Hesed or Hegemony?

Rereading David’s Kindness through Power and Language

Too often, II Samuel 9 is preached as a feel-good story of kindness toward the disabled— a heartwarming tale in which powerful King David generously welcomes the “crippled” Mephibosheth to his table. But this overly simplified sentimental reading does real harm. It glosses over the structural power dynamics at play, flattening Mephibosheth’s identity to a symbol of pity rather than a person caught in a dangerous political game. And since it’s been a while since we’ve talked about chapter nine here, this post is an updated refresher of sorts. Why? Because ableist interpretations fail to interrogate what David’s so-called kindness actually costs—or what it conceals. I challenge such readings by offering a close analysis of the Hebrew verbal forms in chapter nine. I argue that the chapter constructs a deliberate hierarchy of dominance and deference, with David’s power operating through the very grammar of the narrative. This is not a story about kindness— it’s a story about control disguised as compassion. In a world obsessed with optics, we must ask: is it still kindness if it serves the powerful more than the vulnerable?

In II Samuel 9, the text reveals a pattern of verbal forms that are closely tied to themes of service and subordination. These themes reinforce a tightly woven hierarchy of power, with David firmly situated at the top as king and benefactor. The chapter opens with the identification of Ziba as עֶ֙בֶד֙ (ʿeved)—a “servant” (v. 2)— immediately establishing his subordinate status as someone toeing the line between a slave and freeborn individual. Ziba confirms this relationship by calling himself עַבְדֶּֽךָ (ʿavdecha), “your servant” (v. 2), thus linguistically submitting to David’s authority, even though he was a part of Saul’s house. This same verbal cue reappears when Mephibosheth, too, refers to himself as ʿavdecha (v. 8), situating himself under David’s dominion despite being Saul’s heir. The narrator calls Ziba an ʿeved to describe his role as a servant within Saul’s household. However, both Ziba and Mephibosheth refer to themselves as ʿavdecha, a personal and deferential way of expressing their loyalty and submission directly to David—like the difference between a general job title (“servant”) and an acquiescent declaration of service (“I work for you, sir”). Every utterance of 'your servant' is not just language— it’s a linguistic bow to the throne, a ritualized submission dressed up as etiquette.

In a sense, this linguistic repetition is akin to the way corporate hierarchies operate— regardless of someone’s former title or experience, when entering the orbit of a new corporate culture, they adopt the nuances and language of deference to that authority. The rhetoric changes not because the person has changed, but because the power structure has shifted.

The use of the verb לָקַח (to take) in verse 5, where David “takes” Mephibosheth, fits seamlessly into the chapter’s larger theme of dominance and subservience. Notably, the same verb is later used in 2 Samuel 11 to describe David’s seizure of Bathsheba, and highlights a theological and narrative trajectory, foreshadowing an increase of force. Because behind fake smiles, in moments framed as benevolent (as in Mephibosheth’s case), David’s kingship exerts a unilateral authority that overrides consent, autonomy, and agency— suggesting that the mechanisms of royal power are consistent, whether they appear as mercy or manipulation.

The chapter’s lexicon continues to draw lines of superiority and dependence as David declares, עָשֹׂ֩ה אֶעֱשֶׂ֨ה (ʿasoh eʿeseh)— “I will surely show [kindness]” (v. 7)—an active decision that reflects his sovereign initiative. Similarly, וַהֲשִׁבֹתִ֣י (vahăshivotī)— “I will restore” (v. 7)— positions David as the one who redistributes property, reinforcing his own royal prerogative. While the gesture may appear generous, it’s clear that the one who easily gives can just as easily take away. Unfortunately, that’s exactly what happens later on. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves.

Then, Mephibosheth’s bodily gesture—וַיִּשְׁתַּ֕חוּ (vayyishtachu), “he bowed down” (v. 8)—visually marks his deference, illustrating the embodied nature of subordination in royal presence. But the accompanying phrase כֶּ֛לֶב מֵ֥ת (kelev met), “dead dog” appears in three key locations in the Hebrew Bible. In each case, the phrase carries political weight, specifically signaling the neutralization of a potential political usurper. This pairing of prostration with the slang phrase isn’t about humility as much as it’s saying “I know that you know exactly who I am.” These words weren’t delivered out of an abundance of gratitude, but with a bite. This scene is charged, the air is tense, the language is loaded. Mephibosheth’s deference is not a choice— it’s a survival tactic in a court where dignity is dangerous.

Then, the verbs related to table fellowship—תֹּ֥אכַל (toʾchal) and יֹאכַ֥ל (yoʾchal), both meaning “you shall eat/he shall eat” (vv. 7, 10)—signal Mephibosheth’s reintegration into royal favor, though always at the pleasure and direction of the king. This section is often referred to as a picture of God’s table in Psalm 23 that prioritizes inclusion. However, unlike Psalm 23, where God prepares a table in the presence of David’s enemies as an act of divine vindication, this portrayal features David as the one preparing the table—not God. And he does so not to receive mercy, but to put his benevolence on full display for his court. It’s clear that David’s feast functions less as a celebration of covenantal trust and more as a carefully curated act of royal performance. Here, Mephibosheth’s presence signals both the neutralization of Saul’s line and enhances David’s image as a magnanimous king before both allies and former rivals.

David, in this scene, plays chess while secretly moving both sides. The table may look democratic, but every move answers to the singular strategist, wearing the crown. The illusion of choice, particularly in our English translations masks the reality of domination, reinforced by internalized ableism, a flattened reading of the text, and a hermeneutic that centers a David who can do no wrong. This is not just a story about David. It’s a mirror held up to every system that confuses proximity with equity, and performance with justice. At a bare minimum, we need to acknowledge that David initiates every action, while pulling all others into his orbit of orchestrated control.

Meanwhile, Ziba is re-inscribed into a servant role through verbs of labor: וְעָבַ֣דְתָּ (veʿavadta), “you shall work,” and וְהֵבֵ֗אתָ (vehevetā), “you shall bring in” (v. 10). These imperatives do not simply assign tasks— they assert David’s dominance over both people and property. This reflects how labor directives in hierarchical systems often function not just to delegate work but to reinforce status— like a manager assigning work in a way that reminds the employee who holds the authority to assign it in the first place.

Thus, the narrative structure and repeated use of these verbal forms create a dense network of roles, obligations, and power dynamics. What appears on the surface to be a perfect picture of hesed, is linguistically framed as a reinforcement of dominance, with David operating as the sole source of any mercy, provision, and legitimacy. Through these various textual themes, the chapter dramatizes the reordering of Saul’s legacy under David’s kingship, where former threats are neutralized through careful incorporation, and loyalty is rewarded through controlled privilege. It’s a classic case of “keep your enemies closer.”

In this light, David’s kindness conceals his careful consolidation of power. By absorbing a rival into the system and exploiting the disabled heir of his enemy for good PR, the political threat is contained, and the benefactor’s image as both just and generous is preserved to ableist onlookers, who delight at the ancient inspiration porn. It’s a win/win. “Did you see? It was so kind of King David to help that young disabled man.” But the text never suggests Mephibosheth needed help to begin with. Perhaps he would have been just fine— if David had simply let him be. Real hesed does not need to be staged, and it never demands a throne to prove itself. And if you’re still unconvinced, keep reading on to chapters sixteen and nineteen.

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As always, thanks for being here and supporting my work. There are so many exciting updates in the works that I can’t wait to share.

Until then, let’s keep the conversation going below:

· What theological consequences arise when we confuse political performance with covenantal faithfulness? How can we spot the difference in Scripture—and in our own communities?

· Think about a time when you were invited to “the table”—in a church, school, or workplace. Were you free to speak and move as your whole self, or did your place at the table come with unspoken expectations?

· When does inclusion function as a tool for assimilation and manipulation rather than liberation? What are the signs?