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The Demon That Stalked David and the Psalms It Produced

David composed his greatest psalms while demonic forces circled him at night. The rabbis read Psalm 18 as a battlefield dispatch, not a metaphor.

Curated by Arthur · Told by Maggid ·
Table of Contents
  1. What David Heard in the Dark
  2. The Demons That Came From Adam
  3. Satan as a Bird
  4. The Angel of Death Made of Eyes

What David Heard in the Dark

The Psalms are not quiet documents. David composed many of them at night, in the hours when the boundary between the human world and whatever pressed against it from the other side grew thinner and more permeable. The cry that opens Psalm 18, the afflictions of death surrounded me, was not a figure of speech. The rabbis read it as a field report. The afflictions were specific, the death was an actual presence, and the surrounding was the kind of encirclement a soldier would recognize.

Midrash Tehillim, the ancient collection of rabbinic interpretations on the Book of Psalms, takes the word translated as afflictions apart at the root and finds it can also mean wings. Troubles fly and come upon me like a bird, the midrash says. They roll like a wheel. They surround like a circle. This is not the imagery of ordinary human opposition. This is the imagery of something that has no single face, no fixed direction of approach, that moves faster than the person it pursues and has no vulnerability that a frontal defense can address.

The Demons That Came From Adam

The tradition traced David's demonic afflictions to a specific source. When Adam sinned in the Garden, he was separated from his wife for one hundred and thirty years as part of his repentance. During those years, the female demons that had been circling the human world attached themselves to him and bore from him a generation of demonic offspring. These spirits had been in the world since before the Flood. They were in the world in David's time. They recognized in David what they had recognized in Adam: a man of such extraordinary spiritual intensity that his presence was both a threat and an attraction.

The Midrash Tehillim preserves a tradition in which David specifically identified the demonic forces that had surrounded him since his youth and chose to address them in his psalms rather than avoid the subject. He named them. He described their tactics. He asked God to destroy them. The precision of the psalms about enemies who move in darkness, who lie in ambush, who strike without warning and cannot be seen until they have already struck, reflects this naming practice.

Satan as a Bird

The tradition of how David came to sleep with Bathsheba involves a demonic intervention that the midrash preserves with uncomfortable specificity. Satan came to him in the form of a bird. A bird landing on a branch in the royal garden. David reached for his bow and shot at it. The arrow missed the bird and hit a screen that had concealed Bathsheba bathing. The screen fell. David looked. Everything that followed from that look was already in motion from the moment he reached for the bow.

The tradition does not use this to excuse David. The sin was his and the consequences were his. But it uses the demonic intervention to make a point about David that Psalm 18 also makes: that he was a target, specifically, because of what he was. The forces that circled him were not random. They were drawn by the same quality that produced the Psalms. The light that David carried made him visible in the dark from a very long distance, and whatever lived in the dark came toward the light.

The Angel of Death Made of Eyes

The account that the tradition preserves about the angel of death as David experienced it describes a figure covered entirely in eyes, its body entirely surfaces of sight, dripping fire. When David saw this figure for the first time, it was in the moment of a close encounter with death, and the description encodes what a death encounter actually feels like: you are being seen from every angle simultaneously, there is nowhere to turn where the seeing stops, and there is fire.

David's response was the psalms. He wrote toward the fire. He wrote toward the eyes. He made the encounter into language and the language into something that could be sung, and the singing turned the experience that would have destroyed a lesser person into the most durable corpus of sacred poetry in all of Jewish literature. The demons that circled him were the price of what he was. The psalms were the product of paying that price honestly and without retreat.


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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.

Midrash Tehillim 18:9Midrash Tehillim

The ancient rabbis certainly understood that feeling. They saw it reflected in the words of King David, in the 18th Psalm, and explored it deeply in Midrash Tehillim, a collection of rabbinic interpretations of the Book of Psalms.

The verse But the rabbis, ever attuned to the nuances of the Hebrew language, immediately dig deeper. What exactly are these afflictions?

Midrash Tehillim offers several interpretations. First, it notes that the troubles have reached David’s very nose – they are that close, that overwhelming. Then comes a beautiful play on words. The text suggests we read "my afflictions" (efponai) not as such, but as "my wings" (afafonai). Troubles, it says, fly and come upon me like a bird. We can see this echoed in (Genesis 1:20), "and birds that fly above the earth." They roll and come upon me like a wheel, the midrash (rabbinic interpretive commentary) continues.

It's a powerful image, isn't it? This sense of being surrounded, encircled by difficulty.

Another interpretation: "I am banished from my land." Rabbi Acha adds to this sense of desperation, saying, "I have been turned this way and that, and there is no redeemer but You."

The midrash continues to explore the image of "wings" (afafin), noting that when a woman weaves with two doubled threads, they too are called "wings." So David's afflictions, it suggests, are like doubled wings, speaking in four kingdoms: Babylon, Media, Yawn (often understood as Greece), and Edom. These represent the great empires that historically oppressed the Jewish people.

David’s afflictions, the midrash explains, are the cords of death in Babylon. The rivers of Belial – a term for wickedness – inundate him in Media. The cords of Sheol, the underworld, surround him in Yawn. And the snares of death await in Edom.

It’s a litany of suffering, a whirlwind of pain and persecution.

The Rabbis then ask, "Why did he write 'death' in the first and fourth stanzas?" The answer offered is chilling: because it represents the destruction of the First Temple and the destruction of the Second Temple. Rabbi Abba bar Kahana offers an alternative, suggesting it refers to a decree of pestilence in both instances.

The midrash then shifts to David’s response to this overwhelming distress: "When I am in distress, I call upon the Lord in Babylon, and I cry out to my God in Media. Let my voice come before Him; let my supplication reach His ears in Yawn, and before Him, let my cry come in Edom."

Rabbi Pinchas, in the name of Rabbi Chama bar Chanina, raises a crucial question: "Why was the Temple mentioned in the third stanza?" The answer, the midrash suggests, is because the Temple existed during the time of Yonah (Greece). David says "I am in distress" and not "in distresses," because all the prophets join together the distress of Israel and minimize it, as it says in (Deuteronomy 4:30), "When you are in distress, and all these things have overtaken you," and in (Lamentations 1:20), "See, O Lord, for I am in distress."

Rabbi Yehuda offers a different perspective: there was no destruction of the Temple during the time of Yonah. He then draws upon (Amos 5:19): "Like one who runs from a lion" (Babylon). "And the bear met him" (Media). "And he leaned his hand on the wall, and the serpent bit him" (Edom), echoing (Jeremiah 46:22), "Her voice shall go like a serpent."

Finally, Rabbi Yehuda brings an explanation from (Song of Songs 5:2), "Open to me, my sister, my friend." "My sister" refers to Babylon, and "my friend" refers to Media in Yonah. And why is she called Yonah? Because they used to offer sacrifices of doves and young pigeons during her time. "Tammuz" (my perfect one) died in Edom. And why is she called "my perfect one"? Because the Israelites were killed with her, and they gave their lives for the sanctification of God's name, as many decrees were imposed on us during her time.

What can we take away from this intricate web of interpretations? Perhaps it's the enduring human capacity to find meaning, even in the face of overwhelming suffering. To see the echoes of past traumas in present struggles. And, above all, to turn to God in prayer, even when surrounded by the "cords of death." It's a reminder that even in our darkest moments, we are not alone, and that the cries of our ancestors resonate with our own.

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Legends of the Jews 4:54Legends of the Jews

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. Imagine that – decades of regret and remorse.

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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Tikkunei Zohar 97:21Tikkunei Zohar

the forces of evil, using visceral imagery that's hard to shake.

I know what you’re thinking: "What do internal organs have to do with anything?" But in this context, they're symbolic. They represent Samael (the angel of death), often considered the angel of death or a powerful demonic figure, and the serpent – the original tempter.

The liver, The marah, the bile – that's "green fire." And the spleen? "Black fire." It's a fiery, unpleasant picture, isn't it? The "extra lobe of the liver," according to the Tikkunei (spiritual repair) Zohar, encompasses all of these.

What does it all mean, though?

The text spells it out further. The liver is described as "another god," an allusion to idolatry and the forces that draw us away from the divine. The bile? That's "its poison of death." Ouch. And the spleen? That's the snake, the feminine counterpart, characterized as "impure fat." Not exactly a flattering portrait.

And finally, the marah, the bile, is equated with the sword of the Angel of Death. (Proverbs 5:4) is quoted: "And its end is bitter like wormwood, sharp as the edge of a sword." It's a stark reminder of the consequences of straying from the path of righteousness.

This isn't just some anatomical lesson, folks. This is a deep dive into the battle between good and evil, played out on a cosmic scale, using the human body as a kind of map.

Why this imagery? Why these specific organs? Perhaps it's because the liver, spleen, and bile are associated with the body’s hidden processes, the things we don’t usually see or think about. The forces of evil, similarly, often operate in the shadows, influencing us in ways we may not even realize.

So, what can we take away from this somewhat unsettling passage? Maybe it’s a call to be vigilant, to recognize the "red fire," "green fire," and "black fire" within ourselves and in the world around us. To strive to be that tzadiq, that righteous one, that foundation upon which the world can stand. It's a tall order, no doubt. But maybe, just maybe, it's a challenge we're all meant to rise to.

After all, if the world rests on a single pillar, we each have a part to play in keeping it standing.

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