Lekh Lekha (Psalms)

Psalm 110: A Royal Blessing

The suggested psalm for this portion is Psalm 110, which begins with the words, “the Lord spoke to my master, ‘Sit by my right hand, until I shall make your enemies your footstool.” This is among a handful of psalms that celebrates the special role of the king, who is described as especially beloved and enjoying an intimate relationship with God (other royal psalms include 2, 45, and 72). The image seems to be that he is somehow the representative, the executor, of the Divine plan upon earth.

Some say that the king referred to here is David, others that it refers, at least in potential, to any king of Israel, still others say that it is the Messiah. Midrash Shohar Tov, the midrash on Psalms, associates it with Abraham, and specifically with Abraham’s battle with the five kings—based, no doubt, on the reference in verse 4 to Melchizedek, the mysterious priest of God Most High, who welcomed Abraham with bread and wine and blessings upon his return from that conflict (in this week’s portion, Genesis 14; on Melchizedek, see vv. 18-20). This “pre-Jewish” monotheistic priest–king, who is also described as the king of Shalem (Jerusalem), is a unique figure, symbolizing the potential for knowledge of the one God among all peoples. He reappears as a kind of messianic figure and a harbinger of righteousness, and as a counterpoint to the evil Malchi-resha, in the Apocrypha, in the Dead Sea Scrolls, and later on in the New Testament.

The fusion of priest and king, both in the persona of Melchizedek and in the hero of this psalm, is interesting. The idea is a very ancient one: ideally, the leader of the nation ought to be one who combines temporal and spiritual leadership, guiding the people in worldly matters in accordance with the will of God. This fusion is a potent symbol of the unity of the world created by God, and of the integration of sacred and secular aspects of human life. The problem, of course, is that this idea is good only so long as both priests and kings are righteous and uncorrupt. When one, or both, become corrupt—as they inevitably do, being human—they are likely to use their supposed connection to the Almighty to attain power and wealth for their own ends. This factor is as old as the hills, and as timely as this morning’s newspaper.

First cousin to this idea is the notion of the divine right of kings, which wreaked must havoc in medieval Europe. Remnants of this are to be found even in today’s constitutional monarchies, as in the role of the queen of England as titular head of the Anglican Church. But even in medieval Europe there was also by and large a certain division of authority: ”Render onto Caesar what is Caesar’s, and under God what is God’s” with the kings expected to give at least lip service to the spiritual authority of the pope.

For that reason, Judaism, almost from the beginning, separated the two. There was the Davidic royal dynasty, from the tribe of Judah, and then there was the Aharonide priesthood, from the tribe of Levi (this division is already alluded to in Moses’ blessing of the tribes prior to his death, Deut 33). The king was subservient to the Law, an idea symbolized by his having a Torah scroll present before him at all times. The one time in Jewish history when priesthood and kingship were fused, during the Hasmonean dynasty, began well, as a purifying, reforming movement within the people that threw off the yoke of Hellenistic rule and cultural influence, but within a few generations went downhill.

After the Destruction of the Second Temple, those that symbolized Torah knowledge and authority began to be regarded as the true royalty in Judaism: Man malkei? Rabbanan! (“Who are the kings? The Rabbis!”). The Nasi was regarded as a kind of royal figure, in addition to being the senior scholar among colleagues; there were certain hints of royalty in the Geonate in Babylonia; and, closer to our own time, there are echoes of royal pomp and circumstance in the elaborate rites of certain Hasidic “courts.”

The phrase, shev leyemini, “sit by my right hand,” is striking, suggesting a closeness of man to God rarely found in Jewish sources. (Interestingly, this is the source of the phrase in the Christian scriptures in which Jesus is described as “sitting by the right hand of the Power”—“power” simply being the translation of gevurah, one of the Rabbinic terms for God, as in the phrase, mi-pi ha-gevurah?).

How are we, steeped in the democratic tradition, to react to all this? Shall we take offense at the implied notion of the Divine right of kings? Do we read these verses simply as echoes of an earlier, more naïve age? Or is it possible to understand it sympathetically, in terms of the underlying idea: that God, as the source of truth, wisdom, righteousness, and compassion, somehow conveys these qualities to the king, who is charged with the weal of his people?