When Was King Solomon Ever Wise?

Perhaps my cynicism has finally gotten the better of me, but I have questions. Every time I hear King Solomon described as the wisest man who ever lived, I find myself wondering: according to whom?

The men who wrote the story?

For centuries, Solomon has been held up as the gold standard of wisdom. His name has become synonymous with sound judgment, discernment and intelligence. We reference "the wisdom of Solomon" as though it were beyond debate, beyond scrutiny, almost beyond criticism.

Yet the older I get, the less convinced I become that history got this one right. Because when I look at Solomon's life, wisdom is not the first thing that comes to mind. The Bible tells us Solomon had 700 wives and 300 concubines. Read that again. Seven hundred wives. Three hundred concubines. One thousand women in total.

That isn't simply a large family. It is an empire of women. Now before anyone reminds me that these were different times, I know. Ancient kings married for diplomacy, alliances and power. Women were often political assets rather than equal partners. But acknowledging historical context shouldn't prevent us from asking uncomfortable questions. If a man today amassed hundreds of wives and lovers while presenting himself as the pinnacle of wisdom, would we celebrate him? Or would we wonder what profound emptiness he was trying to fill?

Today, many of us struggle to nurture one healthy relationship. We spend years in therapy learning communication, boundaries, emotional intelligence and accountability. Solomon somehow convinced an entire kingdom of women to sign up for what can only be described as a royal rotational schedule.

If that is wisdom, perhaps we've been defining the word incorrectly all along. The story most often cited as proof of Solomon's brilliance is the dispute between two women claiming the same baby. Solomon threatens to divide the child in two. The true mother immediately offers to surrender her claim rather than see her child harmed. We are told this proves he possessed extraordinary wisdom.

But does it?

Viewed through the lens of the ancient world, the story is undeniably clever. There were no DNA tests. No forensic evidence. No family courts. Solomon's judgment relied on insight into human behaviour. But viewed from the twenty-first century, it feels less like unparalleled genius and more like a demonstration of basic psychological intuition. My seven-year-old understands that a loving mother would rather lose custody than lose her child altogether.

Would I call that wisdom?

Perhaps.

Would I call it the greatest display of wisdom in human history?

Probably not.

And that is where my discomfort begins. Because what strikes me most isn't Solomon himself. It is how readily history confuses power with wisdom. A king builds a temple. He acquires unimaginable wealth. He expands his territory. He surrounds himself with luxury. He collects wives. He writes poetry. He becomes a legend. Somewhere along the way, the accumulation of things becomes evidence of intelligence. Wealth becomes virtue. Influence becomes morality. Power becomes wisdom. History has always had a peculiar habit of decorating powerful men with noble adjectives.

Great. Visionary. Brilliant. Wise.

Yet the same biblical narrative that celebrates Solomon also documents his failures. His many wives are said to have turned his heart away from God. His kingdom, despite all its splendour, fractured after his death. His household became a symbol not merely of prosperity but of excess.

That doesn't read like the biography of a man who mastered wisdom. It reads like the biography of someone who mastered acquisition. Perhaps that is the distinction we've ignored. There is a difference between intelligence and wisdom.Between success and fulfillment. Between having everything and knowing when enough is enough.

Real wisdom isn't measured by how much you accumulate. It is measured by what you can walk away from. It is restraint. It is humility. It is self-awareness. It is knowing that every appetite indulged eventually demands a larger appetite. History, however, has often preferred a different definition-especially when the subject is a powerful man. The more I read history, the more I notice how frequently male excess has been reframed as male greatness. Kings with dozens of wives become romantic legends. Industrialists who destroyed families become captains of industry. Politicians who betray their marriages are remembered for their speeches rather than their character.

Even today, billionaires like Bill Gates, Elon Musk are described as geniuses simply because they became rich, as though financial success automatically confers moral or intellectual superiority. Perhaps Solomon is simply the earliest and most successful example of that phenomenon. This isn't really an article about Solomon. It's about the stories we choose to preserve. It's about who gets to define wisdom. It's about whether history has mistaken domination for discernment, acquisition for achievement, and male privilege for greatness.

Perhaps Solomon was wise.Or perhaps he was a deeply flawed man living in a patriarchal society that celebrated qualities men admired in themselves. The older I get, the less interested I am in whether Solomon deserved the title. I'm more interested in why we've been so reluctant to question it.

Maybe the greatest trick Solomon ever performed wasn't judging between two mothers.

Maybe it was convincing history that having 700 wives was a character reference rather than a red flag.