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David Wanted the Temple and God Counted the Want

David cannot build the Temple but cannot stop wanting it, and God credits the longing as if stone had already been laid on stone.

Curated by Arthur · Told by Maggid ·
Table of Contents
  1. David Stood Before an Unbuilt House
  2. David Taught Prayer Before the Temple Existed
  3. Doeg Chose Wrong and Lost What He Chose
  4. The Want Was Credited as Work

David Stood Before an Unbuilt House

The psalm's heading says it belongs to David: a psalm, a song for the dedication of the House. The problem is obvious to anyone who knows the story. David prepared. Solomon built. David gathered the silver, the gold, the cedar, the iron. He made all the arrangements he could. Then God told him he would not be the one to lay the first stone, and Solomon became the builder, and the House was dedicated under another king's name.

Midrash Tehillim 30:4 does not soften the problem. It asks why the psalm belongs to David. The answer the midrash gives is the one that runs through everything it says about David: because he wanted it. The wanting was so total, so constitutive of who David was, that when Solomon dedicated the House, the dedication belonged to the one who had poured his life into preparation for what he would never live to complete.

Heaven counts more than what a person finishes. It counts what a person wanted so badly that it became part of their name.

David Taught Prayer Before the Temple Existed

Midrash Tehillim 29:1 hears David teaching Israel how to begin. Not how to begin building. How to begin prayer. The sons of the mighty, the Psalm says, the interpreters translate as the sons of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. David stands before Israel and says: bring to God, O sons of the mighty, bring to God glory and strength. Begin with the patriarchs. Begin with what you come from. Begin with the name that carries weight before you have contributed your own.

Prayer in this telling is not a private transaction between an individual and God. It is an act performed inside a lineage, inside a covenant older than the speaker. David who could not build the Temple could still teach Israel how to stand before God, which is what the Temple was built to make visible and accessible. The building houses the practice. The practice is older than the building.

Doeg Chose Wrong and Lost What He Chose

Midrash Tehillim 52:6 places David opposite Doeg, the man who chose correctly, in worldly terms. Doeg had power. He had Saul's favor. He had information that made him useful and therefore safe. He used his position to destroy the priests of Nob and increase his standing with a king who needed someone willing to do what soldiers refused to do.

The midrash watches what happens next. Doeg's olive tree is uprooted. The Tree that roots in God's house, the Psalm says, flourishes in the courts of God. Doeg chose the tree that had roots in Saul's court, in wealth, in Saul's favor, and when Saul fell, everything Doeg had planted fell with it.

David's olive tree had different roots. David chose wrong in the matter of Bathsheba and Uriah, and paid a heavy price. But the core of what David was, the wanting that went toward God and toward the Temple and toward the prayer that teaches Israel how to begin, was rooted in something that outlasted any individual king's reign.

The Want Was Credited as Work

What Midrash Tehillim assembles from these three passages is a theology of intention. The person who wants the right thing with the right intensity, who pours preparation and longing into a goal that circumstance prevents them from completing, does not end up credited with nothing. Heaven counts the want.

This is not a consolation for failure. It is a precise claim about what is being evaluated. David did not fail to build the Temple. He was prevented by a divine decision based on the blood of David's wars. But the wanting was genuine, the preparation was real, and the psalm for the dedication carries his name because the dedication stood on everything he had gathered and longed for.


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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 30:4Midrash Tehillim

Rabbi Yehuda and Rabbi Nehemiah suggest a fundamental principle: punishment, at its core, is unproductive. It doesn't bear good fruit. Goodness, on the other hand, does generate more goodness, echoing the verse in Hosea (10:12): "Sow righteousness for yourselves, reap the fruit of unfailing love."

So, how does God deal with our imperfections? The Midrash Tehillim offers a beautiful, almost poetic, explanation. God, in a sense, "collects" a person's sins, but then gives them their reward. It's a delicate balance. Even when punishment is meted out, it's less than we deserve, as we find in Ezra (9:13): "You, our God, have punished us less than our sins deserved."

Rabbi Elazar and Rabbi Yosei bar Hanina paint a vivid image. Imagine a hand holding scales. On one side, sins; on the other, merits. What does God do? The Midrash (rabbinic interpretive commentary) tells us He inclines the scales toward mercy. It’s that unfailing love, that chesed (Lovingkindness), tipping the balance. And Rabbi Yosei bar Hanina adds another layer: God snatches the "bill of sins" in one hand, and immediately the merits are decided. Poof! Gone! It reminds us of Micah (7:18): "Who is a God like you, who pardons sin and forgives the transgression of the remnant of his inheritance?"

What about intention? Does God judge us on what we intend to do, or only on our actions? This is where it gets even more interesting, especially when comparing Jews and gentiles. Rabbi Nehemiah argues that if a non-Jew intends to commit a transgression, God considers it as if they actually did it. He bases this on the verse in Deuteronomy (26:5): "An Aramean tried to destroy my father." Laban never actually destroyed Jacob, but his intention was enough to be held accountable.

However, if a non-Jew intends to perform a mitzvah (a good deed), it’s not counted until they actually do it, as we see in Daniel (6:15). It’s only "even until the sun rose" – until the act was completed – that it was considered.

For an Israelite, it's different. If an Israelite intends to commit a sin but doesn't do it, God doesn't record it. As Micah (2:1) says, "Woe to those who devise iniquity and work evil upon their beds", the emphasis is on the working of evil, not just the devising. David echoes this sentiment in Psalms (66:18): "If I had seen iniquity in my heart, the Lord would not have heard me." The intention, the thought, matters less if it doesn't translate to action.

On the flip side, if an Israelite intends to perform a mitzvah but is prevented from doing so, God considers it as if they had done it! Think about David. He yearned to build the Temple, but he wasn't the one chosen for the task. Yet, the psalm dedicating the Temple is ascribed to him: "A psalm, a song for the dedication of the House, by David" (Psalms 30:1). His heartfelt intention was enough.

The Midrash concludes with a powerful lesson: anyone who is deeply distressed or concerned about something is, in a sense, "called" by that thing's name. Just as Moses, who was so invested in the Torah, is forever linked to it: "Remember the Torah of Moses, My servant" (Malachi 3:22). Similarly, David's connection to the Temple endures through the psalm attributed to him.

So, what does all of this tell us? Perhaps it's that God sees our hearts, our intentions, and our efforts, even when we fall short. It's a comforting thought, isn't it? It emphasizes the importance of intention, particularly for those striving to live a life of mitzvot (commandments). We are reminded that even when circumstances prevent us from fully realizing our good intentions, the Divine sees and values the desire. The scale isn't just about actions; it's about the heart behind them.

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Midrash Tehillim 29:1Midrash Tehillim

The psalm begins, "Give to the Lord, O sons of the mighty, give to the Lord glory and strength." But who are these "sons of the mighty"? The text links this verse to a passage in Ezekiel (34:22), where God promises to save his flock. David, the shepherd king, then steps in, promising to shepherd them himself. According to this reading, David sees himself as God's helper, a savior and shepherd to the people. "You are my savior and my shepherd," David says to God, echoing (Psalm 28:9), "Save your people."

God has a condition, "I am holding them back; pray before me." It’s as if God is saying, "I’m ready to act, but I need you to ask. I need you to be part of the process."

The Midrash (rabbinic interpretive commentary) offers another interpretation of "sons of the mighty." It suggests they are the "sons of the deaf" – those who should respond to God but don't. Isaiah (42:19) asks, "Who is blind but my servant? Or deaf as my messenger?" It paints a picture of people who are capable of hearing God's call, but choose not to listen.

That brings us to a powerful story about Abraham.

The Midrash references (Genesis 22:14), where Abraham names the place of the Akeidah – the binding of Isaac – "The Lord will see" (Adonai Yireh). God says to Abraham, "I wanted to answer you, but you did not answer me, and you were silent." Why?

God reminds Abraham of an earlier promise: "In Isaac shall seed be called to thee" (Genesis 21:12). But now, God commands Abraham to sacrifice Isaac! God asks, "Which one of them is the only one?" Abraham replies, "This one is the only one of his mother, and this one is the only one of his mother." God says, "Whom you love." Abraham replies, "I love them both." Finally, God says, "Isaac."

The tension is palpable. Abraham is torn between God's seemingly contradictory commands. He hesitates. And God points out that very hesitation! "Just as I wanted to answer you and you did not answer me," God says, "so too, when your children sin, remember this time and turn your face to them." In other words, remember this moment of near-sacrifice, of difficult choice, and let it inform your future relationship with your descendants.

The Midrash connects this to (Numbers 6:26), "May the Lord lift up His countenance upon you." Just as God lifted His face to Abraham, so too should we "ascribe to the Lord, O sons of the mighty, ascribe to the Lord glory and strength" (Psalms 29:1).

But another interpretation sees the "sons of the mighty" as those "who are slaughtered like rams," a direct reference to the Akeidah. Abraham was ready to sacrifice, and Isaac was ready to be sacrificed. What incredible faith!

So, how do we respond to God? The Midrash suggests prayer. Moses says in (Deuteronomy 32:3), "For I will proclaim the name of the Lord; ascribe greatness to our God!"

The people ask Moses, "From where do we know how to begin?" He directs them back to the beginning of the section: "Ascribe to the Lord, O sons of the mighty." This, according to the Midrash, refers to Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob – the patriarchs.

This is why we begin our prayers with the blessing, "God of Abraham, God of Isaac, and God of Jacob." The second mention, "Glory and strength," corresponds to giving glory to God's name, acknowledging that He revives the dead (mechayeh hameitim). And the third mention, "Glory to His name," corresponds to blessing God as the Holy God.

The Midrash concludes by noting that there are eighteen blessings, corresponding to the eighteen mentions in David's "Ascribe to the Lord, O sons of the mighty."

So, what does it all mean? It seems to me that this Midrash is a powerful call to action. It's a reminder that our relationship with God is not a one-way street. God is listening, waiting, and inviting us to participate in the ongoing story of creation. Are we answering the call? Are we giving glory and strength to the Divine? And are we remembering the lessons of our ancestors, especially those moments of profound sacrifice and faith? Perhaps that's the most important question of all.

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Midrash Tehillim 52:6Midrash Tehillim

In Midrash Tehillim, a collection of rabbinic commentaries on the Book of Psalms, we find a fascinating perspective, particularly in Midrash (rabbinic interpretive commentary) 52.

It all starts with David and Doeg. David, who would become king, and Doeg, an Edomite who served in Saul's court. David rebukes Doeg, and the midrash suggests that David pointed out to Doeg that he was prioritizing Saul's "evil love" over goodness. The core idea? Doeg was more concerned with pleasing a flawed authority figure than with upholding what was right. The midrash implies that Doeg's downfall stemmed from this misplaced loyalty. He should have been more concerned with truth and righteousness, even if it meant displeasing the king.

The midrash then uses this scenario to launch into a broader discussion about true wisdom and what we should truly value. It references (Jeremiah 9:22-23), cautioning us not to boast about our wisdom, might, or riches. Instead, "let him who glories glory in this, that he understands and knows Me." And what is this understanding? It's Torah! As (Deuteronomy 4:44) says, "And this is the Torah." It's about knowing God, living justly, and behaving wisely, just as David himself did, as described in (2 (Samuel 8:1)5) and (1 (Samuel 18:1)4).

The truly part comes when Rabbi Shimon Bar Abba, in the name of Rabbi Yochanan, says that God showed Abraham a glimpse of the entire future – the Torah, sacrifices, Gehinnom (hell), and exile.

How did God do this? Through symbolic imagery! (Genesis 15:17) speaks of "a smoking oven and a burning torch." The torch, the midrash tells us, represents the Torah, drawing a parallel to (Exodus 20:15) where the people "saw the thunderings and the lightnings"– divine revelation at Sinai. The burning oven? That's Gehinnom, as it says in (Malachi 3:19), "And he shall be like a flaming oven." And (Isaiah 31:9) echoes this, "Whose fire is in Zion."

Then comes the heart-wrenching choice. God offers Abraham a choice for his descendants. Would they prefer to endure Gehinnom, or exile? Rabbi Chanina bar Papa says that Abraham chose exile, believing it was better for Israel to be scattered and tested than to face the eternal fire. Abraham, faced with unimaginable suffering for his future generations, chooses exile. He chooses the wandering, the hardship, the persecution, rather than eternal damnation. It's a powerful evidence of the enduring spirit of the Jewish people and their commitment to a higher purpose.

And it connects back to the beginning of the midrash. It’s a reminder that true glory lies not in earthly power or fleeting pleasures, but in understanding God's ways and enduring hardship with faith. As (Isaiah 51:1) says, "Look to the rock from which you were hewn," referring to Abraham, our father. We are his descendants, shaped by his choices, and called to live with the same unwavering faith. Exile, after all, becomes a crucible, forging strength and resilience. Even when faced with the love of evil that seems to flourish around us.

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