by Lynn Austin
The crowd greeted Ahaz, shouting, “Long live the king!” Abijah knew how much her husband loved all the regal trappings and splendor. He was probably savoring every moment. But as the king mounted his chariot, a voice suddenly shouted above the murmuring crowd.
“Your Majesty! King Ahaz, wait!”
She saw the king’s good mood turn to rage as Isaiah pushed his way through the crowd, hurrying toward the chariot. She heard Uriah groan, and he bounded down the steps, elbowing his way through the mob toward the prophet.
“No! I refuse to listen to you,” Ahaz shouted. “I won’t let you ruin this day with your useless cries of doom and ruin. Is Jerusalem destroyed? Has the enemy defeated us? No, because your words were nonsense. I’ve entered into a covenant with Assyria. I’ve made an agreement with Tiglath-Pileser. Nobody can defeat us now. You’re nothing but a false prophet.”
“Therefore hear the word of the Lord, you scoffers who rule this people in Jerusalem,” Isaiah cried. He stood beside the king’s chariot with dignity, his voice steady as he mimicked Ahaz’s words. “You boast, ‘We’ve entered into a covenant with death, we’ve made an agreement with the grave. When an overwhelming scourge sweeps by, it can’t touch us, because we’ve made a lie our refuge and falsehood our hiding place.’”
“I told you I don’t want to hear any more!” Ahaz’s face was flushed with rage. He signaled to his driver, but the chariot couldn’t move until the ranks in front of it moved.
“This is what the Sovereign Lord says,” Isaiah continued, shouting loud enough for the gathered crowd to hear. “‘Hail will sweep away your refuge, the lie, and water will overflow your hiding place. Your covenant with death will be annulled; your agreement with the grave will not stand.’”
Uriah finally reached Isaiah’s side, and he grabbed the prophet by the arms, trying to drag him away from Ahaz’s chariot. But they made little progress in the crowded street, and Isaiah continued to shout as they struggled.
“The understanding of this message will bring sheer terror, King Ahaz. The bed will be too short to stretch out on, the blanket too narrow to wrap around you.”
“You’re a fool!” Ahaz shouted. “You don’t know what you’re talking about—beds that are too short! I have an important journey ahead of me, a trip that will have lasting significance for this nation long after you’re gone.”
“Stop your mocking,” Isaiah shouted back, “or your chains will become even heavier. The Lord Almighty has told me of the destruction decreed against this whole land.”
His words sent a chill through Abijah’s veins. She had hoped that her nation was finally out of danger, her children safe. But what if Isaiah’s words proved true and their troubles were only beginning? What would happen to Hezekiah—and to the baby who would be born in a few months? She rested her hands on her stomach and closed her eyes for a moment, praying as she did every day that Yahweh would keep her children safe.
Ahaz’s signal to start finally reached the head of the caravan, and the black-bearded Assyrian soldiers set off at a brisk pace. The crowds parted to let them pass, the people cheering their king and drowning out Isaiah’s warnings. But the prophet’s words echoed in Abijah’s heart long after the procession disappeared from sight.
A cold, damp rain fell over Jerusalem and low-hanging clouds hid the surrounding hills from view. But Hezekiah didn’t care about the chilly morning weather as he skipped through the wet streets, splashing his sandals in all of the puddles, splattering muddy water over his ankles and feet.
“Watch where you’re walking,” his mother scolded. “You’re getting your feet all wet.” But she was smiling, and Hezekiah knew that she wasn’t really angry. He ran back to where she and Zechariah had halted as they paused to catch their breath.
“Please hurry up,” he begged as he ran in circles around them. “We’re going to be late and miss the morning sacrifice.”
“We’ll be on time, son. Don’t worry,” Zechariah said.
“I want to see all of it, Grandpa.”
“I know. We’re almost there now. See that wall?” he asked, pointing. “That’s the top of the Temple enclosure.”
Hezekiah took each of them by the hand and tugged them forward. “Please hurry!”
“I can’t climb any faster,” his grandfather said. “This damp air makes my bones ache.”
“You promised to take me to the Temple a long time ago.”
“I know, I know. But we had to wait for the right time, son.”
“I’m not sure your father would approve if he knew that we were taking you to Yahweh’s Temple,” his mother added. “But he left for Damascus yesterday.”
Hezekiah felt a delicious thrill at the thought of sharing a secret with his mother and grandfather. The fact that his father might not approve made it even more exciting. “Why doesn’t he want me to come here?” he asked. “Because he worships Molech?”
“Well, yes. That’s part of it,” Zechariah replied.
“Doesn’t he worship Yahweh, too?”
“Your father can’t do both, remember? ‘Hear O Israel. Yahweh is our God—Yahweh alone.’”
Hezekiah remembered. It was the first thing that Zechariah had taught him. “Will you take me inside the Temple after the sacrifice, Grandpa?”
“Well, remember now—only the priests can go into the holy sanctuary.”
“I know. But we can go inside where you live, can’t we?” Zechariah had told him that Yahweh’s Temple was the most wonderful place on earth, and Hezekiah was eager to see all of it.
“I’ll show you everything I can,” Zechariah promised.
Hezekiah dropped their hands again. They were walking much too slowly. His mother ruffled his hair, and Hezekiah darted off in search of another puddle.
“Don’t get your feet all wet,” she called. But it was much too late to heed her warning. Hezekiah’s feet were already wonderfully drenched.
At last they reached the top of the hill and passed through the gate into the Temple’s outer courtyard. Hezekiah could see the roof of the sanctuary up ahead. His mother left them to go into the women’s court, warning him to stay with his grandfather. But as he and Zechariah walked around to the front of the building, which faced east, Hezekiah was shocked to see ugly wooden scaffolding covering the front of it. Yahweh’s Temple didn’t resemble the magnificent structure he had expected to see.
“Those are the bronze pillars I told you about,” Zechariah said, pointing to the two massive columns that supported the porch of the sanctuary. “Do you remember their names?”
Hezekiah squinted his eyes as he tried to recall what Zechariah had taught him. “One is Boaz, and the other is . . . um . . . what is it again, Grandpa? I forgot.”
“The other is Jakin: ‘Yahweh establishes.’ And Boaz means ‘In Him is strength.’”
“Why are they all covered up with ugly boards?”
Zechariah gave a sigh that was almost a groan, and Hezekiah looked up at him. “Because your father wanted the bronze metalwork. I wish you could have seen those pillars before your father stripped them. They used to be overlaid with bronze and covered with magnificent carvings.”
“Why did he take them all apart, Grandpa?”
“Because he needed presents to give to the king of Assyria, and he knew that the most beautiful treasures in the nation were here in Yahweh’s Temple.”
Hezekiah looked around and was surprised to see that only a handful of people had come to the sacrifice at the Temple. Thousands of people had followed the procession to the Valley of Hinnom to worship Molech, and he had expected at least as many people—even more.
“Where is everyone?” he asked Zechariah. “Why didn’t they come to see Yahweh’s sacrifice?”
Zechariah sighed again. “Because the people of Judah have turned away from worshiping Yahweh. They worship many false gods now, and they don’t seem to know the difference. It’s up to the king to lead the way, and the people will follow his example. But your fathe
r has turned his back on Yahweh.”
“Why did he do that?”
Zechariah shook his head. “I don’t know, son. I guess, in a way, I’m to blame, and I’m sorry.”
Hezekiah didn’t understand how his grandfather could be to blame. He was about to ask him about it when a plump little man hurried over to them, followed by a boy who was a few years older than Hezekiah and a head taller.
“Zechariah, my friend! Oh, praise the name of the Lord,” the little man gushed. “It’s so good to see you!” His brown eyes beamed with joy as the two men embraced. “This is my son, Eliakim,” he said, gesturing to the boy. “I’ve been so worried about you, Zechariah. But you look wonderful! Wonderful!”
“I am a new man, Hilkiah—thanks be to God. I want you to meet my grandson, Prince Hezekiah.”
Hilkiah immediately dropped to his knees to bow, pulling his startled son down beside him. Their actions surprised Hezekiah. He rarely left the palace and wasn’t used to having people bow to him the way they bowed to his father.
“Eliakim and I are honored to meet you,” Hilkiah said. The two stood up again, and the adults were soon deep in conversation, ignoring the boys. Hezekiah saw Eliakim studying him from head to toe.
“Are you really a prince?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Then King Ahaz is your father?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t he come to the sacrifice with you?” Eliakim fired his questions so rapidly that Hezekiah barely had time to think before answering.
“Um . . . he went to Damascus.”
“Why did he go there?”
“To see another king, I think.” Hezekiah turned away to watch the activity in the courtyard, wishing that his grandfather would hurry up and finish talking. A handful of priests and Levites had emerged from a side door and were gathering beside a huge bronze altar.
“What does it feel like to be royalty?” Eliakim asked.
“I don’t know,” Hezekiah said with a shrug.
“Abba says that kings and princes have royal blood. Do you?”
“I guess so.”
“Well, what does it look like?”
The only time Hezekiah had seen his own blood was when his nose had bled a little. “It’s dark red,” he said, remembering.
“So is mine. How is royal blood any different, then?”
“I don’t know,” Hezekiah said, shrugging again. He had never thought about being different before. But then, he had never met any other children besides his brothers. And he’d never met anyone who asked as many questions as Eliakim did.
“Are you going to be the king someday?” Eliakim continued.
Hezekiah hesitated, unwilling to admit that he was now Ahaz’s firstborn son. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
“You’ll get to stand on that platform over there by the pillars, if you do,” Eliakim said, pointing to it. “What are you going to do when you’re the king?”
Hezekiah answered with another shrug, hoping it would discourage more questions.
“I’ve never seen you here before,” Eliakim said. “Is this your first time?”
“Yes.”
“Are you going to come to the evening sacrifice, too?”
“Maybe.”
“Abba and I come every day, morning and evening. I have to watch from out here because I’m not old enough to go into the men’s court, yet. But after my next birthday I can worship with Abba and all the other men.”
Zechariah had explained to Hezekiah that he would have to wait until he turned twelve before he’d be allowed to participate in the ritual, and now he found himself envying Eliakim because he was almost a man. He wondered what it would be like to have a father like Hilkiah who brought him to Yahweh’s Temple twice a day. Suddenly one of the priests blew the shofar from high atop the temple wall. Hilkiah said good-bye and hurried off to join the other men in the inner court. Eliakim followed his father as far as the gate.
“We’ll have to watch from out here, too,” Zechariah reminded Hezekiah. He squatted down beside him and rested his hand on his shoulder, pointing to the activities taking place. The men had gathered around a huge basin of water, fifteen feet across and taller than his grandfather.
“First the men have to cleanse themselves at the Bronze Sea,” Zechariah explained. “They confess their sins to Yahweh and wash to make themselves symbolically clean. The Sea used to stand on a base of twelve oxen made of brass, one for each tribe of Israel. Ah—they were so beautiful! They stood taller than you, and three faced east, three west, three north, and three south. They were magnificent!”
“What happened to them?”
“Your father took them, to give to the Assyrian king. Look now. See how the men are washing? They must cleanse their feet so they can walk uprightly before God, and their hands so that all their works will be clean in His sight, and their lips so that they will speak only words that are pure. Now they can go before the altar. Come on, let’s move over here so we can see better.”
He took Hezekiah’s hand as they walked to the other side of the courtyard. There was no statue, no open mouth or waiting arms—only a huge, square altar looming in front of them, twice as high as a man’s head. The air above it shimmered. When a gust of wind suddenly blew in his direction, Hezekiah felt the heat and smoke on his face, and he drew back in fear.
“I want to go home,” he said.
“It’s okay, son,” Zechariah assured him. “You don’t have to be afraid.”
Hezekiah gripped his grandfather’s hand tightly, fighting his fear and the strong memories that the sacrifice stirred.
One of the priests led a lamb over to the altar and Hezekiah saw the blade of a knife glinting in his hand. As the lamb twisted and strained against the rope, Hezekiah remembered the weight of the soldier’s hands on his shoulders, preventing his escape. He remembered his brothers, Eliab and Amariah, and he blinked back tears.
“I want to go home,” he said again.
Zechariah knelt to face him and took Hezekiah’s hands in both of his. “Yahweh isn’t like Molech, son. There’s nothing to fear in His Temple. See how the men are laying their hands on the lamb’s head? The lamb will take their place and bear all their sins. Blood has to be shed in order to pay for our sins, but the lamb’s blood will be shed, not yours and mine.”
When the last man lifted his hand from the animal’s head, the priest swiftly slit its throat. The lamb stopped struggling and went limp as the bowl that the Levite held slowly filled with blood. Hezekiah felt sick. He closed his eyes so that he wouldn’t have to watch.
Then above the murmur of voices and the hissing and crackling of the flames, Hezekiah heard his grandfather’s familiar voice, singing along with the Levites’ choir. The deep, rich tones comforted Hezekiah, and he opened his eyes and looked around. The Levite musicians had assembled on the steps of the sanctuary with their instruments, and Zechariah sang along with them: “‘O Lord, how many are my foes! How many rise up against me! Many are saying of me, “God will not deliver him.”’”
When Hezekiah looked at the lamb again, not much remained. The priest had swiftly skinned and gutted it, and as the men gathered around the great altar, one of the priests walked up the ramp with the offering. Another priest sprinkled the lamb’s blood all around the base of the altar as the Levites sang: “‘But you are a shield around me, O Lord; you bestow glory on me and lift up my head. To the Lord I cry aloud, and he answers me from his holy hill.’”
Hezekiah watched as the worshipers dropped to their knees, then fell forward together, their foreheads touching the wet pavement’s stones. It was the same way people sometimes bowed before his father.
“‘I lie down and sleep; I wake again, because the Lord sustains me. I will not fear the tens of thousands drawn up against me on every side.’”
When the men finished bowing, they looked up at the priest who stood ready to present the sacrifice. “‘Arise, O Lord! Deliver me, O my God!’”
The priest placed the offering on the altar and stepped back as a pillar of flame soared high into the air. Hezekiah jumped back in surprise. No wonder Yahweh had power over Molech. He was also a God of fire.
“He is here!” all the men shouted. “He answers!”
Zechariah had assured him that Molech wasn’t real, but Hezekiah still feared the monster that had killed his two brothers. But after seeing Yahweh’s power in the pillar of fire, he was nearly convinced that this unseen God was every bit as strong.
The priests placed the remainder of the lamb on the altar, but there was no pillar of flame this time—only a plume of smoke and the sound of hissing coals. The aroma that drifted from Yahweh’s fire smelled wonderfully sweet.
The worshipers all began to leave, and within minutes the courtyard stood deserted. The morning sacrifice was over, and now Hezekiah remembered his long-awaited tour of the Temple.
“Can we see the doors made of gold now?” he asked as Zechariah rose to his feet.
“Ah—the golden doors to the Holy Place. Yes, come on, then.”
They went through the gates as the last of the worshipers came out and crossed the silent courtyard to the porch of the sanctuary. They had to squeeze past the wooden scaffolding in order to see the huge double doors to the Holy Place. But when Hezekiah finally reached them, the doors weren’t golden at all. They stood stripped and bare, the wood gouged and scarred.
“They’re not gold!” he said. “They’re just plain old wood!” He felt Zechariah’s hand on his shoulder.
“I’m sorry, son. I didn’t know. I guess King Ahaz took that, too. Ah, Yahweh, forgive him.”
Hezekiah felt cheated, his disappointment hitting him like a fist in the stomach. He followed Zechariah back across the courtyard and into the maze of Temple storerooms on the north side of the mount, but his enthusiasm for the tour had vanished. Zechariah tried to point out a few things along the way, but everything appeared dingy and drab to Hezekiah, with crumbling plaster and stringy cobwebs. When they came to a large storeroom, Zechariah seemed shocked to discover that the shelves were nearly empty. He looked around as if in a dream, then picked up a tarnished silver cup and tried to polish it against his sleeve.