In chapter 20 of Second Samuel, the House of David goes to great lengths to quell any further civil unrest between the people of Judah and the rebelling elements of Israel. David isolates his ten concubines in the very definition of a gilded cage, a clear indication of some perceived taint caused by Absalom and a meaningful reference to David's own disastrous romantic decisions. David also sends Joab, his most trusted lieutenant, to deal with any betrayers who would replace Absalom as a new champion of the kingdom of Israel. Directly following Absalom's defeat in the forest of Ephraim, the people of Israel maintain a vocal opposition to the rule of Judah, though they don't take up arms. Sensing a new rebellion in the making when Amasa, one of David's advisors, fails to organize the leaders of Judah following the rise of a popular dissident named Sheba, David orders the death of Amasa and the pursuit of Sheba before further trouble can arise. In this chapter, David's justice is swift, brutal and designed to shock the Israelites into submission.

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As the story of David approaches its end, there is a sense of weariness throughout the text. Though David had never been a particularly wrathful figure throughout his life, in those final years when his leadership was constantly in question he was particularly unwilling to exact vengeance of any sort regardless of how egregious his enemies were. David's sympathy and fairness are why, despite his failings, we still talk about him as if he was an admirable figure. Unlike Saul, David is never entirely consumed by the cruelty of the world or the disturbing ease of destruction afforded to him by his throne. David's early years are all about elevating him from his low, unassuming origins and his later years are all about humbling him. The admirable thing about David isn't that he's an unbeatable warrior, a singular poet or even a favorite of God. His greatest quality is his tenderness, his ability to find mercy and justice when he has every reason to bring down the full force of his crown.

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In the first half of the 20th century, American Jews participated in what can be called the first fully integrated cultural movement in the history of the United States. That movement was jazz music, the beginning of nationwide pop and an artistic playing field that invited people from all walks of life to join in. Together with other American minorities, Jewish musicians contributed to the most influential genre of music in history and the culture it helped create.

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The war between King David and his son Absalom is a particularly personal conflict. Aside from the fact that it's a war between a father and son, most of the major tactical maneuvers on both sides rely upon the shifting loyalties of trusted friends and family, some of whom have histories with the House of David stretching back several generations. It's at this point in the story that it becomes apparent just how complex the drama has become. Small slights and minor mercies from previous chapters end up manifesting as life-or-death political decisions, though this isn't really depicted as being a good thing.

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Judaism is a very old faith and as such it is very concerned with cycles. The philosophies of antiquity saw a world that both constantly changed and also fell into patterns. The seasons move in a cycle, the structure of a family is nothing if not a series of rotating roles and even the biggest things in nature, like the moon and stars, seem to move in a pattern. The main thrust of Judaism is to decide which cycles to perpetuate and which ones to end. The earliest iteration of the faith grew out of a desire to end the cycle of warring civilizations toppling one god only to replace it with another. In time, this philosophy came to encompass a universal application of law rather than the caprice of powerful individuals. The Books of Samuel are a treatise on this belief of law above kings. Rather than strictly depicting a society that is made better by a proper adherence to the law, it tells the story of the cycle of destruction brought about by monarchs.

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The family unit is perhaps the most frequently recurring motif in the Torah. From the first story of Genesis to the most recent supplementary texts of the Mishnah, everything comes down to fathers, mothers, sisters and brothers. At every turn, the greatest joys are those that focus on the simple triumphs of kin while the darkest tragedies are stories of when families fall apart. For King David, the loss of his crown or his country would not hurt as much as the systematic destruction of his family. Following his sin with Bath-Sheba, his punishments all revolve around losses within his own house.

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Given the detached, matter-of-fact language of Old Testament scripture, it's easy to overlook the humanity of the individuals in the stories. We are so quick to derive morals and explanations from the text that we skip some of the most important elements of Torah. As the sage Nachmanides encouraged, it is essential to interpret not just the law of Torah, but the heart as well. In the telling and re-telling of King David's rise and fall, his inexplicably selfish pursuit of Bath-Sheba (or Bat Sheva as the Hebrew reads) is a favorite passage. It is often taught as a moment of weakness, hubris or outright corruption, but there's so much more to it than that. While David's seduction of Bath-Sheba and the indirect killing of her husband are indeed David's greatest sins, they don't come out of nowhere. In fact, looking at David's entire history, such an episode seems practically inevitable.

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When the people of Judah first demanded a king, it was out of desperation. There was a sense that everything was chaotic and that the entire civilization was on the brink of extinction. Foreign powers constantly assaulted the country with impunity, the fundamental laws of the society were being ignored or circumvented by the privileged and it seemed that even God had abandoned those who considered themselves chosen. Even for us readers, the disorder of this period becomes so commonplace that we forget just how savage everything was. Saul's reign did little to fix this state of perpetual decline. In chapters eight and nine of Second Samuel, it becomes increasingly clear that David's time on the throne isn't about improvement so much as it's about returning his nation to a livable condition.

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What do we do with biblical passages the forecast something that we know isn't true? In Chapter 7 of Second Samuel, God says that the throne of David will last forever, a statement that ceased to be true thousands of years ago. This passage has been co-opted into other faiths beyond Judaism in an attempt to make it seem true. For example, in Christian theology the matrilineal line of Jesus is traced all the way back to David, establishing the central figure of that religion as a rightful heir to monotheistic leadership and, by merit of his rule in heaven, maintaining the veracity of God's message to David through the prophet Nathan. For those who don't ascribe to tenets of Christianity but still value Bible study, this particular passage can be a real sticking point.

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Every spring, Jews all over the world gather with their families and friends to perform the most complex ritual of the Jewish faith, the Passover Seder. A Seder is a meal of storytelling, a multi-sensory experience of symbols commemorating one of the most important moments in the Torah. Passover celebrates the release of the Hebrew slaves from captivity in Egypt, the beginning of a people's freedom and also its entry into the difficulty of self-governance. But there's more to the Seder than just the lessons of biblical scripture. If the story was the only purpose of the ritual, we could just as easily gather at the synagogue like we do on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. The story is our past, an important thing to be sure, but the Seder asks us to focus on our present and future as well.

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