King David certainly knew that feeling. And the ancient rabbis, through the lens of Midrash Tehillim (a collection of interpretations on the Book of Psalms), explored this very human struggle through his words.
The passage focuses on Psalm 86, opening with David's heartfelt plea, "Incline your ear, O Lord." Rabbi Levi, in a fascinating connection, links this to the blessing Moses bestowed upon Judah as he was about to leave this world, saying, "And this for Judah he said" (Deuteronomy 33:7). : a moment of transition, of blessing, and of divine attention being requested. Just as Moses hoped for Judah, David hopes for himself.
David continues, "Incline your ear, O Lord, and answer me, for I am poor and needy." It’s a raw expression of vulnerability. But then comes a twist: "Preserve my soul, for I am godly." Godly? David? It seems almost audacious, doesn't it?
But the rabbis delve deeper. They point out that the Holy One, blessed be He, is also called "godly," as we find in Jeremiah 3:12: "I am godly, says the Lord." So, what does it mean for David to call himself "godly"? Is he claiming some sort of divine status?
Not exactly. Rabbi Abba, citing Rabbi Alexandri, offers a powerful interpretation: "Whoever hears his disgrace and remains silent, and has the ability to protest, becomes a partner with the Holy One, blessed be He." Let that sink in. God, in His infinite power, hears the blasphemies of the nations. He could obliterate them in an instant. But He remains silent. He exercises restraint. And according to this interpretation, that restraint, that capacity to absorb insult without immediate retaliation, is a reflection of the divine.
And David, too, heard his disgrace and remained silent. We all know David wasn't perfect, but in these moments of quiet strength, he mirrored the divine attribute of gevurah (strength/might) in a very specific way. That is why, "Preserve my soul, for I am godly." It wasn’t about claiming perfection, but about aspiring to emulate God's capacity for self-control in the face of adversity.
This passage from Midrash Tehillim isn’t just about King David. It's about us. It's about the power of silence, the strength it takes to resist the urge to lash out, and the potential to become a partner with the divine by choosing restraint. It makes you wonder: in what moments can we choose to be "godly," to hear our disgrace and remain silent, knowing that true strength sometimes lies not in the roar, but in the quiet?