The pain of that kind of betrayal, the kind that cuts deepest, echoes through the words of King David in the Psalms. And, according to Bamidbar Rabbah 18, it wasn't just a general feeling; it was a specific wound inflicted by Doeg and Ahitofel.
"He took" – his heart took him, the text begins, quoting Psalms 55:13: "For it is not an enemy who disparages me, which I could bear; nor is it one of my foes who promotes himself over me, from whom I could hide." It's a raw, vulnerable admission. The commentary homes in on Doeg and Ahitofel, pointing out how they wouldn't even call David by his name. Instead, they'd ask, "Why did the son of Yishai not come?" Or, "I saw the son of Yishai." It's a subtle but pointed form of disrespect, a way of diminishing him. As the Psalm says, "But it is you, my equal, my guide, my companion" (Psalms 55:14).
The text delves into what it meant for them to be David's "equal" and "guide" – alufi. Alufi, we learn, is related to the Aramaic yalif, meaning "to learn" or "to derive." This suggests someone of great stature in Torah, someone from whom wisdom could be learned. And "my companion," umyuda'i, refers to someone with whom David would deliberate on matters of halakha, Jewish law. The text connects umyuda'i to the words vaad and daat – a meeting over matters of knowledge. These weren’t just casual acquaintances; these were trusted advisors, learned individuals, companions in spiritual and intellectual pursuits.
"We took sweet counsel together," the Psalm continues. "We walked in the House of God with feeling [beragesh]" (Psalms 55:15). What does it mean to walk in the House of God beragesh? The text connects it to a teaching about the sacrifice of a bull in the Temple. When a public offering was made, twenty-four kohanim, priests, participated, so that the crowd – harogesh – would be animated – margish. It paints a picture of shared experience, of communal devotion, of a connection to something larger than oneself.
But the betrayal cuts even deeper because of that shared past.
The verse concludes with a chilling prophecy: "May He bring up death upon them" (Psalms 55:16). Rabbi Elazar suggests that there was a "counsel of heresy" within them. He compares them to a building filled with straw. The straw, initially hidden, eventually leaks out, revealing the true nature of the structure. Similarly, Doeg and Ahitofel, despite their outward appearance of piety and learning, were fundamentally flawed. "Even though they become masters of Torah," the text says, "they were as they had been at the outset." The evil was always there, "in their dwelling place, inside them."
The text then offers another interpretation, shifting the focus to Moses and the rebellion of Korah. "For it is not an enemy," but someone from my own family, who disparages me. Aaron and Korah were equals, walking together in the House of God, one slaughtering the offering, the other sprinkling the blood. But Korah's ambition and resentment led to his downfall: "He brought death upon himself. 'They and everything that was theirs descended…'" (Numbers 16:33).
So, what do we take away from this? Perhaps it's a reminder that appearances can be deceiving. That even those who seem closest to us, those who share our values and beliefs, can harbor hidden intentions. And maybe, just maybe, it's a call to examine our own hearts, to ensure that we are not the ones betraying trust, diminishing others, or allowing the seeds of resentment to take root within us. It's a potent reminder that true connection requires constant vigilance, self-reflection, and a commitment to acting with integrity, even when it's difficult.