David the King: David's Perpetual Throne

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.

For Jews, we read a scriptural text that says one thing yet we see the real world fail to reflect it. Does this negate the value of the book? As with most religious contemplation, the only real problem comes with direct, literal interpretation. If we need the Torah to be the unfiltered word of God, then contradictions like Second Samuel, Chapter 7 call the entire book, even the entire faith into question. Taken as a human text, biblical contradictions aren't nearly as problematic.

Given the period in which it was written and the way the narrative is arranged, the two Books of Samuel can be seen as a partial history and partial commentary on Israel's experiment with monarchy. It is a text that seeks to establish a positive public image for its protagonist, David, while defaming his contentious predecessor, Saul. If this story is a pro-House-of-David public relations campaign, it only makes sense that it would claim the perpetual supremacy of David and his throne.

But the Books of Samuel don't paint David as a perfect ruler. This is the true value of the text. David is indeed chosen and more frequently righteous than sinful. He's a great leader and an easily likable guy, but he's still as fragile and weak as any other flesh-and-blood person.

This has a two-fold lesson, one that is repeated throughout the Torah and one that is unique to David's story. First is the idea that even the best among us are flawed. In this sense, David reflects Moses, another great but troubled political leader in scripture. At the end of his life, Moses was called the best man among his people, a people chosen by God above all others. Yet Moses was far from perfect. He was hot-headed, short-tempered and more often reluctant than devout. So David, for all his piety and propriety, is likewise a great but flawed leader. He is occasionally arrogant, lustful and emotionally frail. He has a pattern of pursuing his own personal engagements, however good his intentions, even if doing so puts those he loves in danger. David is the best leader God could make of a man, which turns out to be insufficient for the needs of the people.

The Books of Samuel are a people's document of monarchy. They tell the story of great, capable men who can't even do what's necessary for a nation with all the resources of royalty and the blessings of God. In this somewhat jaded commentary on the nature of kingship is the second lesson of the story. If even the most generous text in support of a political faction won't ignore that faction's faults, perhaps the conclusion to which the ancient Israelites came concerning monarchy is that it is unsuitable for a people of law. If David's throne is not eternal as the text says it will be, then maybe the lesson of this bit of scripture is that there is no such thing as a divinely anointed king, that society can't rely on individuals to assure its continued existence.

The Meaning of the Passover Seder

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.

The word "Seder" is a Hebrew term meaning "order". It refers to the symbolic courses of the meal, which come in a sequence that tells a story about the emotions tied to the captivity and eventual release of the Hebrews from slavery in Egypt. The symbolic portion of the meal involves, among other things, four cups of wine, each of which stand for something different. The first cup begins the Seder as a welcome to all in attendance. The second follows the recitation of The Four Questions, a gesture indicating that inquisitiveness and study are themselves blessed acts. However, before the second cup is consumed, it is traditional to remove ten drops, one for each of the ten plagues visited upon Egypt in recognition of the sorrow they caused. The third cup is consumed after the non-symbolic meal as a blessing of thanks. The fourth and last cup is consumed in association with the story of Elijah the prophet, a symbol of hope for the future.

The symbolic meal also includes small amounts of various foods, such as the bitter herb (today usually horseradish) to symbolize the pain of oppression, and the karpas, a green vegetable dipped in salt water, that symbolizes the eventual "spring" of the Hebrews in freedom tempered by the tears of their sorrow.

Anyone who has ever attended a big Seder will tell you that these symbolic foods, while important, make up a rather small portion of what actually happens during the meal. The lion's share of the Seder involves the same things that happen any time friends and family gather around a table for an evening. People converse, laugh, meet for the first time or catch up after a long period away from one another. There are dramas and moments of growth, a chance to take stock of one's life in an evening outside of routine. The ritual is certainly meaningful, but not more so than the singular intersection of lives that occurs around the table of a feast.

Half joking but still plausible is the idea that the four traditional cups of wine are a way to ensure that everyone lingers at the Seder longer than they would for a more sober ritual. Even if the prayers and other components of the Seder go by quickly, drunkenness runs its course in its own time. We recline, eat, drink, sing and joke at the Seder because we need a reason beyond faith and devotion to join together with others. Just as the story in the Torah describes, it's not enough to simply grant people freedom. They must also form a community by their own means, finding common ground in their truly disparate lives. In the end, what is more common than the need to eat?

David the King: Rise of the House of David

As David ascends to total leadership over both Hebrew kingdoms, he quickly comes to realize what it means to be in such a high station. He has a nation full of people who see his power. Some admire him, some fear him and some challenge him. Most tragically, the moment people see David as a king is the moment he becomes disconnected from them. They no longer see a man, a friend, or even a proper partner. Chapters four and five of Second Samuel may depict the rise of our ostensible hero to the crown, but it can't help sounding sad and even, to an extent, empty.

Chapter four of the book begins with a gruesome event. Ish-Boshet, the last son of Saul, is murdered in his bed by two of his father's military captains. Once again, we must ask ourselves why the text takes the time to describe the killing in such detail. Countless times throughout scripture people are born and die with hardly a single sentence devoted to them. That this chapter gives half of its text to Ish-Boshet's death is a sign that we should think about its implications.

Ish-Boshet's murder is ghastly. It happens in broad daylight in his own home while he rests from the midday heat. Trusted men from his past arrive under false pretenses, beat him, slaughter him in a fashion usually employed by vengeful foreigners, then desecrate his body by beheading him. The real horror of this situation is that they committed the murder as an act of homage to David. Just like the Amalekite wanderer or robbed Saul's corpse, David meets this supposed act of honor with the death penalty.

In this transitional period when David is anointed, he essentially watches all that was good from his past turn into politicized ugliness. His loyal subjects frequently present as murderers and thieves, not the honorable warriors who followed him when the odds were grim. His former protectors in the Philistines show up in his kingdom as marauders and interlopers. As a leader of no particular station, David was a friend to them. As the head of a nation, he can no longer tolerate them. David marches against the Philistines and defeats them roundly.

But the part of this segment of the story that strikes me most during this recent reading is how David's love life changes. During this time he takes numerous other wives and concubines, producing several children, the future king Solomon among them. All these new lovers are treated dismissively in the text, never named or otherwise described. The implication in the syntax is that David makes this family as a national duty. It is just another step in the building of his house, just like the materials gifted to him by King Hiram of Tyre.

Compare these pairings of obligation with the complex, meaningful relationships David had as a younger man. He has no analog to Jonathan, no new wife so brave as Michal or admirable as Abigail. By ascending to a position of power, David has been forced to relinquish the human contact that always drove him in his righteous youth. Given this reading, David's later sins of the heart or of lust become easier to understand or even excuse.

David the King: The Death of Avner

At the beginning of Second Samuel, David returns to Israel and is anointed king by a large contingent of supporters, but he is not universally accepted. There is still a group of soldiers loyal to Avner, the de facto retainer of Saul's line. It is very clear by Chapter 3 that Avner has opportunistically claimed all that Saul once had, if only because there is no one but David to oppose him. Avner even takes Saul's concubine for himself, a sign that he has been using the civil war in Judah to luxuriate in the ill-gotten trappings of royalty. The entire third chapter of Second Samuel is about setting things right, including relieving Avner of the throne he stole.

The war between David and Avner is a foregone conclusion. Avner's forces grow weaker with each passing battle. Even if Avner's army didn't just come off a disastrous campaign against the Philistines, David is well known as the greatest living military commander of the region. Up to this point in the story, he's never lost a battle. With the war all but lost and Ish-boshet, Saul's one surviving son, starting to question the motives of Avner as his protector, Avner sends emissaries asking for a meeting with David.

Once again, David may pursue his war against a Judean enemy, but there are significant narrative problems with him actually landing the killing blow. During their meeting, Avner asks David for a truce and a sort of power-sharing plan. David agrees to this, though it's not clear why. Perhaps it's out of mercy or perhaps it's a more calculated bid to capture public support from Avner's contingent.

Whatever the case, Avner never sees home again. David is still friendly with the Philistine leaders who took him in during the last days of Saul, but they don't share his optimism about Avner. While Avner is on his way back from the meeting, the Philistines intercept him and kill him, ostensibly in revenge for the death of another royal during the last war.

Though the death of Avner means the end of the civil war, David doesn't celebrate. Instead, he holds a grand funeral for his enemy and laments the needless violence of his time. He has recently reunited with his first wife, Saul's second daughter Michal. She has since taken another husband, though he can't be her rightful partner. In this scene, too, there is heartache. Michal's second husband isn't depicted as a cur or even a supporter of Avner. He's merely a simple man who tried to do right in a confusing age.

These early chapters of Second Samuel are brutal and consistently tragic. They depict an era in which nothing is as it should be. Kingdoms are in the hands of the wrong rulers, people are attached to romantic partners that are meant for someone else, and any sense of justice is circumvented by lawless chaos. The lesson in these disturbing passages is that disorder creates havoc in the lives of all people, good and bad. It's not that nobody in this story knows what's right, it's that they consistently choose to go against propriety for their own ends.

The Ketubah: A Jewish Contract of Marriage

Many people would assume that a legal document outlining the conditions for marriage and provisions for the potential end of a marriage is a modern invention of today's lawyer-saturated society. The truth is that the marriage contract, today known as the prenuptial agreement, is practically as old as marriage itself. It may not seem very romantic, but many societies of law have been in the practice of using marriage contracts, as well as revising them, for thousands of years. In Jewish culture, this contract is called a Ketubah.

The Ketubah is one of many inventions of the rabbinic age, the transition of Judaism from a priest-centered religion of sacrifice to an education-oriented religion of community and study. Approximately 2000 years ago when Judea was under the purview of the Roman Empire, there was a social movement that favored teachers called rabbis (Ravim) as ritual leaders, likely as a result of the sacred literature scribed, studied and commented on when Jews were living under captivity in Babylon. This new concept of faith revolved around debate and reform.

One of the reforms to come out of this period was the abolition of the Mohar, a sort of reverse dowry prescribed in ancient tradition. A Mohar was an agreed upon price a man paid to a woman or her family in exchange for her hand in marriage. The purpose of this price tag on nuptials was as a protection of the would-be bride. Should her husband die or divorce her, she may have been left with no way to support herself. The Mohar was an insurance policy on the marriage.

The problem, of course, was that most people married prior to accumulating enough resource to afford a Mohar. This placed an extra burden (as well as authority) on third parties such as the groom's parents where marriage was concerned. The Ketubah is a solution to that problem. Instead of requiring a Mohar up front, it is a contract that details terms for the marriage and exact recourse should it end prior to the bride's death. This contract allows two people to come to an agreement without outside interference and it also makes sure that poverty does not stand in the way of love and propriety.

Modern Jews still use Ketubot, though they are naturally not legally binding in terms of state law. Many couples see the Ketubah as a symbol of commitment, not a cold legal document. While it was designed to address cold, hard facts of finance, the Ketubah has become a reminder of more abstract duties two people have to one another in a marriage. At its best, it is a sign of gender equality, honesty and self-control in a romantic pairing.

Other religious traditions have similar marriage contracts. The Muslim Nikah is functionally identical to the Ketubah, while at various times in history (including the modern Covenant Marriage movement) there have been Christian marriage contracts as well. Another ancient faith, Zoroastrianism, requires a contract that has language much like the Nikah.

David the King: The Start of the Revolution

I have suggested several times now that the rise of David to the highest office in the kingdom of Judah as it is depicted is nothing short of a popular revolution. Because the text had to deal with the oral history of its culture as well as the creation of a compelling narrative, this revolution couldn't be portrayed as an out-and-out civil war. David could not kill Saul and remain the hero. With Saul's death at Mt. Gilboa at the end of First Samuel, that problem has been taken care of. What remains for the story is the struggle for power that follows.

At the beginning of the second book of Samuel, David learns of the death of Saul and his sons from a wandering Amalekite. This introductory scene can be a confusing read because the wanderer's story doesn't entirely mesh with Saul's actual death scene. As the Amalekite tells it, Saul asked the wanderer to kill him because he knew he was losing the battle, though we know the true story is that Saul fell on his own sword. Why are the two versions of the story so different?

The first thing to consider about the Amalekite's story is that he took Saul's crown and bracelet as proof. Without mincing words, the wanderer robbed Saul's corpse and is now trying to parlay his recent windfall into favor with a military leader who has a history of bad blood with the dead king. These first two chapters of Second Samuel are full of oblique references to the way Israelites viewed their geographic neighbors and frequent enemies. Like the wandering Amalekite, they are seen as uncivilized, opportunistic raiders. David's justification for ordering the wanderer executed is that the Amalekite claimed to have killed a divinely anointed person. The truth is that even though the wanderer wasn't guilty of murder, he still committed a capital offense. In other words, six in one, a half dozen in the other.

It should also seem strange that the Philistines didn't take over Judah after defeating Saul. It's important to remember what kind of culture the Philistines had. They were not builders of an empire as the Egyptians and Babylonians were. Rather, they were mobile raiders. Throughout the Mediterranean, such cultures assaulted sedentary civilizations for resources, though they never had any intention of establishing their own hegemony. It was enough for the king of Gath to defeat the Judean king and ransack his cities.

What remains in Judah is a severely destabilized nation. In the power vacuum, two competing leaders rise. David, based out of Hebron, has popular support for the crown. However, Saul's military adviser Avner is sitting as a de facto commander-in-chief behind Saul's child Ish-Boshet. Ish was not old enough to go into battle where Saul and his other sons died, so what we really have is Avner acting as a political puppeteer. Neither Avner's nor Ish-Boshet's claim to the throne is valid, even if one doesn't consider the word of God.

What results from this contest is a bloody war of ascension. Avner is clearly outclassed in battle and it's only a matter of time before David claims the entire country. It is in passages like these that the books of Samuel become much more political than spiritual. It is both disturbing and familiar to see this development. It's also ironic, considering that this story is all about how political power corrupts good things. Within the text itself, political ambitions distract from moral concerns. However exciting the battle and intrigue of these chapters may be, there is a distinct queasiness in the way they abandon ethical authority.

David the King: Liberation of Ziklag and the Death of Saul

Today we come to the end of the first Book of Samuel, chapters 29, 30 and 31. In these chapters, it's easy to see a sort of literary conundrum. As we saw last week, David had allied himself with the Philistines after he fled Israel. When the Philistine king decides to invade Israel with the intent to wholly conquer it, David intends on marching with him. This presents a major problem for storytellers who need David to be a sympathetic figure. How can he take up arms against his own people and still remain the folk hero First Samuel has clearly tried to make him?

As with any cultural epic, the story of David is full of greater meaning, but sometimes it also has to do some narrative leg work. The story of the Philistine/Judah war that claims Saul's life is not bereft of metaphor or moral, but it is more or less a moment of necessary plot development. Two things must happen in these final chapters. First and foremost, Saul must die. Second, David must remain a hero. Since the story has to account for a Philistine conquest that is in other folk stories and because David has promised several times to have no part in the killing of a king anointed by God, David cannot even be present at the final battle.

So, the story sends David on a separate, more noble quest. When the Philistine princes protest his involvement in the war for suspicions of his shifting allegiances, David retires back to the city of Ziklag with his men. When he arrives he discovers that the Amalekites, those go-to bad guys of the Bible, have raided the city and taken many of its people captive. Not to be too flippant, but at the time when the Books of Samuel were written, Amalekites were used in much the same way modern stories use Nazis. They are entirely unsympathetic villains, symbols of evil that are dehumanized to the point of being bogeymen and fodder for heroes. Sending David on a mission to save innocent women and children from Amalekites is a clear indication that the story needs him to remain good and pure, at least for now.

Naturally, David and his soldiers catch up to the Amalekites and reclaim all that they stole from Ziklag. A contingent of David's men numbering around 200 stayed behind at a river because they were too tired, so some of the remaining 400 want David to deny them any spoils of war. David makes a proclamation that essentially says all cultural gains will be distributed evenly from that day forward. Yet again, First Samuel depicts David as the ideal populist hero in contrast to the "might makes right" approach of Saul.

As for Saul, he and his sons suffer a complete defeat at the hands of the Philistines. His sons die in battle at Mt. Gilboa and Saul himself decides to fall on his sword rather than be captured by his enemies. His body and the bodies of his sons are desecrated and the Philistines occupy the cities of Judah. The book ends on a very dark note, but it is obvious that David will soon rise to liberate his people. The reclamation of Ziklag is just a dress rehearsal for a much longer, more difficult battle ahead.

The Talmud of Homosexuality

From one very narrow and simplistic perspective, the Old Testament is clear cut on its stance concerning homosexuality. Leviticus 20:13 says, in so many words, that sexual bonding between two men is "an abomination" and for anti-gay activists this has been enough. From an educated standpoint, the popular interpretation of this passage is inadequate. Though I cannot speak for New Testament scripture on the topic, I would like to offer my own theological argument for why Leviticus 20:13 should not be considered presently valid.

The biggest fallacy of biblical exegesis is the assumption that the bible is a static document, that all statements within it are to be considered true in perpetuity. This has led many to point out that the bible is often self-contradictory, and they're right. I can think of another list of rules that is also self-contradictory- The Constitution of the United States of America. After all, isn't that what an amendment is, a contradiction of an earlier statement within the same text? Whether you believe it is literally true or merely a compilation of cultural myth, the bible is clearly a linear story. It is no more logical to say that all rules mentioned in the bible are forever true than it is to say that Moses is simultaneously a baby on the Nile and a dying man on Mt. Nebo.

There are also plenty of instances in the Old Testament of existing rules being overturned upon review. Take the case of the three daughters of Zelophehad. When the man died, his daughters (being his only living kin) petitioned to claim his property as an inheritance despite the existing law that stated only male heirs could claim familial property. The final ruling overturned the existing law and the daughters each claimed an equal portion of their family estate. This is in clear contradiction of previous inheritance claims such as the dispute between Jacob and Esau. Plainly, the law changed when a logical argument against it was tried by impartial judges.

Though there is no instance of the ruling in Leviticus 20:13 being challenged in scripture, the text gives us precedence for the challenge of any and all laws, with the possible exclusion of the Ten Commandments. Considering that no real reason for the law in Leviticus 20:13 is present, a moral argument against its ruling can be made.

It is my contention that in prohibiting homosexual unions, Leviticus 20:13 results in a much greater sin. According to several debates in the Talmud between the great sages (such as in tractate Pesachim), it is unacceptable to follow a rule that directly results in greater harm than the rule itself prevents. Given the conditions of our modern society, prohibiting same sex unions results in several different kinds of harm. For instance, if we allowed same sex couples to adopt orphaned children and thus be recognized as a family unit, we would have fewer children growing up without guidance and care. Is it not a greater sin to leave a child orphaned than to engage in a same sex union that does not clearly harm anyone?

But beyond the argument for harm vs. benefit is the fact that the rule in Leviticus 20:13 is meant for people in a dramatically different circumstance than our own society. The rule appears alongside a series of laws about maintaining purity, not mixing things of different qualities. These are laws intended for a very small, fledgling nation that was under the constant threat of assimilation into other cultures. The purity laws are safeguards against foreign domination, thus no longer relevant in the 21st century just as all biblical rules concerning animal sacrifice have long been considered ill-suited for righteous people.

As there is no scriptural evidence for the harm of same sex unions and a clear imbalance in the harm to benefit ratio of their prohibition, I believe that it is theologically sound to suggest that the law stated in Leviticus 20:13 is no longer valid and it should not be considered a measure of sin unless someone can produce a reasoned argument in support of the initial ruling.

David the King: David in Gath and the Ghost of Samuel

Jewish culture has a complicated history with its sense of nationhood. Like any people, we strive to have a sovereign country of our own, yet so much of Jewish identity comes from the experience of being the outsider. All but one of our biblical founders, Isaac, spent a great deal of time as guests in a foreign nation and the epic story of our culture takes place entirely in transit. Even outside of the texts of the Torah, Jews have built our heritage from the perspective of the international, perpetual wanderer. Yiddish is every bit as Jewish as Hebrew and it is a hodgepodge of different languages from across Europe. Modern synagogues owe as much of their structure to the designs of our Christian neighbors in America as to our constantly evolving drive to reform. In Jewish culture, to be an outsider is to be at home. Perhaps that is why David, a king among kings, experiences one of the most important moments of his life in a foreign country.

After his final confrontation with Saul, David flees Israel with his contingent of six hundred men and enters Gath, the country of the Philistines. While there he befriends Achish, the son of the Philistine king Maoch. This is a clear parallel to David's earlier friendship with Jonathan. In a very short time, David gains the trust of the royal family of Gath and is granted control of a provincial city called Ziklag. This may seem strange considering how ferociously David fought the Philistines in the past.

There is a subtle difference between the Philistines and other enemies of Israel such as the Amalekites. The Philistines are not enemies of God or historical symbols of evil. There's a sense of honor among the Philistines of Gath, that they only do what nations were wont to do in those times. More than once, God used the Philistines as a force of nature against sinful Israelites like Saul. That David finds a temporary home among them is not so unusual. After all, David and Maoch seem to live by similar principles.

This alliance between David and Maoch is all a part of Saul's downfall, the de facto revolution of David's popular support. It's not enough for Saul to be defeated. He must be publicly ruined and his whole line erased. In chapter 28 of First Samuel it is clear just why Saul has permanently lost God's favor. Over and over again, Saul is capricious with the law. He grants clemency to people only because they are close to him, goes back on his agreements and ignores moral propriety whenever it suits him.

Case in point, when Saul consults a woman who speaks to ghosts because he wants to ask Samuel for divine favor in the eleventh hour of his war with Gath. After making a decree that such occult rituals are completely illegal (in keeping with similar laws in the Torah), Saul seeks out a practitioner of these very same arts for his own benefit. Not only that, but when the ghost of Samuel doesn't give Saul the answer he wants, Saul resides with this occultist and takes full advantage of her hospitality. This is nothing less than a major political scandal. It's the same as finding a modern politician living with drug dealers. At the end of his life, Saul is so corrupt that it seems perfectly reasonable for David to take up arms with Philistines and attack Israel.

The implications of chapters 27 and 28 of First Samuel are stirring. In this story of why exactly kings are generally undesirable, there is the suggestion that good leaders simply can't spend too much time in stasis. Saul began as a righteous, capable protector, but in those early days he was a wanderer and a runt. Given the seat of power his aptitude diminished into its final, hopelessly corrupt state. David's story is so very similar. At this point he's still righteous, but that changes the moment he assumes the throne of Israel and stops traveling.

David the King: Naval and the Spear of Saul

A common literary convention in the texts of the Torah is to juxtapose two seemingly unrelated stories that reflect the same values. One is usually a small, individual case and the other a large, "main arc" story on the same subject. This method is a lot like legal precedent. By reviewing an individual case that would be very relatable to common people and then showing how it's similar to a larger idea, these stories denote a worldview that includes a universal system of justice. What's right and good for the small is also right and good for the royal. Toward the end of First Samuel, just such a device is employed to teach a lesson about protection and responsibility.

Chapter 25 opens with a brief mention of the death of Samuel. It is assumed that he died of natural causes related to his advanced age and he is mourned throughout Israel. This doesn't mean Samuel is out of the story, though. His spirit will appear later in David's story, just not any time soon. Chapter 25 is much more concerned with David's confrontation with a man named Naval.

These passages go to great lengths to convince us that Naval is an unpleasant fellow. His name basically means "fool" and he is described as coming from the house of Caleb, or Calibi, which itself is a play on words. Calibi shares a shoresh, a noun root, with the word kelev, or "dog". Naval is a drunk, is cruel to his wife and is greedy. David arrives at Naval's home with the utmost courtesy asking for payment for protective services his men provided to Naval's workers while they were shearing sheep in Carmel. Naval refuses to pay and David is prepared to attack him for the slight.

It should be noted that David isn't extorting Naval. The workers would have been in danger of the Philistine raiders who have played a prominent role in the story. David may have even lost men in their defense. Asking for payment, especially from a man as opulently wealthy as Naval, is only proper. Before David marches against Naval, his wife Abigail sneaks down to David to sway him. She articulately convinces David not to be violent, that if Naval has done wrong it will be for God to judge him. Indeed God does. A mere week after David leaves, Naval suffers a heart attack and dies. Abigail, for her kindness, becomes David's wife after Saul gives Michal to another man.

The story that follows Naval's is the final confrontation between David and Saul. It is the famous tale of how David sneaks into Saul's war camp and steals his spear and water bag while he sleeps. The next day, David stands on a hill holding the spear and calls down to Avner, Saul's second in command and his main protector. David taunts Avner for failing to protect his king through the night. When Saul hears this, he makes it known that he will stop pursuing David.

This scene is merely a more public version of what happened at En-Gedi. Essentially, the deal brokered in secret must play out in front of the entire nation. But just because Saul said he wouldn't chase David doesn't mean the two men were reconciled. David flees into Gath and never sees Saul again. David's story retains this tragic arc. It's a cautionary tale in most cases. The stories in chapters 25 and 26 are about the ways we protect the ones we love. David is a protector of the common people, as with Naval's workers, but he harbors a real wrath for the wealthy. Abigail protects her husband just as Michal protected David earlier in the story, if only because they both wanted to stop all the incessant bloodshed of their era. And Avner, whose job was to protect Saul, failed in his task utterly.

It's telling that none of these protectors succeeded entirely. Only Abigail managed to save Naval's underlings, who David promised to kill. She couldn't save Naval, though. We must remember that these are stories that come from a culture that was dominated, that was not protected from harm. They expressed their disillusionment in the books of Samuel.

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