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David Reminded God About the Man Saved in Another Cave

Lot's daughters bore Moab in a cave above Zoar. Generations later one of their descendants lay hiding in a cave of his own while Saul hunted him.

Curated by Arthur · Told by Maggid ·
Table of Contents
  1. The Cave Where the Song Was Written
  2. The Kindness Done in Another Cave
  3. The Line That Nearly Ended Twice
  4. The Son Who Said Neither Good Nor Bad
  5. The Court That Would Not Take a Bribe
David Reminded God About the Man Saved in Another Cave Click for full size

The Cave Where the Song Was Written

The hills outside were full of men looking for him. David lay in the dark of a cave with his people around him, listening for horses, and what came out of him there was not a battle plan. It was a song, and the song opened with two words of pleading. Do not destroy.

He did not ask for victory. He asked to be left alive, and then he did something stranger than asking. He opened an argument.

"Master of the universe," he said, "before I ever went into a cave, You were already doing kindness for other people on my account."

The Kindness Done in Another Cave

He meant Lot. Fire had come down on Sodom and the plain had burned, and Lot had run to the little town of Zoar and then been too frightened to stay there. He went up the mountain with his two daughters and settled in a cave. What happened in that cave produced a son called Moab.

Moab's line ran down through the centuries to a Moabite woman named Ruth, and from Ruth to Obed, and from Obed to Jesse, and from Jesse to the youngest son who kept the sheep. So David, pressed into the rock with Saul's search parties working the ridge above him, made his claim. Sodom burned and Lot walked out of it because heaven was already protecting a man who would not be born for centuries. The rescue in that first cave had been done on credit, and David was calling in the account from inside a second one.

Do not destroy, he said. You did not destroy then.

The Line That Nearly Ended Twice

The family he was arguing from had almost failed more than once. Judah walked away from his brothers after they sold Joseph and went down to Adullam, where he fell in with a local man named Hira. He married a merchant's daughter there, the brightest woman in the place, and she gave him three sons.

Er, the firstborn, was wicked in the sight of God and God killed him, and the name he had been given turned out to say so: Er, a man cleared out of the world. Onan went the same way and his name spelled the mourning he brought on himself. Only the third one, Shelah, carried a name that meant a chain continuing, and the family went on through the wreckage of the other two.

Hira did not disappear either. When David sat as king in Jerusalem, a man called Hiram of Tyre sent him cedar and craftsmen and stayed his friend all his days, and there were sages who insisted this was the same Hira who had walked beside Judah into Adullam. Twelve hundred years, one of them counted. Five hundred, said another. Either way the man was in the habit of befriending that tribe, and he waited out whole empires to do it again.

The Son Who Said Neither Good Nor Bad

The trouble that finally drove David out of Jerusalem came from inside his own house, and it came quietly.

Joseph's brothers had at least hated him out loud. They could not speak a peaceable word to him and everyone in the tent knew where they stood. Absalom was not built that way. After his brother Amnon violated their sister Tamar, Absalom said nothing to him, neither good nor bad, for two years. Nothing on his face. Nothing in his mouth. Then he invited Amnon to a sheep-shearing feast and had him killed at the table.

Years later that same son took the kingdom out from under his father, and David went up the road out of Jerusalem on foot, weeping, with his head covered. Save me from the ones who speak peace to their neighbors while evil sits in their hearts, he prayed. Do not drag me off with the wicked.

The Court That Would Not Take a Bribe

He kept arguing. He complained that his sentence had come out against him, and heaven answered him like a judge losing patience.

"I set up a Sanhedrin for you," God said. "Seventy-one judges, and they heard your case for nothing."

"You wrote in Your own Torah that a judge may not take a bribe," David said, "so my judges are afraid to take one from me. But You take them. You take repentance from the wicked, and good deeds, and prayer, and then You go easy on them. My verdict came from You."

The answer came back not to David but past him, to everyone standing behind him. While the gates of prayer are still open, pray and turn back, because in this world I do take a bribe. When I sit for the judgment of the world to come, I take nothing from anyone.

A man walking a dark road without a lamp catches his foot on a stone he never saw, walks into a tree, goes down the bank into the river, and does not know where he is. A man walking with a lamp in his hand finds the stone and steps around it. David said he had tried, more than once, to go where he should not go, and the words he had been given would not let go of his ankles. They kept lighting the ground in front of him.


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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 119:28Midrash Tehillim

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

We all do sometimes. But what if you had a light to guide you?

That’s the image at the heart of Midrash Tehillim’s take on (Psalm 119:105): "A candle to my feet is Your word, a light to my path." It’s not just beautiful poetry, it's a profound statement about the power of Torah.

The Midrash, a collection of rabbinic interpretations of scripture, contrasts the paths of the righteous and the wicked. Drawing on Proverbs, it paints a vivid picture. As Solomon said (Proverbs 4:18), "But the path of the righteous is like the light of dawn, etc." On the other hand, "The way of the wicked is like darkness, etc" (Proverbs 4:19).

Why this stark difference?

The wicked, the Midrash explains, are like someone blindly stumbling through the night. They walk without a candle, tripping over stones, crashing into trees, maybe even falling into a river, completely lost. They have no light, just as Proverbs says, "the way of the wicked is like darkness."

But the righteous? Ah, they have a candle. They carefully work through the darkness. They see the stone and avoid it. They see the tree and steer clear. They have guidance. That guidance, according to David, is the word of God: "A candle to my feet..." It’s not just about avoiding physical obstacles. It's about working through the moral and ethical complexities of life. What keeps us on the right path? What illuminates our choices?

As (Proverbs 6:23) says, "For the commandment is a lamp, etc." The mitzvot (commandments) aren’t just rules; they are beacons, shining a light on our path.

The Midrash even suggests that even if David was tempted to sin, "the words of the Torah do not let me go; if I seek to go, they illuminate before me." The Torah, then, isn't a constraint, but a liberating force, guiding us away from self-destruction and towards fulfillment.

Then the text shifts to David's oath: "I have sworn and I will fulfill it." What does this mean? The Midrash understands that David receives a double reward: the reward for making the oath itself, and the reward for performing the commandment.

The Midrash explains that David would receive reward for the oath and reward for performing commandments like taking the lulav (palm branch) and dwelling in the sukkah (temporary dwelling) during Sukkot, as well as for the commandments of tzitzit (fringes), tefillin (phylacteries), and circumcision.

So, where does this leave us? Perhaps with a renewed appreciation for the light we have available to us. In a world that often feels dark and confusing, the teachings of Torah, the wisdom of our tradition, can be that very candle, guiding us, step by step, toward a more meaningful and righteous life. And maybe, just maybe, helping us avoid a few trees along the way.

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Bereshit Rabbah 85:4Bereshit Rabbah

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

Sometimes, a seemingly minor detail can open up a whole world of interpretation. to a fascinating passage from Bereshit Rabbah, a collection of rabbinic interpretations of the Book of Genesis, and see what secrets we can uncover.

Our focus is on the story of Judah, one of Jacob's sons, found in Genesis chapter 38. We read, "And turned to an Adulamite man, and his name was Ḥira" (Genesis 38:1). Now, who is this Ḥira? The Rabbis, in Bereshit Rabbah 85, pose a captivating idea: is this Ḥira the same as Ḥiram, the one who was a friend of King David? As it says in I (Kings 5:15), "For Ḥiram had been David’s friend all the days."

The text suggests, according to one interpretation, that Ḥira was simply accustomed to being a friend to that particular tribe. But Rabbi Yehuda ben Rabbi Simon offers a different perspective: Ḥiram was someone else entirely.

This leads to a rather mind-boggling question: How long did these figures live? According to the Rabbis' opinion, this Ḥiram lived close to one thousand two hundred years! Rabbi Yehuda [ben Rabbi Simon], on the other hand, suggests a more "modest" lifespan of around five hundred years.

Both opinions, however, acknowledge that this Ḥiram is also the prince of Tyre who was addressed by the prophet Ezekiel (Ezekiel 28:2) almost five hundred years after the time of David (as noted in Yalkut Shimoni, Va’era 180). The real debate centers on whether this Ḥiram is also the same Ḥira from Judah's time, roughly five hundred years before David. It's a long game of biblical telephone!

The story continues, "There Judah saw the daughter of a certain Canaanite whose name was Shua, and he married her and cohabited with her" (Genesis 38:2). Who was this Shua? The text explains that she was the daughter of a merchant. Here, the word kenaani, generally translated as Canaanite, is interpreted to mean merchant, as it sometimes does in the Bible (like in Isaiah 23:8). This interpretation suggests that Judah was following his family's tradition of not marrying Canaanites, since he was marrying the daughter of a merchant rather than a member of the Canaanite people.

Then, "She conceived, and she bore a son; he called his name Er" (Genesis 38:3). But Bereshit Rabbah adds a layer of meaning: "as he was discharged [shehuar] from the world." The name Er is connected to the idea of being "discharged" or removed.

And so it goes with Judah's other sons: "She conceived again, and bore a son; she called his name Onan. She continued and bore a son again, and called his name Shela; and he was in Keziv when she bore him" (Genesis 38:4–5). Onan's name is linked to "acute mourning [anina]" that he brought upon himself. Shela's name is associated with initiating a genealogy [shenishtalshel] in the world, or, according to a variant reading, from the world. And Keziv, we're told, is Poskat, the Aramaic name for the place.

The narrative takes a dark turn: "Er, Judah’s firstborn, was wicked in the eyes of the Lord, and the Lord put him to death" (Genesis 38:7). Bereshit Rabbah clarifies Er's wickedness: "he would plow in the gardens and discharge in the waste." This is a euphemism, explaining that Er would begin intercourse with his wife, but withdraw before climaxing to avoid her pregnancy.

What are we to make of all this? The Rabbis saw layers of meaning in names, places, and even seemingly minor characters. They sought to connect the dots across vast stretches of time, creating a tradition of interwoven stories and interpretations. It invites us to consider: how do we find meaning in the stories we inherit, and how do we connect them to our own lives?

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Midrash Tehillim 39:2Midrash Tehillim

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

Midrash Tehillim turns to David at the Dawn of Creation.

Let me tell you one, found in Midrash Tehillim, a collection of homiletic interpretations of the Book of Psalms. It's a wild tale, but stick with me, it has a point.

So, there was this Persian king. He was on his deathbed. The royal physicians, in their infinite wisdom, declared that the only cure was… lion's milk. Seriously!

You might be thinking, "Okay, that's impossible." Well, one brave (or maybe foolhardy) servant volunteered. He said, "Give me ten goats, and I’ll get you that milk!" The king, desperate, agreed.

The servant ventured into the wilderness, goat in tow, and eventually found a lioness nursing her cubs. Cautiously, he tossed her a goat from a distance. The next day, he got a little closer. Day by day, he repeated the process, earning the lioness’s trust until he was actually playing with her and, yes, milking her! Unbelievable. But here's where it gets even stranger. On his way back, the servant fell asleep and had this crazy dream. All his body parts were arguing! His legs boasted they were the most important because they carried him to the lioness. His hands claimed superiority because they milked her. The eyes argued that they guided him. The heart insisted it had come up with the whole goat-bribing scheme in the first place.

Then the tongue piped up: "What would you have done without me?"

The other body parts scoffed, "You? You're hidden away in a dark, shadowy place! You don't even have a bone!" The tongue, undeterred, retorted, "Today, you'll see that I am your king and ruler!"

The servant woke up, shaken. He delivered the milk to the king, but in his fear and confusion, he blurted out, "Here is the milk of a lion!"

Well, the king was furious. He heard "of a lion" instead of "from a lioness". He thought the servant was trying to poison him! He immediately ordered the servant to be hanged.

As he was being led to his execution, all his body parts were weeping. The tongue, ever the opportunist, said, "Didn't I tell you I was your king? If I save you, will you acknowledge my power?" They all agreed.

So, the tongue spoke up again. He pleaded with the king. The king, confused, asked why he'd ordered the execution. The tongue cleverly replied, "I said 'milk of a lion' because it would hasten your death."

The king, even more confused, said, "Why would you care? Let the milk kill you then!" He even added, "Furthermore, my name, Levya, means 'lion'.”

Then, they tested the milk, and guess what? It was, in fact, lioness milk! The king was cured. And the servant’s body parts finally acknowledged the power of the tongue.

The story ends with a powerful message: "Death and life are in the power of the tongue" (Proverbs 18:21). King David understood this. He vowed, "I will guard my ways, that I sin not with my tongue" (Psalm 39:1). The tongue, this story suggests, is more valuable than any sacrifice, as David also said, "I will praise the name of God with a song, and will magnify Him with thanksgiving. And it will please God more than an ox or a bull" (Psalms 69:31-32).

This midrash (rabbinic interpretive commentary), this interpretive story, isn’t just about a king, a lioness, and a talking tongue. It's about the immense responsibility that comes with the gift of speech. As the Midrash Rabbah points out on numerous occasions, our words have the power to build up or tear down, to heal or to harm. How often do we speak without thinking? How often do we underestimate the impact of our words? This ancient story reminds us that the tongue, though small, is mighty. It demands our constant vigilance, our careful consideration, and our unwavering commitment to using it for good. What kind of world are you building with your words?

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Midrash Tehillim 28:5Midrash Tehillim

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

King David certainly did. In Midrash Tehillim, a collection of rabbinic teachings on the Book of Psalms, we find David crying out, "I call to You, O Lord, my rock, do not be deaf to me. Do not drag me away with the wicked." It's a raw, desperate plea.

Rabbi Abba bar Zerayya offers a fascinating insight, drawing a comparison between the sons of Jacob and Absalom towards Amnon. The brothers of Joseph openly hated him. Genesis tells us, "And they hated him and could not speak peaceably unto him." What they felt was right there The first reading, ugly as it was. But then we have Absalom. He held his true feelings about Amnon close. The verse says, "But Absalom spake unto Amnon neither good nor bad." What was in his heart was not on his lips.

Why does this matter? Because, as the Midrash (rabbinic interpretive commentary) suggests, it highlights the complexities of human nature and the difficulties in discerning truth. We are so often faced with a confusing mix of intentions and actions! What's truly in someone's heart? And how does that impact our relationship with God?

The text continues, "For they do not understand the actions of the Lord." This is a crucial point. When we're caught up in the messy realities of human behavior, A reader can lose sight of the bigger picture, to question God's plan. Hezekiah said, "These are the times." Rabbi Yehoshua said, "These are the stories."

What are they referring to? Times of uncertainty. Stories filled with moral ambiguity. Times when understanding God's actions feels impossible. The Rabbis connect this to the recitation of the Shema, the central prayer in Judaism, which includes phrases like "who creates light and makes darkness, who forms mountains and creates the wind, who brings forth bread from the earth." The Shema acknowledges that God is responsible for both the good and the bad, the light and the darkness.

The Midrash concludes with a rather enigmatic statement: "Just as God created the two great lights (Genesis 1:16), He will destroy them in this world and will not rebuild them in the world to come." This likely refers to the sun and the moon, or perhaps metaphorical lights of leadership and guidance. The idea that even these fundamental elements of creation are temporary, subject to destruction, is a sobering one.

So, what are we left with? A plea for help, a meditation on hypocrisy, and a reminder of God's ultimate power and mysterious ways. The Midrash Tehillim doesn’t offer easy answers. Instead, it invites us to confront the complexities of faith, to acknowledge the darkness, and to trust that even in the midst of destruction, there is still the potential for renewal, even if we can't see it just yet. It is a reminder that, like David, we can cry out to our rock, trusting that we are heard, even when it feels like no one is listening.

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Midrash Tehillim 17:3Midrash Tehillim

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

Like the rules just. don't apply the same way? That's a question King David wrestles with in a powerful passage from Midrash Tehillim, a collection of homiletic interpretations of the Book of Psalms.

The story begins with a bold accusation. Rabbi Levi recounts God telling David that He had a Sanhedrin (a Jewish court) created just for him, so he could be judged fairly. David's response? He throws it right back! "Master of the Universe," he says, "You wrote in the Torah, 'You shall not take a bribe!' Your earthly court follows Your rules. but what about You?"

In this Midrash (rabbinic interpretive commentary), David points out that God does seem to accept "bribes" – repentance, good deeds, and prayer – from the wicked in this world. He implies that he isn't being afforded the same leniency. It's a gutsy challenge, questioning the very nature of divine justice.

Here’s where it gets really interesting. God responds to Israel, saying, "My children, until the gates of prayer are open, pray and repent, for I take bribes in this world." It's like God is admitting, "Okay, you got me. I do offer a path to redemption in this world." But then God adds a crucial caveat: "But when I sit in judgment for the world to come, I do not take bribes." As the verse from Proverbs (11:4) states, "A bribe will not appease the wrath of God, and He who hates bribes will live."

So, what's the answer? How do we navigate this apparent double standard?

The Midrash then connects this to the High Holy Days, specifically the ten days between Rosh Hashanah (the Jewish New Year) and Yom Kippur (the Day of Atonement). These are the Yamim Noraim, the Days of Awe, a time for intense reflection and repentance. The text interprets the verse "You will make known to me the path of life" (Psalm 16:11) as referring to these ten days.

But it doesn't stop there. The Midrash draws an incredible connection to Sukkot, the Feast of Tabernacles, which immediately follows Yom Kippur. It highlights the lulav, the palm branch used in Sukkot rituals. The text describes that during the Second Temple period, there was a custom of running with the palm branch, and whoever took it and brought it back was seen as victorious. The lulav, according to the Midrash, represents victory.: On Rosh Hashanah, we're judged. The outcome is uncertain. Then comes Yom Kippur, a day of fasting and intense prayer. We're still unsure of our fate. But when Sukkot arrives, we emerge, young and old, waving our lulavim. It's a public declaration of faith, and a symbol of victory. This is how we know, the Midrash suggests, that Israel has been victorious in judgment and their sins have been forgiven.

The text even personifies an adversary, "the robber," who challenges Israel. But even this figure acknowledges the power of the lulav, calling it "pleasant" and associating it with victory. It’s connected to the verse in Psalms (16:11) – "Pleasantness is in your right hand forever." The lulav, therefore, becomes a symbol of Torah, of the "way of life," and of the "satisfaction of joys" found in the seven days of Sukkot. It's a reminder of the entire pattern of Jewish tradition: "Scripture, Mishnah (the earliest code of rabbinic law), Talmud, laws, and legends, the details of the Torah and the details of the scribes."

What does it all mean? Perhaps this Midrash is reminding us that even when divine judgment seems opaque, even when we feel held to a higher standard, the path to redemption is always open. Through sincere repentance, dedicated prayer, and embracing the richness of our tradition – symbolized by the lulav – we can find victory and forgiveness. It's a powerful message of hope, reminding us that even in the face of judgment, we have the tools to shape our own destiny.

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