The Historical David: The Real Life of an Invented Hero (3 page)

At the same time that founding figures are understood as models, they are also mirrors for the values of later generations. This can be seen already in the biblical texts about David: the two books of Kings, written at the close of the monarchic era (mid–sixth century
BCE
), elevate David to the perfect king; the two books of Chronicles, written when the temple dominated Israelite society (ca. 400
BCE
), value David as a religious leader. And so it is in every generation. The rabbis of the Talmud discussed David’s prayer practices because that was central to their worldview.
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John Calvin in the sixteenth century focused on David as a model of piety.
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When Israel became a state in 1948, it adopted as its flag the symbol known as the Star of David, an ancient Jewish emblem traditionally believed to have been emblazoned on David’s shield when he went to war. The symbolism of recalling David’s military glory in the moment of Israeli independence is hard to miss.

What we say and think about David, both as a model and as a mirror, is directly and deeply connected with what we say and think about ourselves as modern Jews and Christians. What would it mean if we discovered that the historical David was in fact quite different from what we imagine or desire? For almost three millennia we have had only increasingly good things to say about him. We have basked in the reflected glory of Israel’s great king—his deeds, his words, his faith. To challenge David’s legend is thus to open to debate what it means to be a descendant of David, be it nationally, ethnically, or religiously.

It is because the idealized David is important to us now that the historical David has any significance at all. To rediscover the historical David is to realize that behind the accumulated legend there was a living, breathing man, in a distant place and time, whose deeds, and the telling of them, were responsible for much of who we are today. It is this link across the millennia that makes the search for the historical David both risky and necessary. It is surely easier to rest content with the pleasant image of David preserved in tradition. But in doing this, we allow tradition to eclipse the past in which it is rooted. Some parts of the past—the Exodus from Egypt, for example—might never be recovered, and tradition is all we have. But when the history is there to be rediscovered, we ignore it at our peril. We are defined by the distance between what happened and how we tell the story. It is therefore necessary to know what happened, what didn’t happen, and how to tell the two apart.

Chapter 1
David’s Youth
T
HE
M
YTHICAL
O
RIGINS OF THE
P
SALMIST AND
G
IANT
-S
LAYER

V
ERY OFTEN IN THE BIBLE
a character’s birth story anticipates and identifies his or her significance. Isaac is the miraculous child of Abraham and Sarah’s old age, the very embodiment of God’s promise to make Abraham into a great nation. Jacob emerges from the womb clutching Esau’s heel, foreshadowing his life of trickery and usurpation. The infant Moses is saved from death by being hidden in a basket among the reeds of the Nile, just as years later he would save the Israelites from destruction at the Sea of Reeds. Samson’s birth is announced to his mother by an angel, because Samson, the angel reveals, will be the one to defeat the Philistines. Samuel, the great prophet and judge, is born in accordance with Hannah’s faithful prayer. And, of course, Jesus is marked even from before his birth as conceived by the Holy Spirit and destined to redeem Israel from its sins.

Given the litany of biblical heroes who are provided with birth narratives, it is somewhat surprising that of David’s birth—indeed of his entire childhood—we know absolutely nothing. The Bible gives us only the barest facts: David’s hometown is Bethlehem. The name of his father is Jesse. He has seven older brothers, only the first three of whom are named.
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The family profession is shepherding. In short, David is a nobody. He is from a minor village in the (then) unimportant region of Judah, the youngest son of a man with no claim to wealth or fame, a mere shepherd. His conception and birth go unnoticed by any divine being, and even by the Bible itself.

At the same time, everyone loves an underdog, and David fits the bill perfectly. If someone with a background like David’s could eventually become the great king of Israel, then, it would seem, there is hope for all of us. The Bible relates two stories of how the teenage David rose from his humble origins to prominence in Saul’s kingdom: as Saul’s lyre-player and as the slayer of Goliath.
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These stories, from 1 Samuel 16 and 17, respectively, are the most famous episodes from David’s life, though they resonate in different ways.

The first image of David to appear in the Bible is as a musician: he is the youth brought to Saul’s court to play the lyre and ease the king’s troubled mind with his sweet music. This is also the story with the longest afterlife, as David’s youthful skill with the lyre is intimately connected in the popular imagination with his lifelong status as the author of the psalms. David is the quintessential lyricist, and he is perhaps just as famous for the songs he wrote as for anything else he may have done. After his death, David’s authorship of the psalms quickly became the defining act of his life.

David’s connection to the psalms was recognized and valued already in very ancient times. At the end of his life he recites a song to the Lord, recorded in 2 Samuel 22, and this song is none other than what we know as Psalm 18. According to Chronicles, David was the first to institute the regular singing of songs to the Lord in the temple (1 Chron. 16:7). Most notably, a full 73 of the 150 psalms in the Hebrew Bible have David’s name in their superscriptions. Even before the turn of the common era the psalms had become so thoroughly associated with David that they could be referred to simply by his name: in the Dead Sea Scrolls we find references to “the book of Moses and the books of the prophets and David.”
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The same is true of the New Testament: only in Acts 1:20 is a quotation from Psalms introduced as such: “For it is written in the book of Psalms . . .” Most often, the words of the Psalter are introduced with reference to David: “For David himself says in the book of Psalms” (Luke 20:42), or, far more frequently, simply “David said . . . ,” or “David declared. . . .”
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David has become synonymous with the book of Psalms, just like Moses with the laws of the Torah and Solomon with the wisdom of Proverbs and Ecclesiastes. The rabbis of the Talmud stated this outright: “David wrote the book of the Psalms.”
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The equating of a biblical character with a distinct biblical corpus does more than simply attribute authorship; it defines the fundamental character trait of that figure. Moses, by being identified with the Torah, becomes the archetypal law-giver (for better or worse, depending on one’s religious background). Solomon, for all his many deeds as king of Israel, is most widely known for his wisdom, as exemplified in the books associated with his name. And for David, the connection with the book of Psalms positions him as the ultimate model of faith and worship. The psalms, after all, have been recognized from antiquity to the present as the most personal expressions of humanity’s relationship with God. They exhibit the full range of emotions, from anguish to rejoicing, from fear to security. As John Calvin said, “I have been accustomed to call this book, I think not inappropriately, ‘An Anatomy of all the Parts of the Soul’; for there is not an emotion of which any one can be conscious that is not here represented as in a mirror.”
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For thousands of years the words of the psalms have been at hand for expressing one’s deepest feelings, just as they were for Jesus: “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”; “Into your hands I commend my spirit”—the last words spoken on the cross (Mark 15:34; Luke 23:46), found first in the Psalter (Pss. 22:1; 31:6). Members of many contemporary religious groups, from Christians to Hasidic Jews, read the psalms daily as a devotional act. They have been enshrined in liturgy in every branch of Christianity and Judaism, stretching back even to the biblical period.

David, as the author of the psalms, is the genius who gave poetic expression to Judeo-Christian belief. Whatever deeds he may have done, his innermost nature is exhibited through his songs of praise, thanksgiving, and lament. The Psalter stands as clear testimony to his faithfulness and devotion to the Lord. Through all the ups and downs of his life, David maintained in his psalms a clear and unbending commitment to God as the source of success and salvation. God says that David is “a man after my own heart” (1 Sam. 13:14; Acts 13:22); the truth of this statement seems to be manifested most concretely in the psalms. When the youthful David takes up the lyre in 1 Samuel 16 and soothes Saul’s troubled spirit, we understand this to be not just the first of his acts, but the foremost of them. David’s music defines him: in the narrative he is worthy of the king’s attention, and in tradition he is worthy of God’s—and our—affection.

The second episode of David’s youth, the slaying of the Philistine giant Goliath, is quite different. The David who plays the lyre is a young man at peace; the David who faces Goliath is a young man very much at war. David the musician is sedentary amid the chaos of Saul’s court; David the warrior is, by contrast, full of motion amid the static face-off between the two armies. The Israelites and the Philistines are dug in on either side of a ravine, with Goliath stepping out day after day to challenge any Israelite to face him in single combat. No one moves. David journeys from his home, arrives into this repeating set piece, speaks with Saul, rejects the heavy armor that prevents him from moving freely, and runs forward to encounter Goliath. He is courage and nobility embodied. Though only a youth, he proves himself to be the biggest man on the battlefield.

This nobility finds expression in the most famous and beloved image of David, Michelangelo’s glorious sculpture. It is ironic that this story of David’s bold movements is most effectively captured by a motionless figure. For as evocative as the image of the stone sinking into Goliath’s forehead may be, the picture that stays with us is that of David taking his stand, slingshot in hand, with not a shred of fear in his eyes. We may not ever have to face down a giant in one-on-one combat, but everyone knows the feeling of confronting that which is terrifying, and David’s self-possession in the face of grave danger stands as a lasting example for all. This is undoubtedly why, despite the fact that David was at war nearly his entire life, it is this first battle that lasts in the imagination—for this is virtually the only time that David is not in a position where he holds some degree of power. Only here does he stand alone, against the odds.

Perhaps even more significantly, David’s stance is not one of pure bravery, but rather of the bravery that comes from a deeply held trust in God’s power. His speech to Goliath ranks as one of the great declarations of faith in the face of adversity, worthy of any Sophoclean or Shakespearean hero: “You come against me with sword and spear and javelin, but I come against you in the name of the Lord of Hosts, the God of the ranks of Israel” (1 Sam. 17:45). It is a thrilling statement that reshapes the entire story, changing it from one of combat to one of belief. And it further opens the story to readers in any desperate situation: anyone can emulate David’s stance.

If David playing the lyre is an image of faith expressed in words, David defeating Goliath is an image of faith expressed in action. Taken together, they present a complete picture of the authentic man of God, one as emotionally insightful as he is physically courageous, all parts of his character testifying to his devotion. David stands as a model for all who pray and act in God’s name. This is where the defining stories of a character’s youth are more valuable than birth narratives. The story of a character’s birth imbues that figure with a sense of predestination for greatness, with an otherworldly quality that adds to the character’s glow. At the same time, however, birth stories are distancing for the reader, for there is no possibility of emulating them; by the time one reads the story, after all, it is too late to imitate it. But when characters emerge from an unremarkable background and define themselves by their own actions, the reader has a visceral reaction: here is something I could do, too, someone I could aspire to be. It is not a coincidence that many of our modern heroes are defined not by their births, but by some relatively youthful experience, whether legendary or true—George Washington admitting to chopping down the cherry tree, or John F. Kennedy saving his crew at sea during the Second World War. The character traits we associate with our heroes are frequently sought, and found, in the defining stories of their youth. (Notably, especially for our purposes, this remains the case even when our heroes conduct themselves later in life in less than heroic ways—we downplay Kennedy’s marital infidelities in favor of his martial exploits.)

David with the lyre and David facing the giant—these are the very first stories that we read about David in the Bible. They are also the first stories about him that we learn as children—not because they are first in the text, nor because they are about a young man, but because they instill the fundamental values of faith. For many, these are in fact the
only
stories we know about David. And why would we need any others? Everything anyone could want in a hero, in a king, in an ancestor of the messiah, is present here. The David we meet in the first two chapters of his story is the David of our cultural memory, the David we hold on to in popular imagination.

And yet: despite their cultural resonance, despite the values they encapsulate, despite the complete picture of the faithful hero they paint, when we try to read these two stories as a narrative history of David’s youth, something is fundamentally askew. To put it bluntly, both stories cannot be true as they are told in the Bible.

David’s Dueling Origins

T
HE NARRATIVE IN
1 Samuel 16 of David playing the lyre for Saul is, on its own terms, relatively straightforward. We are first introduced to David when the prophet Samuel goes to anoint one of Jesse’s sons secretly as king. We meet Jesse and David’s brothers, each of whom is rejected in turn. Finally, David is found, having been brought in from shepherding the flock; Samuel duly anoints him, and David is seized by the divine spirit from that day forward. Meanwhile, Saul’s spirit is troubled, and his courtiers suggest finding someone who might play the lyre to make Saul feel better. One of the young men immediately thinks of David: “I have seen a son of Jesse the Bethlehemite who is skilled in music, a man of valor, a warrior, sensible in speech, a handsome man, and the Lord is with him” (16:18). Saul promptly sends for David, who comes as asked. Saul finds David pleasing and appoints the lad as one of his arms-bearers, sending word to Jesse that he intends to keep David with him. And so, we are told, whenever Saul felt the evil spirit descend upon him, David played his lyre and the spirit would depart from Saul.

This is all well and good, until we begin to read the story of David and Goliath in 1 Samuel 17. Suddenly, it is as if the previous story had never happened. We are again introduced to the family of David, in terms that make it clear that they are being introduced for the first time: “David was the son of a certain Ephrathite of Bethlehem in Judah whose name was Jesse” (17:12). A certain Ephrathite whose name was Jesse? This is the way that the Bible regularly introduces new characters.
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But Jesse is hardly a new character; why should he be introduced again? We are told “he had eight sons” (17:12)—but again, we already knew this. Furthermore, “the names of his three sons who had gone to the battle were Eliab the first-born, the next Abinadab, and the third Shammah; and David was the youngest” (17:13–14). Not only did we already know that David was the youngest, we already knew the names and the birth order of his three eldest brothers. In fact, we know them relatively well, since it was precisely these three whom Samuel rejected in the previous story. It would be one thing if the second story gave us the names of the other four sons, but it doesn’t; there is not a bit of new information here. What’s more, both stories use the eldest brothers in the same way: as a foil for David. In the first story, they are explicitly rejected by Samuel; in the second, they are among those who stand by while Goliath challenges the Israelites to fight.