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David Asked God for a Test and Bathsheba Was the Answer

God warned him first. You will be tested, and you will fall, and it will be through a woman. David wanted the test anyway.

Curated by Arthur · Told by Maggid ·
Table of Contents
  1. The Name Missing From the List
  2. The Bird and the Wicker Screen
  3. The Man Who Would Not Go Home
  4. The Only Word the King Was Waiting For
  5. He Asked for It Not to Be Written Down
David Asked God for a Test and Bathsheba Was the Answer Click for full size

The Name Missing From the List

David had counted the names in the blessing and his was not among them.

"Master of the world, why do they say the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, the God of Jacob, and never the God of David?"

"Those three were tested by me," God said. "You have not been."

"Then examine me. Try me."

"I will. And I will give you something I did not give them. I am telling you in advance. You are going to fall, and it will be through a woman."

"You will not stand," God told him.

"I will stand," David said.

The Bird and the Wicker Screen

The bird landed where he could see it from the palace roof, and David reached for something to throw.

It was Ha-Satan (the Accuser) wearing feathers, sent to run the test that had been requested, and the dart went wide. It skidded off the bird and struck a wicker screen on the roof across from him. The screen came apart and fell, and behind it was a woman combing out her hair.

Her name was Bathsheba. He sent men for her, knowing she was married to Uriah the Hittite and knowing exactly where Uriah was, camped outside Rabbah with Joab and the army. She came, and she went home, and word came back to the palace that she was pregnant. Under the law of her fathers, a woman in that position was put to death.

David started shouting then. "Hold me up and I will be saved."

"Did I not tell you," God said, "that you would not stand?"

The Man Who Would Not Go Home

Uriah carried Joab's armor, so recalling him from the siege raised no questions. He came up to Jerusalem, and the king asked how the army was, and Uriah said it was all going the way they wanted. Then David cut portions off his own supper, handed them across, and told him to go home to his wife and get some rest.

Uriah slept at the palace gate with the other armor-bearers.

In the morning the king asked him why a man who had been away that long had not gone to his own house. "The Ark is in a tent," Uriah said. "The army and the general are sleeping on the ground in enemy country. I am not going to go lie down in my house and eat and drink and sleep with my wife."

So the king kept him one more night and put wine in front of him until he could barely stand, and Uriah walked out and lay down at the gate again.

The next morning David wrote to Joab, sealed the letter with his own seal, and handed it to Uriah to carry down to the camp.

Joab read it and set Uriah at the point of the wall where the defenders were worst, and gave him some of the best men in the army for company, and told those men privately that when the gates opened they were to pull back. The Ammonites opened the gates and came out hard. The company turned and went. Uriah was ashamed to run from a wall he had been put in front of, so he stood, and killed a number of them, and then they closed around him and he went down.

The Only Word the King Was Waiting For

Joab briefed the messenger carefully. Tell him the assault on the wall was driven back with losses. If he loses his temper about it, then add that Uriah is dead too.

The king lost his temper exactly on schedule. You never go near a wall, he said. You undermine it, you use machines, you take the city slowly. Has none of you heard about Abimelech at Thebez, who rushed a tower and had a millstone dropped on his head by an old woman on the roof?

Then the messenger told him Uriah was dead, and the king's voice changed.

These things happen in war, he said. One day it goes against you, the next day against them. Tell Joab to keep at the siege and take the city.

Some months later Nathan stood in front of him with a case about a rich man with flocks and herds and a poor man with one ewe lamb that ate off his plate and slept in his arms like a daughter, and about the guest who arrived, and whose lamb went into the pot. David gave his answer without hesitating. The man deserved to die, and he would pay four times over. Then Nathan said the name.

He Asked for It Not to Be Written Down

What David wanted afterward was not a lighter sentence. It was an edit.

"Let my transgression not be written down after me."

"Is it not enough for you," God said, "that they will not be able to say I let him off because I loved him?" And he gave him the reason as a story about a debtor. A man owed the king twenty measures of wheat a year and everyone in the town looked at the size of it and decided the king must have quietly cancelled the debt and written him a release. Then the king sent for payment. The man had nothing. So the king came into his house himself, took the sons and the daughters out of it, and stood them up for sale in the market where everyone could watch, and the whole town understood at last that nothing had ever been forgiven.

So every punishment that came to David came in public, and it came doubled. Four for the ewe, and one of the sages worked the number and made it sixteen.

For twenty-two years he wept an hour a day and ate his bread with ashes in it. For six months of that he had a skin disease, and the Divine Presence went out of him, and the seventy-one judges who had spent their lives sitting close to the king kept their distance. Nobody came up the steps.

The books do not agree about the length of his reign. One says forty years, seven in Hebron and thirty-three in Jerusalem. The other says he ruled in Hebron seven years and six months. Six months sit in the gap between those two accounts, and that is where they are kept.


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From the tradition

Sources

6 sources

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.

Legends of the Jews 4:53Legends of the Jews

Retold in our words. Read the original at the link below.The Legends of the Jews by Louis Ginzberg (1909) · Public Domain

The story of David and Bath-sheba is one of the most well-known, and often critiqued, episodes in the Bible. But what if I told you that some traditions see it as a direct consequence of David practically begging for a challenge? It’s true!

Ginzberg, in his monumental work, Legends of the Jews, recounts a remarkable explanation for the whole affair. It all boils down to David's ego, a touch of excessive self-awareness. Imagine this: David, in all his glory, actually complains to God. He asks, "O Lord of the world, why do people say God of Abraham, God of Isaac, God of Jacob, and why not God of David?"

It's like he's feeling left out of the divine legacy!

The response he receives is… well, let’s just say it's not exactly what he was hoping for. God basically tells him, "Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob? They were tested. You, David, haven't been proved yet."

Now, a reasonable person might have taken that as a gentle hint to just… chill. To be content with their already impressive accomplishments. But not David! Oh no. David, in his infinite wisdom, then entreats God, "Then examine me, O Lord, and try me!"

It's like he's saying, "Bring it on! I can handle anything!" Talk about tempting the yetzer hara (יֵצֶר הָרַע), the evil inclination!

And God, ever obliging, responds, "I shall prove thee, and I shall even grant thee what I did not grant the Patriarchs. I shall tell thee beforehand that thou wilt fall into temptation through a woman."

Wow. Just...wow. Preemptive warning of a specific, devastating temptation. But according to this legend, it was David’s own yearning for validation, his desire to be seen as equal to the Patriarchs, that set the stage for his ultimate downfall.

This isn't just a story about sin and punishment, though. It’s a story about the dangers of unchecked ego, of seeking external validation instead of finding contentment within.

.. maybe, just maybe, take a moment to consider if you're truly ready for what you're asking for. Sometimes, the greatest strength lies not in seeking trials, but in recognizing the blessings we already possess.

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Legends of the Jews 4:54Legends of the Jews

Retold in our words. Read the original at the link below.The Legends of the Jews by Louis Ginzberg (1909) · Public Domain

King David, the sweet singer of Israel, the warrior king, knew that feeling all too well.

The story, as retold in Ginzberg's Legends of the Jews, takes a startling turn. It begins innocently enough. Satan, that wily tempter, appears to David, not in some terrifying demonic form, but as a simple bird. David, ever the hunter perhaps, throws a dart.

The dart misses its mark. Instead of striking Satan, it ricochets off, breaking through a screen. And behind that screen? Bathsheba, combing her hair. The sight of her, in that unguarded moment, ignites a passion in David that he can't control.

It's a chilling reminder that even the most righteous among us are vulnerable.

David, a man known for his deep connection to God, immediately understands the gravity of his transgression. The consequences? Profound and lasting. For twenty-two long years, David lives as a penitent.

The Talmud (Sanhedrin 107a) speaks of his intense sorrow. He wept for an entire hour each day, and he ate his "bread with ashes," a symbolic act of mourning and repentance.

But even that wasn't enough. David's penance had to go deeper.

For six agonizing months, he was afflicted with tzara'at, often translated as leprosy. This wasn't just a physical ailment; it was a spiritual crisis. The Sanhedrin, the high court that usually stayed close to the king for guidance and counsel, had to distance themselves from him.

David wasn't just physically isolated. He was spiritually cut off. The Shekhinah, the divine presence, departed from him during this dark time. The man who communed so closely with God, the one who penned the Psalms, was now utterly alone. The Shekhinah leaving him represents the severing of that sacred bond.

It’s a stark reminder that even our heroes are flawed, capable of great mistakes. David's story isn't just about sin; it's about the long, arduous journey of repentance, the pain of isolation, and the hope, however faint, of reconciliation. It forces us to ask ourselves: What lengths are we willing to go to when we've strayed from our path? And can we ever truly regain what we've lost?

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Antiquities VII.6-7Antiquities of the Jews (Josephus)

Retold in our words. Read the original at the link below.Antiquities of the Jews, trans. William Whiston · Public Domain

It started from a rooftop. Late one evening, David, king of Israel, conqueror of nations, the man after God's own heart, looked down from his palace and saw a woman bathing. Her name was Bathsheba. According to Josephus in Antiquities of the Jews, she was extraordinarily beautiful, surpassing all other women. David sent for her. She conceived.

What followed was not a crime of passion but a calculated cover-up. Bathsheba's husband Uriah was at the front lines, serving as Joab's armor-bearer in the siege of the Ammonite capital Rabbah. David recalled Uriah to Jerusalem, asked him casually about the war, then told him to go home and rest with his wife. The plan was simple: if Uriah slept with Bathsheba, no one would question the pregnancy.

Uriah refused to go home. He slept at the palace gates instead, saying it would be wrong to enjoy comfort while his comrades slept on the ground in enemy territory. David tried again the next night, getting Uriah drunk at dinner. Still Uriah would not go to his wife. His integrity was destroying David's scheme.

So David wrote a letter to Joab, carried unwittingly by Uriah himself, ordering that Uriah be placed at the most dangerous point in the siege and then abandoned by his fellow soldiers. Joab obeyed. The Ammonites surged out of the city. Uriah's companions retreated as ordered. Uriah stood his ground alone, killed several of the enemy, and was overwhelmed and slain.

When Joab sent his battle report, he included one crucial detail: Uriah was dead. David's reaction was chilling in its composure. He told the messenger to assure Joab that such losses were normal in war. After Bathsheba's mourning period ended, David married her. A son was born.

Then Nathan the prophet arrived. Josephus notes that Nathan understood something crucial about confronting a king: direct accusations provoke anger, not repentance. So he told a parable. A rich man with vast flocks stole a poor man's only lamb, a ewe he had raised like a daughter, to feed a guest. David was furious. "That man deserves death!" Nathan's reply was devastating: "You are that man."

The prophet laid out God's punishment: David's own wives would be violated by his son, his household would be torn apart by treachery, and the child Bathsheba carried would die. All of it would be public, because what David had done in secret, God would repay in the open. David broke down and confessed. Josephus adds a striking editorial note, that David was guilty of no other sin in his entire life except the matter of Uriah.

The child fell ill. David fasted seven days, lying on the ground in sackcloth, begging God for mercy. On the seventh day, the child died. David's servants were afraid to tell him, expecting the news would destroy him entirely. Instead, David rose, washed, put on white garments, and went to the tabernacle to worship. He then sat down and ate. His bewildered household asked why he mourned while the child lived but stopped when it died. David's answer was plain: while there was hope, he prayed. Now there was none. Grief would not bring the child back. Afterward, Bathsheba conceived again and bore a second son. Nathan the prophet gave him his name: Solomon.

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Sifrei Devarim 26:4Sifrei Devarim

Retold in our words. Read the original at the link below.Sifrei by Rabbi Shraga Silverstein · CC-BY

Sifrei Devarim turns to David Begged God to Erase His Sin with Bathsheba.

The tale begins with David pleading with the Holy One, Blessed be He. His request is simple, yet profound: "Let my transgression before You (with Bathsheba) not be written after me." He wants his sin, his failing, to be erased from the historical record. To want your mistakes forgotten, vanished as if they never occurred.

God, in this telling, responds with a counter-argument, a divine perspective on justice and perception. " The concern isn't about hiding the sin, but about fairness and the message it sends.

To illustrate this, the text provides an analogy, a parable of sorts. Imagine a man who owes the king a massive debt – twenty kor of wheat each year. A kor was a significant unit of measure, suggesting a substantial amount. The people around him scoff, wondering how he could ever repay such a sum. They assume the king must have secretly forgiven the debt, writing off the settlement behind closed doors.

But then, the king sends his collectors, demanding payment. The man can't pay. The king, in turn, enters the man's house and takes his sons and daughters, putting them up for sale at the auction block. A harsh image, for sure, but one that drives home the point: the man hadn't been pardoned. His debt was very real, and the consequences were visible for all to see.

This, is what’s at stake for King David. If his sin is hidden, people will assume he received special treatment, that his punishment was waived due to his favored status. Therefore, Sifrei Devarim continues, all the punishments that befell David were publicized and even magnified. The verse from II (Samuel 12:6), "And he (David) must pay four for the ewe," is cited.

Then, Rabbi Chananiah adds a layer of interpretation, suggesting that the word "arbatayim" – four – should be understood as "sixteen." The punishment, in this view, wasn't just quadrupled; it was increased sixteenfold. A public and amplified consequence.

So, what does this all mean? It seems that the narrative isn't solely about punishing David for his sin. It’s about upholding a sense of divine justice that is transparent and equitable. It's about ensuring that even a beloved king is held accountable, not just for his actions, but for the message those actions send to the world. It prompts us to consider: How do we balance mercy and justice? How do we ensure that forgiveness doesn't become a shield for inequity? It's a tough question, with layers upon layers of meaning, and one that continues to resonate even today.

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Sanhedrin 107aHebraic Literature (1901)

Retold in our words. Read the original at the link below.Project Gutenberg eBook #14368, Hebraic Literature · PD-US-pre-1929

Open the book of Kings and read: And the days that David reigned over Israel were forty years: seven years reigned he in Hebron, and thirty and three years reigned he in Jerusalem (1 Kings 2:11). Now open Samuel: In Hebron he reigned over Judah seven years and six months (2 Samuel 5:5).

Seven plus thirty-three is forty. But seven and a half plus thirty-three is forty and a half. Where did the missing six months go?

The sages of the Sanhedrin asked this question (Sanhedrin 107a) and answered it with a second question: what happened to David after Bathsheba, after Nathan the prophet stood over him and said, Thou art the man?

For six months, the tradition teaches, David was afflicted with leprosy. During those months the Shechinah departed from him. During those months the Sanhedrin kept their distance. He sat alone, scraping his skin, composing the psalm that carries his grief forward through every generation (Psalms 51:7): Purge me with hyssop, and I shall be clean; wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow. And again (Psalms 51:12): Restore unto me the joy of thy salvation. And still again (Psalms 119:79): Let those that fear thee turn unto me.

The Book of Kings quietly omits those six months. It will not count them as reign. A king who is not clean before God is not, for that span, a king at all.

David's psalms remember what the chronicle refuses to.

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Midrash Tehillim 17:7Midrash Tehillim

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

The ancient rabbis certainly did. And they taught that we are, in fact, surrounded by forces we can’t always perceive. a fascinating passage from Midrash Tehillim, a collection of rabbinic teachings on the Book of Psalms, that dives into this very idea.

The passage begins with David, the legendary King of Israel, declaring "I have examined my heart in the night." (Psalm 26:2). He's asking God to test him, to see if he's truly worthy. But God warns him, "You cannot stand!" David, ever the confident one, insists he can. And here’s the kicker: only after passing a test does he cry out, "Support me, and I will be saved!"

What's going on here? It seems like David is acknowledging that even with his best intentions, he needs divine help. God reminds him that, in a way, he was right all along. It's a powerful admission of human fallibility and the constant need for divine support. "Therefore, I call upon you, answer me," the text says. It's a plea for chesed (Lovingkindness), or loving-kindness.

The Midrash (rabbinic interpretive commentary) doesn’t stop there. It goes on to paint an incredible picture of the world around us. Rabbi Yudan, quoting Rabbi, declares, "There is no square cubit in the entire universe where there are not nine harmful spirits!" Can you imagine? We're constantly surrounded by unseen forces. And yet, when we put our hand into this spiritual fray, "the Lord guards him." It's a comforting thought, this idea of divine protection in the face of overwhelming odds.

Rabbi Yehoshua ben Levi adds another layer, suggesting that when a person travels, a "heavenly escort walks before him and proclaims, 'Make way for the escort of the Holy One, blessed be He.'" Wow! It’s like having a divine entourage clearing the path for us.

The rabbis then use an analogy: imagine someone carrying a jar of oil on their head, being chased by wasps. The owner of the field invites them to walk with his laborers. This symbolizes the idea that walking with the righteous offers protection.

But there's a twist: omens from the right are good, while those from the left are bad. The text even connects this to mitzvot (commandments), or commandments. The left hand, we’re told, only controls one mitzvah: the wearing of tefillin (phylacteries), the leather boxes containing scriptural verses worn on the arm and head during prayer. Because of this, "a thousand were assigned to the left."

What does it all mean? The Midrash interprets "it will not come near you" to mean that while earthly kings need officials to guard and provide for them, God has entrusted us with angels to guard us. And these angels need us to guard them by doing good deeds!

Rabbi Chanina adds that "he shall fall" (referring to harmful angels) actually means that these angels will fall before you, vanquished by your righteousness. He also connects it to a verse from Chronicles, suggesting that God will provide for you, just as angels fell upon David to help him.

Perhaps the most poignant teaching comes from Rabbi Elazar HaKappar. He says that God tells us, "Let My lamp be in your hand and your lamp be in Mine." "My lamp in your hand" refers to the Torah, as Proverbs tells us, "For a commandment is a lamp and Torah is light." And "Your lamp in Mine" refers to the soul, as Proverbs says, "The lamp of God is the soul of man." If you guard what is Mine, the Torah, I will guard what is yours, your soul.

Rabbi Chiya seals the deal with a parable of two vineyard owners, one in Galilee and one in Judea, each owning land in the other's region. They agree to protect each other's vineyards, understanding that if one fails, both lose. So too, the Holy One says to Israel: "If you guard the Torah, I will guard you." This is echoed in Deuteronomy: "If you shall diligently keep all this commandment which I command you to do it...then will the Lord...keep the covenant and mercy with them that love Him and keep His commandments."

So, what's the takeaway? This Midrash offers a powerful reminder that we are never truly alone. We are surrounded by unseen forces, both good and bad. But through our actions, through our commitment to Torah and mitzvot, we can tap into a divine protection that shields us from harm. It's a partnership, a covenant, a mutual responsibility. We guard the Torah, and God guards us. It’s a thought to carry with you as you work through the world, knowing that even in the face of unseen dangers, you are watched over and protected.

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