As my feet dug into the sloped dirt of Broad Cairn, thick blisters already forming where the skin of my heels rubbed against my brand-new hiking boots, I was thinking about a 3,000-year-old Israelite King.
In our last push to the summit, we’d taken a strange route, trudging through overgrown bushes and marshy soil, eyes scanning the grass for red grouse. Only moments before, one sprang out from underneath a bush, squawking loudly before feigning an injury in order to lead us away from her babies. It was the opposite of the Israelite king in every way, reminding me of his spectacular failure.
I was in the midst of my research summer, taking a rare weekday off to hike in the mountains with a gaggle of summer leftovers. Eclectic and very intergenerational, we were a unique sight. Even in the midst of breathtaking beauty, however, I could not forget about King David, the object of my study. His story turned in my head like a prayer—what was the purpose of his downfall? Why do the prophets of the Hebrew Bible (i.e. the Old Testament) retain hope in the Davidic line?
And why does his baby have to die? This was the center of my questioning. From the moment I learned of the story in my first year Hebrew Bible class, it had deeply horrified me. I’d approached the professor after lecture with teary eyes, asking him why. The image of a repentant David, pleading to God for the life of his newborn son only to be met with silence and death, plagued me. I needed to uncover the reason.
So, when I heard about an opportunity to research one subject intensely for six weeks, I jumped on the chance and asked the same professor if he would supervise me for a Laidlaw project. Then, because he had conflicts during the first summer, I waited over a year to apply.
But I did not forget about the story. It ruminated in my mind continually as I grew in my knowledge of classical Hebrew and biblical poetics, interpretation history and ancient near eastern culture. I wasn’t sure how I would approach the question, but I knew I would. The story of 2 Samuel 11-12 was too compelling, too interesting, too unexplored, to be left alone.
But as I approached the top of the mountain, surrounded by friends and the pleasant sound of the breeze floating through long tails of grass, I still hadn’t found an answer. After three weeks of intense research, I was completely overwhelmed. There was too much to do, too many trails to follow and questions to ask. I wanted to treat this story with the respect that it deserved, to flesh out every detail and check every box. Despite my supervisor’s repeated assurance that I was on track, with only three weeks left, my project seemed to be heading straight into failure.
I kicked a rock at the thought. I was on my first hiking trip, and I was going to enjoy it.
At the top of the mountain, strong winds whipped our bodies until goosebumps sprouted over our skin. I couldn’t imagine that I’d felt the warmth of the sun only minutes prior. We pulled jumpers over our heads before lying flat in the grass, hiding from the cold. Shivering side by side, we peered up at the clouds, watching as they swirled in the pale sky. Then, once we were sufficiently chilled, we began our trek downwards—only 6 more miles to go!
Towards the bottom, to my immense delight, we came across four lone sheep between the curve of some trees—a mother and her three lambs. The smallest one, a baby, could have easily fit curled in my hands. Unconsciously, I squealed, spooking the animals into a run down the trail, hooves clanking on the stones. I frowned. I love animals, but I have never been the best at calming them.
However, as two of my friends clambered up a tall, thin tree, another friend—the oldest, a man in his 50s—carefully approached the sheep. Gently, he drew closer to the still-frightened animals. Murmuring softly, he was eventually close enough that he could have touched their soft, rosy noses. The sheep allowed him to follow them for a distance. Heads hung low, posture relaxed, they walked by his side as if he was their shepherd himself. It wasn’t until the rest of our group caught up that they left him, disappearing quickly into the grassy fields.
As the actual structural center of the story, I always knew the parable would be important to my project. However, the tangibility of watching the gentleness of my friend and the trust of the mother with her little lambs struck me. Suddenly, the death of the “lamb” of the parable was sickening to me in a way it hadn’t been before—which made David’s extreme response more logical, as he, himself, was once a shepherd. This, then, had to be integral to a proper understanding of the story.
Eventually, I returned to St Andrews—sore, properly dirty, but content. In the weeks following, my supervisor and I focused in on the parable, drawing out how it connected lexically and poetically to various aspects of David’s story and intertextual links (i.e. other biblical texts that are connected to the story purposefully by the author). Suddenly, I felt I had unlocked the story, and my research had clear direction for the first time.
Now, looking back on my six weeks of research, I can confidently say that it was not a failure. While the mountain of my research took me in a variety of directions, I eventually found the path that led to the answer of my original, heartbroken question (and if you want to find out the answer…you’ll have to wait until September 1st). I would not have uncovered it, however, without stepping away from my computer, lacing up some—truly uncomfortable—boots, and following my friends into the vast, humbling wilderness of the Cairngorms.