Vayetze (Psalms)

Psalm 3: How Numerous are My Enemies!

The title of Psalm 3, “A Psalm of David, when he fled before his son Absalom,” refers to an incident described in 2 Samuel 15, in which David’s son Absalom attempts to seize the kingship while his father is still alive and reigning, marshalling a popular following who a militia, forcing David and his small circle of loyalists to flee the palace ignominiously. The connection to the Torah portion is that Jacob, who is described in the title verse as “leaving” Beer-sheva, was really fleeing from the wrath of his brother, who had vowed to kill him.

The discussion of this chapter in the midrash on Psalms (Midrash Shohar Tov), and its Talmudic parallel (Berakhot 7b), raises the question of the order of the Psalter: why was this particular psalm chosen to follow the preceding one (which is in turn combined in some views with Psalm 1 to form a single psalm). The rationale behind the arrangement of the Book of Psalms is not obvious; each psalm is really an entity unto itself, without any continuity with those that precede or follow it; at most, those psalms with a similar title are grouped together.

In any event, our midrash, based on the fact that Psalm 2 seems to portray an eschatological war, makes the interesting observation that “Rebellion in a person’s house is as harsh as the war of Gog and Magog.” And indeed, there is something anomalous in a person fleeing from a close relative, a son or a brother. We like to think of the family as a unit bound by love and affection, whose members support one another in times of trouble against an often cold and hostile world. Thus, when there is open conflict and rivalry within the family, this is especially painful, somehow against the order of nature. (This is part of poignancy of one of the central themes of this parsha—the rivalry between two sisters for the affection of the same man, expressed in their competition to bear children, which reaches its climax in Rachel’s agonizing cry, “Give me children, for if not I shall die”: Gen 30:1).

But this theme speaks to us deeply because, in reality, this idealistic picture of the loving, unified family is often fulfilled in the breach. This is one of the great themes of world literature, from the Greek tragedies and Shakespeare on down, as well as a known fact of everyday life. This motif is a the center of two major sections of the Bible: the Joseph cycle on Genesis, and the stories centered around of David, first as a young man and then as a father, in 1 and 2 Samuel, respectively. This is also the power of the Oedipal motif. In truth, while the acts of murder and incestuous sex make the legend of Oedipus of Thebes particularly shocking, its essence—that of the son who attempts to displaces his father, whose power bid includes sexual usurping of wives or concubines other than his own mother, as a symbolic displacement of the father—appears in the life of David, with both Absalom and Adoniyahu.

To turn to the psalm itself: it is paradigmatic of many of the psalms, which are personal prayers of an individual in distress. It is short and succinct, consisting of three basic parts: the portrayal of the threat confronting the person (“O God, how numerous are my enemies, those who rise up against me”: vv. 2-3); the turn from fear to trust in God, an expression of faith and confidence in God’s help (vv. 4-7: “But You, O god, protect me… I shall not fear the myriads of men, who have gathered round me”); and, finally, from a position of trust, a prayer to God for the help needed (“Rise up, O God, and save me”), plus a concluding phrase, once again expressing trust, this time extending the idea of His trust and blessing to the entire people.

One of Rabbi Nahman of Braslav’s tales is based on this psalm. In the seventh of his thirteen Sippurei Ma’asiyot, “The Spider and the Fly,” a king has a phantasmagoric dream in which the images of this psalm are interpreted literally. “The holy mountain” in v. 5 is itself surrounded by myriads of enemy soldiers, whose teeth fall out as the result of a miraculous plant that grows on the slopes of the mountain (see v. 8). But R. Nahman’s stories are a world unto themselves.

This psalm also enjoys a place in the liturgy, being recited in some prayer rites as part of the Bedtime Shema, recited immediately before sleep. As such, it may be read as a kind of an emblematic prayer of the Jew, aware of the dangers confronting him in life.

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A friend of mine recently asked me whether it is proper for Jews to “talk to God.” She mentioned that a teacher in a class in her synagogue said that people who think they talk to God are “crazy.”

My answer to this is threefold. First of all, the fact that this idea could even be suggested indicates how far we’ve turned from the type of direct faith found in the Bible and in Hazal. In its original, most essential sense, prayer is quire simply man addressing God about his troubles: bakashat tzerakhim, “requesting ones needs” of the Almighty. One need go no further than the psalms to find myriad examples of this.

The problem is that we’ve become so used to fixed, formal prayer, that we tend to forget this. Even among the pious, prayer seems to be more about fulfilling the mitzvah of saying Shmonah Esreh three times a day, then it is about standing before God with ones troubles and fears and angst; “Thrust your yoke upon the Lord, and He shall sustain you.” Rambam explains that, at a certain point in time, too many people were inarticulate and unable to formulate their thoughts clearly in any language (prayer need not be in Hebrew), so the Rabbis formulated the blessings of the formal liturgy.

I suspect that one of the reasons for the popularity of “saying psalms” among many people is precisely their personal tone, perhaps missing in much of the official liturgy, which gives people a sense of emotional outlet. But in the end, of course, the Tehillim are also fixed texts.

Secondly, there is an interesting practice among the Bratslaver Hasidism, followers of that same R. Nahman, who regularly set aside times to pray to God spontaneously, in their own language, about things that are troubling them personally. They go into the woods, the desert, or some other secluded place so as to pour out their hearts to God without inhibition, without being heard by other people or being considered crazy by others.

Thirdly, and finally, there is a section of the weekday prayers called Tahanun, that was originally meant to be personal, non-structured prayer, but that also became fixed over time.