"Surpassing the Love of Women": King David and Jonathan
There are certain love stories that refuse to be silenced. They smolder in the text, between the lines, in the choice of words that seem just a little too intimate to dismiss. And then there’s David and Jonathan, who are so unabashedly tender with each other in the Tanakh that you’d think their editor fell asleep at the wheel. This is no side-plot friendship. This is devotion, passion, and, yes, the kind of soul-bond that looks suspiciously like what we would call queer love today.
Was King David bisexual? The case is strong. The man had wives, yes, but he also had a lover who was a man: Jonathan, son of Saul. And if you clutch your pearls at that assertion, well — maybe it’s because the pearls have been strangling the truth out of the text for centuries.
Was King David bisexual? The case is strong. The man had wives, yes, but he also had a lover who was a man: Jonathan, son of Saul. And if you clutch your pearls at that assertion, well — maybe it’s because the pearls have been strangling the truth out of the text for centuries.
The Covenant of Souls
The first time David and Jonathan meet (1 Samuel 18:1), it is described in a way that has no precedent in the Bible: “And it came to pass, when he had made an end of speaking unto Saul, that the soul of Jonathan was knit with the soul of David, and Jonathan loved him as his own soul.”
Let’s pause here. This isn’t just “they became bros.” This isn’t “they fist-bumped after battle.” The Hebrew says literally that their nefesh (soul, life-force) became qashar (tied, bound, knotted) to one another. This is mystical, covenantal language — the same weighty kind of binding that the Torah uses to describe Israel’s bond to G-d. Jonathan doesn’t just like David. He loves him as his own soul.
And if you think “well, maybe that’s just a figure of speech,” the very next verses hammer the point home: Jonathan strips himself of his robe, armor, and sword, and gives them to David (18:3-4). In ancient Near Eastern context, this is not just generosity. This is symbolic intimacy. Clothing in Tanakh is loaded with meaning — think of Joseph’s coat, Tamar’s torn garment, or Ruth uncovering Boaz’s feet. Jonathan, the crown prince, undressing before David and giving him his royal robe and weapons is, at minimum, political defiance of his father. At maximum? It is the ancient world’s version of “take me, I am yours.”
Let’s pause here. This isn’t just “they became bros.” This isn’t “they fist-bumped after battle.” The Hebrew says literally that their nefesh (soul, life-force) became qashar (tied, bound, knotted) to one another. This is mystical, covenantal language — the same weighty kind of binding that the Torah uses to describe Israel’s bond to G-d. Jonathan doesn’t just like David. He loves him as his own soul.
And if you think “well, maybe that’s just a figure of speech,” the very next verses hammer the point home: Jonathan strips himself of his robe, armor, and sword, and gives them to David (18:3-4). In ancient Near Eastern context, this is not just generosity. This is symbolic intimacy. Clothing in Tanakh is loaded with meaning — think of Joseph’s coat, Tamar’s torn garment, or Ruth uncovering Boaz’s feet. Jonathan, the crown prince, undressing before David and giving him his royal robe and weapons is, at minimum, political defiance of his father. At maximum? It is the ancient world’s version of “take me, I am yours.”
Love Stronger than Kingship
Jonathan’s loyalty to David grows sharper even as his father Saul descends into jealous rage. When Saul commands Jonathan to kill David, Jonathan instead advocates for him, even rebukes his father (1 Samuel 19:4-5). When Saul throws a spear at Jonathan for siding with David (20:30-34), Jonathan storms out, grieving, not just for himself but “because his father had shamed David.” The text tells us Jonathan’s anger burned, but so did his love.
And then comes the farewell scene (1 Samuel 20:41-42), one of the most intimate in all of Scripture:
“David arose out of a place toward the south, and fell on his face to the ground, and bowed himself three times; and they kissed one another, and wept one with another, until David exceeded.”
Let’s break that down. They kiss. They weep. They cling. And then, the Hebrew phrase ‘ad David higdil — often translated blandly as “until David exceeded.” But the verb gadal (“to be great, to be large, to overflow”) here is deliberately ambiguous. Many scholars note that this could imply David’s passion overwhelmed him. In modern terms? Let’s just say this was not a platonic bro-hug.
And then comes the farewell scene (1 Samuel 20:41-42), one of the most intimate in all of Scripture:
“David arose out of a place toward the south, and fell on his face to the ground, and bowed himself three times; and they kissed one another, and wept one with another, until David exceeded.”
Let’s break that down. They kiss. They weep. They cling. And then, the Hebrew phrase ‘ad David higdil — often translated blandly as “until David exceeded.” But the verb gadal (“to be great, to be large, to overflow”) here is deliberately ambiguous. Many scholars note that this could imply David’s passion overwhelmed him. In modern terms? Let’s just say this was not a platonic bro-hug.
“Wonderful, Passing the Love of Women”
After Jonathan’s death in battle, David composes a lament (2 Samuel 1:17-27) that is nothing short of devastating. His grief is raw, unashamed, and intensely personal. He cries:
“I am distressed for you, my brother Jonathan: very pleasant have you been unto me: your love to me was wonderful, passing the love of women.” (2 Samuel 1:26)
Well. There it is. David himself admits that Jonathan’s love was greater than the love he had experienced with women. That is a comparison, and it is not metaphorical. He is literally ranking the loves of his life. And Jonathan tops the list.
Rabbinic tradition, of course, had to deal with this. The Talmud (Avot d’Rabbi Natan 8) comments that David and Jonathan’s love was the purest example of love “not dependent on anything” — selfless and enduring. That’s a generous reading, and not inaccurate. But it tiptoes around the obvious: David doesn’t just call Jonathan’s love “pure.” He calls it better than sex. Better than marriage. Better than any woman he ever knew.
“I am distressed for you, my brother Jonathan: very pleasant have you been unto me: your love to me was wonderful, passing the love of women.” (2 Samuel 1:26)
Well. There it is. David himself admits that Jonathan’s love was greater than the love he had experienced with women. That is a comparison, and it is not metaphorical. He is literally ranking the loves of his life. And Jonathan tops the list.
Rabbinic tradition, of course, had to deal with this. The Talmud (Avot d’Rabbi Natan 8) comments that David and Jonathan’s love was the purest example of love “not dependent on anything” — selfless and enduring. That’s a generous reading, and not inaccurate. But it tiptoes around the obvious: David doesn’t just call Jonathan’s love “pure.” He calls it better than sex. Better than marriage. Better than any woman he ever knew.
But What About the Wives?
Ah yes, the inevitable objection: “But David married women, he fathered children, he lusted after Bathsheba. Clearly heterosexual!” To which I answer: bisexuality exists, darling.
David had multiple wives — Michal (Saul’s daughter, Jonathan’s sister), Abigail, Bathsheba, and more. He had concubines too. He was, to put it bluntly, a man of appetites. But desire does not confine itself neatly to one gender. The very passion that made him fall for Bathsheba at a glance is the same passion that bound him to Jonathan’s soul.
Michal herself is a fascinating case. She loved David (1 Samuel 18:20), and even risked her life to save him. But the text never once says David loved Michal back. Their marriage was political, fraught with tension, and ultimately bitter (2 Samuel 6:20-23). Compare that to the text’s endless emphasis on how Jonathan loved David — and how David loved Jonathan. One feels like duty; the other, like destiny.
David had multiple wives — Michal (Saul’s daughter, Jonathan’s sister), Abigail, Bathsheba, and more. He had concubines too. He was, to put it bluntly, a man of appetites. But desire does not confine itself neatly to one gender. The very passion that made him fall for Bathsheba at a glance is the same passion that bound him to Jonathan’s soul.
Michal herself is a fascinating case. She loved David (1 Samuel 18:20), and even risked her life to save him. But the text never once says David loved Michal back. Their marriage was political, fraught with tension, and ultimately bitter (2 Samuel 6:20-23). Compare that to the text’s endless emphasis on how Jonathan loved David — and how David loved Jonathan. One feels like duty; the other, like destiny.
But What About Leviticus?
Ah, Leviticus — the greatest hits album of verses weaponized against queer folks. “Thou shalt not lie with a man as with a woman; it is an abomination” (Lev. 18:22), and its encore in 20:13, have been waved around like divine cease-and-desist orders on queer love for centuries. But if you slow down and actually read the Hebrew, the ground isn’t nearly as solid as it’s made out to be.
The text says: et zakhar lo tishkav mishk’vei ishah — “with a male you shall not lie the lyings of a woman.” Now, “lyings of a woman” (mishk’vei ishah) is a bizarre phrase. If the Torah wanted to say “no sex between men, ever,” it could have done so simply. Instead, it gives us this cryptic construction. What are the “lyings of a woman”? Rashi admits it’s strange. Later rabbis debated whether it meant just one specific act (most often assumed to be penetrative anal sex) rather than every possible way men might be intimate. Some even suggested it might not be about sex at all but about gender roles — i.e., a man should not “lie down” in the social position of a woman.
And then there’s the broader context. Leviticus 18 is a catalog of forbidden unions, mostly incest, framed to separate Israel from Canaanite ritual practices. “To’evah” — often translated as “abomination” — does not mean moral horror so much as ritual taboo. The same word is used for eating shellfish (Lev. 11:10). Shrimp cocktail, two men in bed, both tagged with the same category. It’s about boundary, not identity.
So what’s being prohibited? We don’t actually know. Some scholars say it’s penetrative sex. Others argue it’s about a specific cultic practice. Still others say it may not refer to sex at all — but to some broader anxiety about men acting in a “woman’s role.” Whatever the case, it’s not a simple, sweeping ban on men loving men.
And, crucially, the Torah never says a word about women loving women. Silence speaks volumes.
Meanwhile, the very same Tanakh that contains Leviticus also gives us men embracing, kissing, weeping into each other’s arms, swearing covenants, and declaring their love surpasses the love of women. Abraham’s servant places his hand under Abraham’s thigh as part of an oath (Gen. 24:2). Jacob wrestles with a mysterious man until dawn (Gen. 32:24). David and Jonathan kiss in a field and weep until David “exceeds” (1 Sam. 20:41). The editors could have cleaned these up if they wanted us to read the Bible as a heterosexual purity manual — but they didn’t.
So when Leviticus is thrown down like a trump card, my answer is simple: it’s not about what you think it’s about. It may not even be about penetrative sex. It’s about ritual, purity, cultural distinctness. And even if it were — Torah is full of laws we no longer follow to the letter. Mixed fabrics, stoning disobedient children. We’ve already learned how to interpret with context and compassion.
Which means David and Jonathan’s love isn’t cancelled out by Leviticus. Their story stands tall — two souls bound, two men kissing, covenanting, grieving, and loving. Law may fence things in, but love always breaks through the cracks.
And look — if we’re being honest (and I think Hashem can handle honesty), homosexual behavior is incredibly common across the animal kingdom. Lions do it. Dolphins do it. Bonobos do it constantly. Same-sex bonding is not some modern perversion; it’s nature being nature. And speaking of nature: the prostate has been called the “male G-spot” for a reason. It exists. It’s highly sensitive. And medical studies have shown that regular prostate stimulation may reduce the risk of prostate cancer. So if Hashem didn’t want guys to do butt stuff, They sure made some very interesting design choices. Maybe, just maybe, it’s not sinful — it’s sacred. You can’t convince me the same G-d who created the cosmos and fireflies and bioluminescent jellyfish had a divine meltdown over consensual anal play between two soulmates in love.
The text says: et zakhar lo tishkav mishk’vei ishah — “with a male you shall not lie the lyings of a woman.” Now, “lyings of a woman” (mishk’vei ishah) is a bizarre phrase. If the Torah wanted to say “no sex between men, ever,” it could have done so simply. Instead, it gives us this cryptic construction. What are the “lyings of a woman”? Rashi admits it’s strange. Later rabbis debated whether it meant just one specific act (most often assumed to be penetrative anal sex) rather than every possible way men might be intimate. Some even suggested it might not be about sex at all but about gender roles — i.e., a man should not “lie down” in the social position of a woman.
And then there’s the broader context. Leviticus 18 is a catalog of forbidden unions, mostly incest, framed to separate Israel from Canaanite ritual practices. “To’evah” — often translated as “abomination” — does not mean moral horror so much as ritual taboo. The same word is used for eating shellfish (Lev. 11:10). Shrimp cocktail, two men in bed, both tagged with the same category. It’s about boundary, not identity.
So what’s being prohibited? We don’t actually know. Some scholars say it’s penetrative sex. Others argue it’s about a specific cultic practice. Still others say it may not refer to sex at all — but to some broader anxiety about men acting in a “woman’s role.” Whatever the case, it’s not a simple, sweeping ban on men loving men.
And, crucially, the Torah never says a word about women loving women. Silence speaks volumes.
Meanwhile, the very same Tanakh that contains Leviticus also gives us men embracing, kissing, weeping into each other’s arms, swearing covenants, and declaring their love surpasses the love of women. Abraham’s servant places his hand under Abraham’s thigh as part of an oath (Gen. 24:2). Jacob wrestles with a mysterious man until dawn (Gen. 32:24). David and Jonathan kiss in a field and weep until David “exceeds” (1 Sam. 20:41). The editors could have cleaned these up if they wanted us to read the Bible as a heterosexual purity manual — but they didn’t.
So when Leviticus is thrown down like a trump card, my answer is simple: it’s not about what you think it’s about. It may not even be about penetrative sex. It’s about ritual, purity, cultural distinctness. And even if it were — Torah is full of laws we no longer follow to the letter. Mixed fabrics, stoning disobedient children. We’ve already learned how to interpret with context and compassion.
Which means David and Jonathan’s love isn’t cancelled out by Leviticus. Their story stands tall — two souls bound, two men kissing, covenanting, grieving, and loving. Law may fence things in, but love always breaks through the cracks.
And look — if we’re being honest (and I think Hashem can handle honesty), homosexual behavior is incredibly common across the animal kingdom. Lions do it. Dolphins do it. Bonobos do it constantly. Same-sex bonding is not some modern perversion; it’s nature being nature. And speaking of nature: the prostate has been called the “male G-spot” for a reason. It exists. It’s highly sensitive. And medical studies have shown that regular prostate stimulation may reduce the risk of prostate cancer. So if Hashem didn’t want guys to do butt stuff, They sure made some very interesting design choices. Maybe, just maybe, it’s not sinful — it’s sacred. You can’t convince me the same G-d who created the cosmos and fireflies and bioluminescent jellyfish had a divine meltdown over consensual anal play between two soulmates in love.
Conclusion: What It All Means
For queer Jews today, David and Jonathan’s story resonates because it was always ours, hidden in plain sight. The language of soul-bonding, covenant, and love “surpassing the love of women” speaks across time to the reality that queer love has always existed, even in sacred spaces.
We don’t need to force the text into something it’s not. The text itself gives us permission to see it. And when we do, the story shimmers with poignancy: a prince and a shepherd-turned-king, their souls entangled, their loyalty costing them dearly, their love surviving beyond death in psalm and lament.
Now, I know some will say: “You’re reading modern categories into an ancient text.” To which I reply: of course I am. That’s what interpretation has always been. Every rabbi who ever cracked a midrash was reading the Torah with the eyes of their own time. If they can debate whether Abraham kept kosher before Sinai, then I can certainly point out that two men kissing, crying, and declaring their love sounds a lot like, well, love.
And honestly? If the Bible wanted us to read David and Jonathan as “just friends,” it really should have toned it down. The robes, the weapons, the covenant of souls, the kissing, the weeping, the “your love surpasses women” — that’s not bromance. That’s romance.
David was not perfect. He was complicated, flawed, passionate, and utterly human. He loved women, and he loved Jonathan. He was, by any modern category, bisexual. But more than that, he was beloved — by Jonathan, by his people, by G-d.
And perhaps that is the true legacy of his love for Jonathan: it shows us that queerness is not foreign to holiness, that love between men can be covenantal, poetic, even woven into the very fabric of scripture. When David cried out that Jonathan’s love was “wonderful, surpassing the love of women,” he carved a space for queer love in the Bible itself — a space that has survived every attempt to erase it.
So yes, David was bisexual. Jonathan was his lover. And maybe, just maybe, that is part of why G-d called David a man after Their own heart — because David’s heart was expansive enough to love as fiercely as he did, regardless of gender.
We don’t need to force the text into something it’s not. The text itself gives us permission to see it. And when we do, the story shimmers with poignancy: a prince and a shepherd-turned-king, their souls entangled, their loyalty costing them dearly, their love surviving beyond death in psalm and lament.
Now, I know some will say: “You’re reading modern categories into an ancient text.” To which I reply: of course I am. That’s what interpretation has always been. Every rabbi who ever cracked a midrash was reading the Torah with the eyes of their own time. If they can debate whether Abraham kept kosher before Sinai, then I can certainly point out that two men kissing, crying, and declaring their love sounds a lot like, well, love.
And honestly? If the Bible wanted us to read David and Jonathan as “just friends,” it really should have toned it down. The robes, the weapons, the covenant of souls, the kissing, the weeping, the “your love surpasses women” — that’s not bromance. That’s romance.
David was not perfect. He was complicated, flawed, passionate, and utterly human. He loved women, and he loved Jonathan. He was, by any modern category, bisexual. But more than that, he was beloved — by Jonathan, by his people, by G-d.
And perhaps that is the true legacy of his love for Jonathan: it shows us that queerness is not foreign to holiness, that love between men can be covenantal, poetic, even woven into the very fabric of scripture. When David cried out that Jonathan’s love was “wonderful, surpassing the love of women,” he carved a space for queer love in the Bible itself — a space that has survived every attempt to erase it.
So yes, David was bisexual. Jonathan was his lover. And maybe, just maybe, that is part of why G-d called David a man after Their own heart — because David’s heart was expansive enough to love as fiercely as he did, regardless of gender.
