King David and the Problem With Messiahs

Artist's depiction of King David

Did King David rape Bathsheba in the book of 2 Samuel? This question seemingly arises on Twitter every few months, and the breakdown of who answers in what way seemingly speaks volumes about important religious presumptions. Conservative Christians, particularly those with White Nationalist tendencies, perform profound mental gymnastics to excuse David’s behavior, usually shifting responsibility onto Bathsheba. I suspect this tendency says something grim about their Chrisianity.

Let’s make my answer to the foundational question clear first: yes. Though Iron Age Israelites didn’t conceptualize “consent” and “sexual autonomy” like we do, nevertheless, the reactions of Uriah and Nathan make explicitly clear that David committed wrong. As Richards and O’Brien make clear, when read from an honor-based viewpoint, the Bathsheba narrative shows David transgressing the bounds of regnal authority and military discipline. David misused his own soldiers’ trust.

However, those defending David on Twitter aren’t interested in reading from an Iron Age Hebrew outlook. They’re mainly interested in defending David’s authority because of the prophesied Davidic ancestry of Jesus Christ. Because these conservative Christians believe their political worldview derives from their interpretation of Christian scripture, they cannot brook any deviation from morality in Davidic descent. Therefore they defend David’s glaring sin because admitting it undermines their political cosmology.

David’s line, in Jewish prophecy, is מָשִׁיחַ, “anointed.” David’s line has received God’s blessing through pouring of sanctified oil. For those not versed in Hebrew, this word for anointing, מָשִׁיחַ, is pronounced “mashiach,” frequently Anglicized into “Messiah.” In Hebrew scripture, Messiah refers to kings whose rule has been sanctified through religious ritual. The books of Samuel describe both Saul and David as Messiah, and David explicitly calls Saul his Messiah.

Centuries of Christian thought, colored by Platonic mysticism and a belief in heavenly perfection, have taught us that Messiah comes to bring spiritual cleansing, capital-t Truth, and that particularly Christian concept, Salvation. But that isn’t what Messiah means in Hebrew. The original concept of Messiah is a political leader, with overtones of military might. When Jesus permitted his followers to call him Messiah, they were making an explicitly political declaration.

Unfortunately for Jesus, earthly politics are always sullying. “My kingdom,” Jesus told Pilate, “is not of this world.” From this, Christians define Messianism as otherworldly and mystical, and have historically looked for Paradise among the clouds. We’re uncomfortable with Jesus dirtying his hands with the business of governance; that’s why medieval Popes delegated actual governance to kings, and crowned monarchs in Jesus’ name. Let somebody expendable step in the shit.

I remember pastel-colored Sunday School pamphlets extolling King David’s supposed virtues. They always depicted him as young, fair-haired, and almost girlish. The David these lessons praised was the outsider, the rebel somehow simultaneously beloved and hated by King Saul. They always elided David’s actual reign, which saw him descend from triumph, to tyranny, to rape, and ultimately to his final days, housebound and useless, desperately trying to keep warm.

When conservative Chritians yearn for power, they overlook David actually enthroned. In Hebrew history, to become King always meant to become cursed. Every king of Israel and Judah, including David and Solomon, was punished by God for egregious transgressions; nearly every king died violently. Messiahs, that is anointed kings, are always promising in the future tense; when they actually get crowned, they end in disappointment and blood.

Not for nothing does Jesus’ “reign” not involve any practical governance. Even the Revelation of John, from which many Christian nationalists draw their triumphalist imagery, features Christ returning in violent, conquering glory, then stopping. Christ’s triumph is described; Christ’s government is not. Religious apocalyptic novelists like LaHaye and Jenkins, James BeauSeigneur, and Paul Meier likewise spotlight Christ’s triumph, then turn timid about what comes after.

As I write, many Christians who thought they’d won a major culture battle when Roe v. Wade was overturned last month, now face the less-than-savory reality of having to write laws to enforce their precepts. Opposition to abortion energized the base when it remained a high-minded ideal. But their coalition faces unanticipated problems when transitioning from the abstractions of political messianism, into the messy, morally irregular world of legislation.

Conservative Christians reflexively defend King David because they need a morally pure Davidic Messiah. They can’t handle the innate sloppiness of real-world governance. They look forward eagerly to Jesus returning and praising their moral purity, but their story stops there, because they realize, if unconsciously, that moral purity doesn’t jibe with human carelessness. They love future Jesus; they’re unprepared for מָשִׁיחַ to reign.