillim 136:3Midrash Tehillim

Retold in our words. Read the original at the link below.Rabbi Mike Feuer, Jerusalem Anthology · CC-BY

The ancient Rabbis grappled with these very questions, and their answers, found within the Midrash Tehillim (a collection of homiletical interpretations on the Book of Psalms), are both surprising and deeply insightful.

" This becomes a springboard for a fascinating exploration of the very foundations of our world, both physical and spiritual.

The Rabbis, in their characteristic style, begin with something concrete: prohibitions. Specifically, three drinks that were traditionally avoided due to their perceived connection to water. Wine, milk, and even…water itself! Why? The Midrash Tehillim connects each to a verse. Water, of course, goes back to "the one who established the earth over the waters.” Milk is linked to the story in Judges (4:19) – "and she opened the jar of milk." Wine, perhaps the most surprising, is tied to the verse in Jeremiah (13:13): "every drunkard shall be filled with wine." The underlying concern seems to be about respecting boundaries, about not taking for granted the gifts we receive.

Then the discussion takes a truly wondrous turn. Rabbi Yosei cries out, "Woe to the creatures who see but do not know what they see, stand but do not know on what they stand!" Isn't that a powerful sentiment? He challenges us to look deeper, to understand the interconnectedness of everything.

So, what does the world stand on? Rabbi Yosei lays out a fascinating chain of being. He starts with the pillars of the Earth, which, according to (Job 9:6), tremble at God's shaking. And what do these pillars stand on? Water! Again, echoing Psalms 136. But it doesn't stop there. The water rests on the mountains (Psalms 104:6), the mountains on the wind (Amos 4:13), the wind in the storm (Psalms 148:8), and finally, the storm itself "depends on the arm of the Holy One, blessed be He," as (Deuteronomy 33:27) tells us, "And under His everlasting arms." It’s a beautiful image of divine support and a reminder that everything is ultimately connected to and sustained by God.

But the Rabbis, never ones to shy away from a good debate, offer alternative perspectives. Some sages suggest the world rests on twelve pillars, linking it to the twelve tribes of Israel (Deuteronomy 32:8). Others say seven, drawing a connection to the seven pillars of wisdom in (Proverbs 9:1): "Wisdom has built her house, she has hewn out her seven pillars."

Then comes Rabbi Elazar ben Shamua, who offers the most radical idea: the world stands on a single pillar, and that pillar is Tzaddik, the righteous one. As (Proverbs 10:25) states, "And the Tzaddik is the foundation of the world." Not just physical pillars, not just abstract concepts like wisdom, but a person. A righteous individual. It suggests that the very stability of the world depends on the ethical actions and moral character of those who inhabit it. The implication is clear: each of us has a role to play in upholding the world.

So, what does it all mean? Maybe the point isn't to choose one "correct" answer. Maybe the point is the journey itself, the ongoing exploration of what sustains us, what connects us, and what ultimately gives meaning to our existence. Are we like those creatures Rabbi Yosei lamented, seeing but not knowing? Or can we strive to see with deeper understanding, to stand with greater awareness, and to contribute, in our own way, to the foundation of a more righteous world?

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Midrash Tehillim 143:1Midrash Tehillim

Retold in our words. Read the original at the link below.Rabbi Mike Feuer, Jerusalem Anthology · CC-BY

Psalm 143, a heartfelt plea from David, grapples with exactly that. "Lord, hear my prayer, listen to my plea..."

The questions bubble up: Who among us can truly claim innocence? Solomon, wise as he was, asks in Proverbs (20:8-9), "Who can say, 'I have cleansed my heart'?" The Midrash Tehillim, our source for this exploration, picks up on this thread, reminding us that facing divine judgment is an overwhelming experience.

The prophet Malachi (3:2) paints a stark picture: "Who can endure the day of His coming? And who can stand when He appears?" It's a rhetorical question, of course. The answer, implied, is no one. Jeremiah echoes this sentiment (Jeremiah 30:6), describing even the strongest men gripped by fear, "with his hands on his loins like a woman in labor... and why have all faces turned pale?" Nobody, not even Abraham worrying over Ishmael, or Isaac over Esau, can escape that pallor, that primal fear.

It's in this context that David cries out. He begs God to answer him and do justice, but there's an underlying anxiety: "And if You do not do justice with me, who can stand?" It's a plea for mercy, born from a deep understanding of human fallibility. Job, too, in his suffering, yearned for respite, for a hiding place in Sheol (the underworld) until God's wrath passed (Job 14:13).

David takes this further, imploring, "Do not enter into judgment with Your servant" (Psalm 143:2). The Midrash Tehillim beautifully expands on this, suggesting that at judgment, the servant stands before his master. And let's be honest, who can truly win against their master? We see this echoed in (Psalm 119:94): "I am Yours, save me." Everything we have, everything we are, ultimately belongs to God.

It's a theme that reverberates throughout the Psalms. "Turn Your gaze away from me, that I may recover" (Psalm 39:13). "Take Your hand away from me and let me be" (Psalm 102:11). God sees everything, knows our mischief and spite (Psalm 10:14), and yet, He also grants life and kindness. And yet, for all that, we are still held accountable.

The Midrash Tehillim circles back to that central question: "Who can say, 'I have made my heart clean'?" (Proverbs 20:9). The answer, again, is a resounding no. There's a litany of supporting verses: "For there is no man who does not sin before you" (I (Kings 8:4)6). "For there is not a righteous man on earth who does good and never sins" (Ecclesiastes 7:20). Even "the heavens are not pure in your sight" (Job 15:15), nor "the stars" (Psalm 25:5).

So, what are we to make of all this? The Midrash Tehillim offers a fascinating conclusion: no living being can be justified before God. But the dead... the dead are vindicated. Perhaps it suggests that only in death, when earthly struggles are over, can true judgment be rendered. Or maybe, it's hinting at something even deeper – a hope for redemption beyond our mortal failings.

This exploration of Psalm 143, guided by the wisdom of the Midrash Tehillim, leaves us with a profound question: How do we live in the face of inevitable judgment? Perhaps the answer lies not in striving for an impossible perfection, but in embracing humility, seeking forgiveness, and trusting in the boundless mercy of the Divine.

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