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Saul Was Chosen Before Noah and Forfeited What Noah Kept

The rabbis taught that Saul's soul was marked for kingship before the flood. What Noah preserved through faithfulness, Saul squandered in a single act of mercy.

Curated by Arthur · Told by Maggid ·
Table of Contents
  1. The King Before There Were Kings
  2. The Night Saul Spared What He Should Have Destroyed
  3. What Saul's Mercy Toward Agag Created
  4. What the Psalms Say About His Redemption

The King Before There Were Kings

Before kingship existed in Israel, before there was an Israel, before the flood had scoured the world and Noah had stepped onto the muddy slopes of Ararat, a soul was already designated for the throne. The rabbis did not stumble onto this idea. They reasoned toward it with precision: if God is not surprised by anything, then Saul's rise and his catastrophic fall were written into the structure of creation from before the flood. The question was not whether Saul would become king. The question was what he would do with it when it arrived.

Bamidbar Rabbah, a midrashic commentary on Numbers compiled in approximately the fifth or sixth century CE, opens a remarkable passage with a verse from Second Kings: But the Lord had not spoken to erase the name of Israel from beneath the heavens (2 Kings 14:27). The rabbis use this verse to establish a principle: God does not will the erasure of those He has chosen, even when they stumble badly enough to seem to have chosen their own erasure. Saul's story is the paradigm case of a soul that was not erased despite everything.

The Night Saul Spared What He Should Have Destroyed

The explicit command was total. The prophet Samuel delivered it without ambiguity: go, strike down Amalek, spare nothing. Saul went to war and fought well. Then he looked at Agag, king of the Amalekites, alive and defeated, and something in him held back. The man was a king. He had surrendered. Destroying him in his helplessness felt wrong in the way that mercy often feels right when the moment is in front of you and the principle is abstract.

Saul spared Agag. He also spared the best livestock, telling himself the animals would be sacrificed to God. Samuel arrived to find what had been preserved. His response was one of the most devastating sentences in all of prophetic literature: Does the Lord take delight in burnt offerings and sacrifices as much as in obeying the voice of the Lord? Behold, to obey is better than sacrifice (1 Samuel 15:22). The kingdom was removed. It would go to a man after God's own heart, not a man after his own sense of proportion.

What Saul's Mercy Toward Agag Created

Esther Rabbah, the midrashic collection on the Book of Esther compiled in the Land of Israel, follows the genealogical line forward from that night. Agag survived long enough, after Samuel's delayed execution, to father a child. That child's line eventually produced Haman. The rabbis cite Numbers 33:55 as the warning written in advance: those whom you leave will be like thorns in your eyes, and like stones in your sides, and they will trouble you in the land you inhabit. The thorn of Haman's genocidal decree against the Jews of Persia was planted the night Saul looked at a defeated enemy king and felt pity.

Rabbi Levi, in Esther Rabbah, makes the arithmetic explicit. Saul did not merely spare a man. He allowed a lineage to continue that would require Esther and Mordecai to risk everything centuries later to undo what that one act of misplaced mercy had made possible. The rabbis were not condemning Saul's compassion as a feeling. They were tracing its consequences through the generations to show that mercy applied without precision is not mercy but deferral.

What the Psalms Say About His Redemption

Midrash Tehillim, the collection of rabbinic interpretations on the Book of Psalms compiled over several centuries, opens its commentary on Psalm 18 with David's declaration: The Lord is my rock and my fortress, my deliverer. The Midrash connects this to Saul as well as David, arguing that God's mercy is not withdrawn even from a king who lost his throne. David and Saul are placed in structural parallel, not as rivals but as two studies in what royal failure and royal persistence look like. David's Psalm becomes a statement about God's willingness to restore, and the Midrash reads that willingness as applying retroactively even to Saul, who died in battle on Mount Gilboa with his armor-bearer refusing to strike him down.

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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.

Bamidbar Rabbah 5:3Bamidbar Rabbah

Our Rabbis explored this idea in Bamidbar Rabbah, specifically in section 5, through a close reading of the phrase "Do not cut off." It's not just a simple command; it’s a window into the very nature of God's relationship with us.

The passage starts by referencing a verse from II (Kings 14:27): “But the Lord had not spoken to erase the name of Israel from beneath the heavens.” The Midrash (rabbinic interpretive commentary) uses this to illustrate a core principle: that God doesn't want to wipe anyone out. As it says in (Isaiah 56:3), "The foreigner who accompanies the Lord shall not say: [The Lord will separate me from His people]." If God welcomes even the outsider, how much more so does God embrace Israel, who are, as the verse states, "My children."

Think about the story of the Gibeonites. They weren't exactly the most upright converts; their conversion was rooted in fear. Yet, God accepted them. And when Saul tried to harm them, God punished him severely, even bringing a three-year famine upon the land. As we read in II (Samuel 21:1), "There was a famine in the days of David [for three years…the Lord said: For Saul, and for the bloody house, in that he put the Gibeonites to death]." If God protected even these "unsought proselytes," wouldn't God certainly protect "My children?"

This idea extends to the Levi'im, the Levites, the servants in the Temple. “Do not cut off,” the Torah commands, and the Rabbis in Bamidbar Rabbah connect this to (Nahum 1:7): “The Lord is good; He is a stronghold on the day of trouble.”

What does this mean? The text contrasts God's ways with the ways of humans. A human king, facing rebellion, might lash out indiscriminately, punishing the innocent along with the guilty. But God? God is different. When a generation sins, God spares the righteous and eradicates the wicked. Remember Enoch, who "walked with God and he is not, as God took him" (Genesis 5:24)? Or Noah, who "found favor in the eyes of the Lord" (Genesis 6:8) during the Flood? Or Lot, saved from the destruction of Sodom, as it is stated: “It was when God destroyed the cities of the plain…[He sent Lot from the midst of the upheaval]” (Genesis 19:29).

Even during the Exodus from Egypt, when darkness enveloped the Egyptians, "all the children of Israel had light in their dwellings" (Exodus 10:23). God knows "those who take refuge in Him."

The ultimate example? The Golden Calf. Remember that terrible moment when the Israelites, fresh from liberation, turned to idolatry? Everyone, it seemed, except for the tribe of Levi. "Whoever is for the Lord, to me," Moses called out (Exodus 32:26), "and all the sons of Levi gathered to him." The Levites stood firm, even executing those who had participated in the sin. And as (Exodus 32:35) tells us, "The Lord afflicted [the people, because they made the calf that Aaron had made]," but He did not afflict the tribe of Levi.

Because the tribe of Levi took shelter in God, sanctified God even amidst the chaos of the Golden Calf, God said, "I should acknowledge them for good and rescue them from trouble." This is why God cautioned Moses and Aaron regarding the sons of Kehat, who were Levites, "Do not cut off.." so they would not be eradicated on account of the Ark.

So, what's the takeaway? It's not a free pass to do whatever we want. It's a reminder that even in our darkest moments, when we feel most vulnerable and exposed, there's a refuge. There's a stronghold. As long as we strive to align ourselves with the Divine, as long as we take shelter in God, we are not beyond redemption. We are not destined to be "cut off." The Zohar, the central text of Kabbalah, tells us of the intricate web of connection that binds all souls. And that connection, that enduring bond, is what this Midrash is all about.

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Legends of the Jews 3:29Legends of the Jews

You probably know the story: Saul, the first king of Israel, was commanded to utterly destroy the Amalekites. This wasn’t just any battle; it was a divine decree. But Saul, in a moment of what he perhaps thought was mercy (or perhaps pride), spared Agag, the king of the Amalekites, and some of the best livestock. A decision that would have staggering consequences.

Saul ultimately loses his crown because of this disobedience regarding Agag. But even after Saul’s lapse in judgement, the story doesn't end there. Samuel, the prophet, steps in. According to Legends of the Jews, retold by Ginzberg, Samuel inflicts a "most cruel death" upon Agag.

Here's the kicker. The text points out a crucial detail: this execution wasn't carried out according to Jewish law.

Why does this matter so much? Because, in a way, the punishment, though perhaps deserved, came too late. Had Saul followed the original command and killed Agag during the battle, the narrative goes, the Jewish people would have been spared the future plight of Haman.

Wait, Haman? From the story of Purim?

Yes! The legend continues that in that short time between the war and Agag's execution, he became the ancestor of Haman. A single act of disobedience, a brief delay, and suddenly, the stage is set for a future threat to the entire Jewish people.

It's a chilling thought, isn't it? It highlights how even seemingly small choices can have enormous, unforeseen consequences down the line. It’s a reminder that sometimes, the things we think are merciful or strategic can actually pave the way for future suffering.

Is it a literal, historical account? That's not really the point, is it? This story, woven into the fabric of Jewish legend, serves as a powerful reminder: our actions, our choices, they matter. They ripple outwards, shaping not only our own lives, but the lives of those who come after us. What kind of ripples are we creating?

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Esther Rabbah, Petichta 7Esther Rabbah

King Saul was told to destroy Amalek completely. He did not. Centuries later, according to Esther Rabbah, the Jewish people paid for that moment of misplaced mercy with a genocidal decree.

Rabbi Levi began with a verse from Numbers that reads like a warning written in advance: "If you will not dispossess the inhabitants of the land from before you, those who you leave will be like thorns in your eyes, and like stones in your sides, and they will trouble you in the land you inhabit" (Numbers 33:55). The midrash (rabbinic interpretive commentary) applies this directly to Saul's failure. When Samuel commanded him, "Now go and smite Amalek" (I Samuel 15:3), Saul went to war but could not bring himself to finish the job. He spared Agag, king of the Amalekites: "Saul and the people spared Agag" (I Samuel 15:9).

Samuel's response was devastating. You went out innocent, he told Saul, and you returned guilty. A descendant will survive from this man. That descendant will become a thorn in your eyes and a stone in your sides. And who was that descendant? Haman, the Agagite, who centuries later stood in the court of Ahasuerus and issued the decree "to destroy, to kill, and to eliminate" every Jew in 127 provinces (Esther 3:13).

The midrash draws a straight line from one act of mercy to one act of annihilation. Saul spared one king. That king's bloodline produced the man who tried to end the Jewish people entirely. When everyone saw what Haman had set in motion, they began screaming: "Woe!" And so the Book of Esther opens with that word of anguish hidden in its very first syllable: vayhi, "it was," which the rabbis heard as vai, "woe," for what transpired during the days of Ahasuerus (Esther 1:1).

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Midrash Tehillim 18:7Midrash Tehillim

His story, as explored in Midrash Tehillim, offers a fascinating glimpse into faith, doubt, and the unwavering mercy of God.

Midrash Tehillim, a collection of rabbinic teachings on the Book of Psalms, dives deep into each verse, extracting layers of meaning and connecting them to other parts of the Torah. In Psalm 18, David proclaims, "The Lord is my rock and my fortress, my deliverer; my God is my rock, in whom I take refuge. He is my shield and the horn of my salvation, my stronghold." (Psalm 18:2). But the Midrash (rabbinic interpretive commentary) doesn't just take these words at face value. It asks: What did David really mean?

The Midrash begins by linking God's mercy to the core of Jewish belief: "And you shall love the Lord your God" (Deuteronomy 6:5). It suggests that loving God is intrinsically tied to having mercy, both from God towards us, and from us towards others. One interpretation even says God will "fill you with mercy for all creatures." Imagine, being so full of compassion that it spills out onto everything around you!

Here's where the story gets interesting. Rabbi Nehemiah, quoting Resh Lakish, emphasizes that David’s words in Psalm 18 encompass everything. “The Lord is my rock…” But then, the Midrash throws a curveball of its own: Why, if David felt so secure in God, did he seemingly curse the very rock that saved him?

To understand this, we need to rewind a bit. David was on the run from King Saul, who was consumed by jealousy and paranoia. As the text says, "David hurried from Saul's presence and went to the cave at Adullam" (1 Samuel 22:1). Feeling hunted and desperate, David questioned his anointing by Samuel. He wondered if Samuel’s prophecy, that God would make him king, was just empty words. "Did Samuel anoint me with oil for free, saying to me, 'The Lord anoints you as king'? Where is that promise?" he lamented. In his haste and fear, David even exclaimed, "All men are liars!" (Psalm 116:11). Ouch.

Talk about a crisis of faith!

Immediately, the Midrash tells us, the Holy One, blessed be He, responded. God essentially said, "Samuel is not a liar. I testify that he is faithful." To reassure David, an angel – some say a heavenly angel, others a messenger angel – intervened in Saul’s pursuit. This intervention led to a dramatic standoff at a place called Sela-hammahlekoth (1 (Samuel 23:2)8), which translates to "the rock of divisions."

Rabbi Samuel bar Nahmani explains that Saul's own men were divided over whether to pursue David. Some argued that the war with the Philistines should take priority, while others remained obsessed with capturing David. Rabbi Elazar offers another interpretation: the rock itself split, creating a physical barrier between Saul and David. Imagine that scene – a literal chasm opening up, preventing Saul from reaching his prey!

This, the Midrash suggests, is what David meant by the "rock of divisions." It wasn't just a physical rock; it was a symbol of the divine intervention that protected him, even when his faith wavered.

So, what can we take away from this intricate exploration of a single verse? It reminds us that even the most righteous individuals, like King David, experience doubt and fear. It's okay to question, to feel abandoned, to even lash out in frustration. But ultimately, the story emphasizes the unwavering nature of God's mercy and protection. Even when we stumble, even when we doubt, that "rock" is always there, offering refuge and deliverance. The story in Midrash Tehillim encourages us to remember that the promises made to us, whether explicitly or implicitly, are held by something greater than ourselves. And that even in moments of division and despair, hope and salvation can be found in the most unexpected places.

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