The bible’s oldest political strategy—and why it doesn’t work
Content warning: kings, scorpions, and other terrors—but with a gift of compassion at the end.
Devarim is not my favorite book of Torah. So much emphasis on control—where, how, and with whom it’s okay to worship. Sounds like the work of a king, claiming ownership of our inner lives. And communal lives too. All in service to God, of course.
Historians have noticed this. And theorized that King Josiah’s scribes wrote it, for the launch of his religious and cultural reforms. Royal histories describe his surprise discovery of a special scroll of Torah (2 Kings 22). One with a slightly revised version of Moses’ teaching. Where Moses presents Josiah’s plan for regulated worship. And attempts to control people through fear.
A scroll with teachings like this one:
God led you through the huge and terrifying wilderness—hissing venomous serpents, scorpions, unquenchable thirst—and drew water for you from the rock (Deut. 8:15).
How should I understand this? I mean, when in my life have I been afraid?
During Hurricane Hugo. I cowered in a dark bathroom—my only windowless “safe room״—for hours, tracking strange sounds. Winds stripping the roof shingle by shingle. Trees and poles twisting out of concrete and smashing cars as they fell.
During the ice storm. In our little house surrounded by hundred-year-old oak trees there was no safe room. Around it, trees splintered and cracked and thudded down. Electric transformers exploded, sizzling, popping, and echoing. There was nowhere to go and no way to get there safely. So, we pulled a down comforter over our heads. Then we huddled together and waited.
And during my toddler’s surgery. A simple, routine, procedure—so the doctors said. But I was sure a terrible family history would repeat itself. And then we would break all over again.
These fears, these very real fears, come back when I hear an autocrat speak. Enemies are all around, tearing at your security. Basic services decaying. Children at risk. Without me, you can only huddle in the dark. So, give me your money, your loyalty, your praise.
This is how I read King Josiah’s words about the wilderness:
Snakes and scorpions and drought. Feel the fear. God led you to Jerusalem. Feel the relief. You built God’s temple; you built my palace. Where God dwells, I rule. Feel the power.
Feel the threats to my power, too. Rural priests and local shrines. Drawing your money, your loyalty, and your praise away from me.
Snakes and scorpions, all of them. Feel the fear.
But I will keep you safe. Feel the power.
Arrests and executions may be necessary. Feel the relief.
And send your money, your loyalty, your praise my way.
Does this rhetoric really work? Does fear call out to power for relief? Not always.
Sometimes fear teaches us a different lesson. An understanding of how fear twists the psyche. Empathy for those whom it twists. A sense of their vulnerability. And a hope that extending compassion can help quiet the fear.
So, sometimes the king’s rhetoric doesn’t work. And then, we don’t give the king our money, loyalty, or praise. Instead, we feel compassion for his targets. For the scorpions—who are, in their own lives, sensitive, vulnerable, and loving.
That’s why Perek Shira—the ancient Song of Creation—resists King Josiah’s message. It refuses to use the scorpion to speak of fear. Instead, it teaches, the scorpion sings of hope, in these words:
God is good to all; God has compassion for all creatures (Psalm 145:11).
Please note: the 20 year-old photo above was restored with the help of ChatGPT.
