The Historical David: The Real Life of an Invented Hero
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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.”6 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
THE 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.7 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.
Then there is the question of where David is when the second story begins. We learned in the previous chapter that Saul had taken him into his service as arms-bearer. Since Saul was now out on the battlefield, surely David should be with him, bearing his arms. But no—he is back home with Jesse, and he goes to the battlefield only to bring food to his brothers; he is even supposed to go right back home with news of how his brothers are faring (17:17–18). Admittedly, the second story seems to recognize this confusion about how David spends his time, and so we are told that “David would go back and forth from attending on Saul to shepherd his father’s flock at Bethlehem” (17:15). But even this explanation is scarcely acceptable. Are we to imagine that during peacetime David was in constant attendance on Saul as arms-bearer, but during a time of war he was there only occasionally? Furthermore, the narrative does not really match with this back-and-forth movement between Saul and Jesse: when David goes to the battlefield, it is not to attend on Saul at all, but only to check on his brothers. And it is clear that this is in fact David’s first time going to the battle, since when he sees Goliath and hears the giant’s challenge, he seems to have no idea that this has been going on for forty days already. All of which is to say that the verse stating that David went regularly between Jesse and Saul is not only illogical, but it stands as fairly clear evidence that the discrepancies between the two stories were felt even by the biblical authors, who made a half-hearted and transparent attempt to reconcile them.8
But from there the problems only grow. When David goes to Saul and declares his intention to fight Goliath, Saul’s response is, in light of the previous story, rather surprising: “You are only a boy, and he has been a warrior from his youth!” (17:33). This can hardly be the same David who was introduced to Saul in the previous chapter as “a man of valor, a warrior” (16:18). David then describes himself entirely in terms of his career as a shepherd—“Your servant has been tending his father’s sheep”—although surely he should have said that he had been Saul’s arms-bearer.9
The disconnect between the two stories comes to a head at the end of 1 Samuel 17: “When Saul saw David going out to confront the Philistine, he said to Abner, the army commander, ‘Whose son is that boy, Abner?’ ” (17:55). This question is, by any reckoning, inconceivable. Saul took David into his service in the previous chapter. David was especially pleasing to Saul. Saul appointed him his personal arms-bearer. David regularly played the lyre to soothe Saul’s spirit. Saul even communicated directly with Jesse. How could he now not know who David is? Only when we reach this unfathomable question do we realize that nowhere in the second story has Saul addressed David by name, nor has David offered it. It seems that, to Saul, David is just a youth who has volunteered to fight, and only when he is successful does it occur to the king to discover who the lad might be. But he should have known, and known well.
The conclusion of the Goliath story is to be found in the first verses of the next chapter, 1 Samuel 18, where we read that “Saul took him [into his service] that day and would not allow him to return to his father’s house” (18:2). And with this the parallel nature of the two stories is fully revealed. Both begin with no foreknowledge of who David is, such that we have to be introduced to him, and to his family: his father, his three eldest brothers, and his four unnamed brothers. Both describe how David comes to Saul’s attention: through his skill at playing the lyre, and through his bravery on the battlefield. Both have Saul being pleased with David: because he soothes Saul’s spirit, and because he is victorious against Goliath. And both conclude with the explicit notice that Saul took David into his permanent service, thereby severing David from his home in Bethlehem.
In short, what we have in these two chapters are two stories of David’s rise to prominence in Saul’s court—two stories that are identical in function and parallel in structure, but thoroughly incompatible as sequential episodes in a historical narrative. The parallel and independent existence of the two accounts is, remarkably, proved by the evidence of the Greek translation of the Hebrew Bible from the third century BCE, the Septuagint. For in the Greek text of 1 Samuel 17, huge chunks of the Goliath story we know from the Hebrew Bible are missing—and those chunks are precisely the ones that contain almost all of the contradictions with 1 Samuel 16 noted above.10 The Hebrew version preserves a fully separate account of David’s defeat of Goliath, one that likely circulated independently—hence its reintroduction of the main characters, its distinctive description of David, its ignorance of David’s established relationship with Saul, and structural parallels with 1 Samuel 16. Only at a much later point was this independent story of David’s victory over Goliath combined with the alternative story found in the Septuagint, thereby creating the literary mess that is the canonical text of 1 Samuel 16–17.11 We therefore have two independent and truly irreconcilable stories about how David emerged from obscurity to become a presence in the royal court of Saul.
It is easy enough to see why both would be valuable to the biblical authors. As we have already seen, both stories present David in a flattering light as a young man faithful to both his king and his God. But both cannot be historically true, for they contradict each other at almost every turn. These contradictions illustrate one of the main difficulties with reading the Bible as history: the Bible preserves disparate and frequently irreconcilable traditions, even about a single figure. These traditions may have great value from a theological perspective—and after all, the Bible is nothing if not a theological work—but they cannot provide us with firm grounds for historical reconstruction. In a situation like that presented by these two chapters, we are forced to make a decision as to which tradition seems more likely to have any historical value, a decision that we can make only on the basis of a close analysis of each tradition independently.
Unfortunately, when we look closely at these two famous biblical traditions about David—as the musically gifted author of the psalms and as the uniquely courageous slayer of Goliath—we find that not only can both not be historically true, but in fact neither is historically true.
The Author of the Psalms?
SO MUCH OF OUR standard image of David depends on the words of the psalms. These words of faith and devotion that David is said to have composed in his times of crisis and triumph color the traditional characterization of him and allow us to relate to him on an emotional and a spiritual level. It is therefore more than mere historical detail that is at stake here—David’s connection with the psalms is integral to his s
tatus in Judeo-Christian culture.
Any discussion of the authorship of the psalms must logically begin with the book of Psalms itself. There we find, as noted above, that 73 of the 150 psalms in the Hebrew Bible have David’s name in their superscriptions, in the Hebrew phrase le-David. Tradition takes this phrase to mean “by David,” and if such an understanding is correct, there would seem to be some evidence for Davidic authorship. The problem, though, is what to do with the many psalms that use the same Hebrew construction but with a different name in place of David’s: “the sons of Korah” (Pss. 42; 44–49; 84–85; 87–88), “Asaph” (Pss. 50; 73–83), and “Ethan” (Ps. 89). The superscriptions to two psalms mention not David, but Solomon (Pss. 72; 127). One says “Moses” (Ps. 90). And there is even one without a proper name, simply “a poor man” (Ps. 102). If le-David means “by David,” then all of these alternatives should mean the same thing: “by the sons of Korah,” “by Asaph,” etc. In which case, one cannot say that David wrote the psalms—at most, one could say that David wrote seventy-three of the psalms, and that other people wrote the rest.
Further complications ensue in those psalms that mention more than one figure in this sort of superscript: “the sons of Korah” and “Heman” in Psalm 88; “Jeduthun” and “David” in Psalm 39. Again, if the Hebrew phrase really does intend to ascribe authorship, then evidently we have here jointly composed psalms. Finally, we may consider the very common superscription mentioning “the conductor,” evidently referring to the person who would perform or lead the performance of the psalm in question. The very same Hebrew construction with le- is used in these cases also, so if we are to be consistent, we should translate this too as “by the conductor,” which is somewhat awkward. But here the problem is especially acute, because only two Psalms mention “the conductor” alone (Pss. 66–67); everywhere else, the phrase appears in conjunction with another such phrase: for example, “By the conductor. By David” (Ps. 11); “By the conductor, with instruments. A psalm by Asaph” (Ps. 76); “By the conductor. By the sons of Korah” (Ps. 85); and so on.