7 min read

David the King Who Wrote That He Was Lonely

He held the whole army in place until the court finished reading old treaties. Then he went to war, and afterward he wrote that he was alone.

Curated by Arthur · Told by Maggid ·
Table of Contents
  1. The King Held the Army Where It Stood
  2. The Bird of Prey Over Abraham's Pieces
  3. They Are Many and I Am Alone
  4. The House He Was Not Allowed to Build
  5. He Gave the Credit to a Man Who Slept on a Stone
David the King Who Wrote That He Was Lonely Click for full size

The King Held the Army Where It Stood

David had the army assembled and would not let it move.

The Arameans were waiting on one border and the Philistines on the other, and the men were armed and standing in the sun, and their king sent to the Sanhedrin instead of sending them forward. Go back through the covenants, he told the court. Find out what these two nations can actually claim.

The judges went into the old agreements. The Philistines had one on paper: Isaac had sworn peace with Philistines in his lifetime, and their descendants were owed that peace. The court read the genealogies and came back with an answer. These were not those Philistines. The people holding that coastline now had come over from Cyprus generations later and had walked into a treaty that was never made with them. The claim was worth nothing.

The Arameans had a better case and had spent it. Their claim to gentle handling had been forfeited twice over, first under Balaam, who was hired against Israel, and again under their king Cushan-rishathaim, who held Israel down until Othniel broke him. A nation that has attacked twice does not get to invoke a courtesy.

Only then did the king let the army go.

The Bird of Prey Over Abraham's Pieces

Rabbi Joshua traced that man back to a field where an old childless herdsman stood over a row of carcasses with a sword.

Abraham had cut each animal down the middle and laid the halves facing each other across a gap. Had he left them whole, the world could not have gone on standing. Cutting them weakened whatever was in them, and setting half against half held the two strengths against each other. The young pigeon he did not cut. There was only the one bird there, and it stayed alive.

Then the carrion birds came down out of the sky on the meat, to scatter it and finish it.

The bird of prey coming down on the divided kingdoms, Rabbi Joshua said, is David son of Jesse. A prophet had already put the name on him: a speckled bird of prey. The boy with the sling and the shepherd's confidence and the harp, seen from the far end of the covenant, comes down out of the sky onto the nations laid open in Abraham's field.

They Are Many and I Am Alone

The same man wrote: turn to me and be gracious to me, for I am lonely and afflicted.

He was the seventh son of Jesse, chosen when six older brothers were passed over in front of him. He commanded the armies. He had taken the tribes and made them one country. Nobody in the kingdom had less reason to describe himself as alone and hard-pressed, and he said it anyway, out loud, in a song people were expected to sing.

What he meant, he said plainly to God. Since You appointed me king over Your people, their eyes are on me and my eyes are on You. They are many. I am one man against all of them.

And then the part that had a splinter in it. My enemies watch me and their numbers grow and they hate me for nothing at all. Esau hated Jacob over a stolen birthright, and even Esau had a grievance he could take through a court. These nations had no such grievance. David had sent judges into old treaties before he would let a spear move, and he was hated anyway, by people with nothing to point at.

There was no one over him to appeal to. That is what a man means when he is king and calls himself alone.

The House He Was Not Allowed to Build

He wanted to put up a house for God, and he was told no. Too much blood on him, too many campaigns, too many fields like the ones he had held the army back from and then released it onto. Somebody else would build it. A son, later.

He built it anyway, in every way a man is able to build something he is forbidden to build. He bought the ground. He collected the gold and the silver and the bronze and the iron and the cut stone and the cedar and stacked it up. Rav Chisda taught that there is no gap at all between the sanctuary below and the sanctuary above, that the house in Jerusalem answers to a house already standing over it, and David spent the last of his reign assembling the lower one on the ground so precisely that his son would only have to lift it into place.

A day in Your courts is better than a thousand anywhere else, the sons of Korah sang. I would rather stand in the doorway of the house of my God than live inside the tents of the wicked. And in the same breath: God settles the solitary in a house.

He Gave the Credit to a Man Who Slept on a Stone

On the day the people brought their donations for it, they gave with their whole hearts and were glad, and the king watched them do it and was gladder than any of them.

Then he stood up in front of the entire congregation to bless God, and everyone there knew the formula. God of Abraham, Isaac, and Israel. That is how it is said.

He did not say it that way. He said: blessed is the Lord, God of Israel our father.

Rav Huna caught it. One name, not three, and the one he chose was Jacob, because Jacob was the man who first stood up out of the dirt beside a stone he had used for a pillow and vowed that the place would be a house of God. The vow in the Torah is written in the singular, Rabbi Yehuda pointed out, one man swearing, not a nation. Israel the elder.

So the king with no equal above him and no peer beside him, standing in front of the largest pile of treasure his country had ever assembled, for a building he had been told he could not build, handed the credit backward to a fugitive sleeping alone on a rock in the open country.


← All myths

From the tradition

Sources

5 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.

Midrash Tehillim 25:15Midrash Tehillim

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

King David knew that feeling all too well. In Psalm 25, he cries out: "Turn to me and be gracious to me, for I am lonely and afflicted." But wait a minute, was DAVID, the king, really lonely and poor?

After all, (1 (Chronicles 7:1)5) tells us David was the seventh son – hardly someone abandoned or forgotten. And (2 (Samuel 22:2)8) proclaims, "You save an afflicted people, but your eyes are on the haughty to bring them down." So, what's going on here?

The beauty of Midrash Tehillim, a collection of rabbinic interpretations on the Book of Psalms, is that it doesn't shy away from these contradictions. Instead, it dives deeper, searching for a richer understanding.

Midrash Tehillim offers a powerful explanation: David isn't lamenting his material poverty or physical solitude. He's speaking to the immense responsibility of leadership. He says to God, "Since I have been appointed king over Your people, their eyes are upon me, and my eyes are upon You, for they are many and I am alone against them." As king, David was the focal point of his entire nation. Everyone looked to him for guidance, for strength, for answers. He carried their hopes, their fears, their burdens. And in the face of such overwhelming responsibility, he felt profoundly alone. He was surrounded by people, yes, but the weight of leadership separated him. "Therefore," the Midrash (rabbinic interpretive commentary) concludes, "I am lonely and afflicted."

It’s a loneliness born not of isolation, but of singular accountability. It’s the loneliness of the CEO, the single parent, the community leader – anyone who carries a disproportionate burden for others.

The passage continues: "My enemies see me and they multiply, hating me with unjustified hatred." The Midrash then poses a pointed question: If ESAU hated JACOB because he felt Jacob had stolen his birthright, at least there was a semblance of a legal claim, a basis for the conflict. But what had David done to warrant the hatred of the barbarians and the Antonites?

The question hangs in the air. Was it simply the jealousy and resentment that often accompany power? Was it the inherent conflict between the righteous and the unrighteous? Or was it something deeper, something connected to David's unique relationship with God and his role as the shepherd of his people?

Perhaps the "unjustified hatred" stems from the very fact that David was chosen, that he stood as a beacon of faith and justice in a world often shrouded in darkness. His enemies hated him not for what he did, but for who he was, for what he represented.

This passage from Midrash Tehillim reminds us that even those who appear powerful and surrounded by support can experience profound loneliness and affliction. It invites us to look beyond the surface, to recognize the burdens that others carry, and to offer compassion and understanding. It also reminds us that standing for something righteous often brings unwarranted animosity.

And maybe, just maybe, it encourages us to turn our own eyes towards something greater than ourselves, just as David did, finding solace and strength in a connection that transcends the loneliness of leadership and the weight of the world.

Full source
Pirkei DeRabbi Eliezer 28:6Pirkei DeRabbi Eliezer

Retold in our words. Read the original at the link below.Pirke de Rabbi Eliezer, trans. Rabbi Gerald Friedlander, London (1916) · CC-BY

Here, Rabbi Joshua offers a powerful insight into a well-known scene from (Genesis 15:10). You remember the one: "And he took him all these, and he divided them in the midst." Abraham, following divine instructions, gathers several animals and… well, divides them.

Gruesome. But Rabbi Joshua sees something much deeper here. He says that "Were it not for the fact that he divided them, the world would not have been able to exist." The act of division, of separating these creatures, is what allows the world to continue. Why? Because, according to Rabbi Joshua, it weakened their strength. By separating them, Abraham neutralized a powerful, perhaps destructive, force. He then brought "each part against its corresponding part," creating a counter-balance.

This idea that creation itself requires a constant balancing act, a management of opposing forces.

What about the young pigeon? The verse tells us, "But the bird he divided not." Why was the pigeon spared? Rabbi Joshua explains that there was no other bird there, so Abraham left the pigeon alive. It makes sense when you read it literally, but the text is about to go in a fascinating, allegorical direction.

Then comes the unexpected twist: "The bird of prey came down upon them to scatter them and to destroy them." Now, who or what is this "bird of prey?" Rabbi Joshua equates it with David, the son of Jesse! He bases this connection on a verse from (Jeremiah 12:9): "Is mine heritage unto me as a speckled bird of prey?"

Why would David, the sweet singer of Israel, be compared to a bird of prey? Perhaps the point is that even the most righteous figures, the heroes of our tradition, embody complex and sometimes contradictory qualities. The bird of prey, like David, represents strength, perhaps even a necessary aggression to protect what is sacred. David, after all, was a warrior king.

Perhaps it's a reminder that the world is a complex and often contradictory place. That balance is not a static state, but a constant process of division and reconciliation. And that even our heroes are not immune to the darker aspects of human nature. It invites us to see the world not in simple black and white, but in all its messy, complicated, and ultimately beautiful shades of gray.

Full source
Legends of the Jews 4:30Legends 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

A reader can imagine them as these larger-than-life figures, all might and no moral compass. But what if their greatness actually lay in their unwavering commitment to justice?

Take David, for example. We know him as the fearless warrior, slayer of Goliath, the king who united Israel. But as Ginzberg tells us in Legends of the Jews, David wasn't just bold; he was profoundly just. Disregarding the ancient covenants? Unthinkable!

Before heading off to war with the Arameans and the Philistines, David did something remarkable. He convened the Sanhedrin, the high court, instructing them to meticulously investigate the claims of these nations. He wasn't going to shed blood without understanding the historical and legal basis for conflict.

What did the Sanhedrin discover? The Philistines, it turned out, were essentially imposters. Their claim to the treaty made with Isaac was bogus. They weren't descended from the original Philistines who had entered into that agreement. Nope, they were Johnny-come-latelies, immigrants from Cyprus who arrived on the scene long after the ink had dried on the ancient pact. Their claims were deemed "utterly unfounded."

But the Arameans? Their situation was different. They did have a historical connection to the region. However, they had forfeited their rights to considerate treatment. How? Through aggression. The Zohar reminds us that actions have consequences, and violating the covenant is a serious matter.

Think back to Balaam, the "Aramean" prophet who was hired to curse the Israelites. And then there was Cushan-rishathaim, the Aramean king who oppressed Israel in the time of Othniel (Judges 3:8). Time and again, they chose conflict, attacking and waging war against the Israelites. As we find in Midrash Rabbah, these actions had lasting repercussions.

So, what does this tell us? David's commitment to justice wasn't just a nice add-on to his warrior persona. It was fundamental to his leadership. He understood that true strength lies not just in military might, but in unwavering adherence to ethical principles. It's not enough to be strong; we must also be just.

Full source
Midrash Tehillim 30:1Midrash Tehillim

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

Midrash Tehillim, a collection of rabbinic interpretations on the Book of Psalms, dives deep into this idea. In one particular passage (Midrash Tehillim 30), it explores the connection between the earthly Temple in Jerusalem and its celestial counterpart.

Rav Ḥisda makes a bold statement: "There is no difference between the Sanctuary of the tribe below and the Sanctuary of the tribe above." In other words, the Temple here on Earth corresponds precisely to the Temple in Heaven. It suggests a profound link, a cosmic blueprint where our sacred spaces mirror the divine realm.

This idea raises some fascinating questions. What does it mean for our prayers, our rituals, our very connection to God? If the Temple below reflects the Temple above, then our actions here have repercussions in the celestial spheres.

Rabbi Abba then explores Psalm 84, verses 9-11, seeking deeper meaning. "O God, the Lord of hosts; hear my prayer; give ear, O God of Jacob. Selah. Behold, O God our shield, and look upon the face of Your anointed. For a day in Your courts is better than a thousand elsewhere; I would rather stand at the threshold of the house of my God than dwell in the tents of wickedness." Powerful words. Rabbi Abba interprets "O God, the Lord of hosts" as a reference to the source of divine communication, the place where the dibbur, the Divine Utterances, issue forth into the world. As it says in (Isaiah 2:3), "For out of Zion shall go forth the law, and the word of the Lord from Jerusalem." Zion, Jerusalem, these are not just physical locations; they are points of connection, conduits for divine energy.

The passage continues, quoting (Psalm 68:6): "God in His holy dwelling place, is a father of the fatherless, and a judge of the widows. God settles the solitary in a house; He leads out the prisoners into prosperity; but the rebellious dwell in a parched land." This verse paints a picture of God as a protector, a provider, and a just ruler. The "holy dwelling place" reinforces the idea of a sacred space, a place where divine justice and compassion reside.

So, what are we to make of all this? This short passage from Midrash Tehillim offers a glimpse into a worldview where the earthly and the heavenly are intimately connected. It suggests that our actions, our prayers, and our very presence in sacred spaces have cosmic significance. Maybe, just maybe, by tending to the "Sanctuary below," we are also tending to the "Sanctuary above."

What other connections are we missing between our world and the divine? And how can we live our lives in a way that honors that connection?

Full source
Bereshit Rabbah 70:2Bereshit Rabbah

Retold in our words. Read the original at the link below.The Sefaria Midrash Rabbah, 2022 · CC-BY

The verse in question comes from (1 Chronicles 29:9): “The people rejoiced in their donation, because they donated to the Lord wholeheartedly, and King David too rejoiced with great joy.” Rav Huna, quoting Rav Idi in Bereshit Rabbah 70, points out that the people were happy because their donation – their mitzvah – was successful. They gave with a full heart. And that's when something interesting happens.

David doesn’t just celebrate with them; he blesses God. The verse continues, “David blessed the Lord before the eyes of the entire congregation [and David said: Blessed is the Lord, God of Israel our father]…” But notice something. Why does he say “God of Israel our father” and not “God of Abraham, Isaac, and Israel”? It’s a subtle difference, but a powerful one. Rav Huna says it’s because David is ascribing the vow – the initial impulse to give – to the one who began with it first: Israel.

Rabbi Yehuda chimes in with another, even more direct prooftext, straight from the Torah. We find it in (Numbers 21:2), which tells us, "Israel took a vow.." But look closely at the Hebrew. It could say “vayidru”, plural, meaning all of Israel took a vow. But that's not what it says. Instead, it says “vayidar”, singular. Rabbi Yehuda argues that this is not accidental; it specifically refers to Israel the elder, Jacob himself.

Full source