by Lynn Austin
Abijah remained hidden from sight until she heard the king’s door slam shut, then she stepped out into the hallway—and into Uriah’s path. “Please don’t kill my father,” she begged him. “Please, Uriah!”
He glanced around in alarm, then pulled her away from Ahaz’s doorway. “Are you crazy?” he asked in a hushed voice. “What are you doing down here?”
“I heard what King Ahaz just said. Don’t let him kill my father! Please, Uriah—please!”
“Do you want to get yourself killed along with him? Go back upstairs.”
“Not until you tell me what’s going on? Why does Ahaz want him dead?” She saw Uriah glance around again and knew that he was afraid of being seen or overheard. But Abijah’s need to know was greater than her fear. She pulled him down the hall a few steps to his own private chambers and opened his door.
“Are you out of your mind, Abijah? We can’t be alone together.”
“Tell me what’s going on—quickly—and then I’ll leave.” She went inside ahead of him, ignoring the sharp, stretching pain she felt in her groin. Uriah finally stepped through the door behind her and closed it.
“The king ordered an Assyrian altar to be built in the Temple,” he told her. “Today was the dedication ceremony, but your father and Isaiah disrupted it.”
“But that’s a good thing, isn’t it? If Ahaz is bringing his idolatry into God’s Temple, weren’t they right to speak out against it?”
Uriah didn’t reply. He turned away from her and closed his eyes as if wishing that she and her question would disappear before he opened them. She could see that he was fighting an internal battle, but she couldn’t understand what it was. Uriah was Yahweh’s high priest. Why would he even consider compromising with idolatry?
“The crowd at the Temple this morning was the biggest I’ve seen in years,” he said softly. “I’ve been trying for so long to draw the people back—and today they came.”
“But you said Ahaz built a foreign altar. You’re God’s high priest, Uriah. You know that my father was right. Why are you on Ahaz’s side?”
He turned on her, suddenly angry. “Why do you do everything Ahaz says? I see you acting like a devoted wife—is that genuine, Abijah? Or are you playing a part, too—doing whatever is necessary to please the king and accomplish your goals?”
“I obey him because he’s my king and my husband,” she said calmly. “But if Ahaz commanded me to do something that was a sin against Yahweh—I’d choose to obey God, not him.”
“At the cost of your life?” His eyes held hers, challenging her. She drew a deep breath for strength but refused to look away.
“Yes—even at the cost of my life. Because if I denied my God, I would have nothing left that mattered. And I believe that God would give me the strength to make that choice if I had to, the same way He has given me the strength to show love to my son’s murderer day after day. My faith in God has been rekindled these past months as I’ve worshiped Him. I’ve seen evidence of His answers to my prayers. He saved my son—”
“I saved your son,” Uriah said coldly.
“Yes . . . thank you.” She was suddenly afraid of Uriah. He was no longer the man she had once known, the man who was devoted to God, the man who had always gazed at her with tenderness. The anger she saw in his eyes and heard in his voice was directed at her—and perhaps at God, too. “Don’t be angry with me, Uriah,” she begged.
“You should have been my wife, not Ahaz’s. But your father had other plans.”
Abijah reached for Uriah’s arm—to soothe him and to steady herself as the cramping pains in her abdomen grew worse. She needed to return to the harem. But she needed to appease Uriah, first. Her father’s life was in his hands, just as Hezekiah’s had been on the day of Molech’s sacrifice. She could see that Uriah didn’t care about doing the right thing—the moral thing. He no longer seemed concerned with Yahweh’s laws. But maybe he would spare Zechariah for her sake.
“You’re right, my devotion to Ahaz is an act,” she said, moving closer to him. “I would have chosen to marry you—not Ahaz. And I think my father would have chosen you, too. He admires you, Uriah, and he loves you like a son. But King Uzziah planned my marriage to the royal family to reward my father. Believe me, Ahaz is your enemy, not my father. We need to fight him together—you and I.”
Uriah grabbed her suddenly and pulled her close, then bent to kiss her. But his kiss was rough and possessive, and Abijah knew that the emotion that drove him was anger, not passion. She yielded to him for her father’s sake, for Hezekiah’s sake, aware that she and Uriah would forfeit their lives if they were caught. When Uriah tried to draw her closer, her unborn child became a barrier between them, and he pushed her away as suddenly as he had grabbed her, staring resentfully at her pregnant belly.
“Get out,” he said.
“Uriah, please don’t kill my father!” she begged. She felt another stab of pain, so sharp it made her gasp. Uriah opened the door.
“I said, get out!”
Zechariah returned to his rooms in the Temple to change his clothes. As he folded his ceremonial robes and placed them on his bed, he knew that today was probably the last time he would ever wear them. But he had stopped the king. He had kept his promise to God. That was all that mattered.
He sighed as he thought about his long career as a Levite. There were many things he was ashamed of, many things he regretted. But Yahweh had forgiven him, entrusting him with other duties now. He must continue to teach Hezekiah—to make sure that he would be a king after God’s own heart like King David. That was the most important task Zechariah could possibly do to serve his God and his nation.
He would say good-bye to all his friends, then move out of the Temple for good. He couldn’t serve Yahweh in a Temple that was polluted with idolatry. He left his robes on the bed and quickly rummaged through the room, hurriedly packing his personal belongings. As he stuffed the last of his scrolls and keepsakes into a small wooden chest, he glanced around, dismayed at the mess he had made with his hurried packing. But he had no time to straighten the room. He had promised Hezekiah that he would return for his lessons, and Zechariah would keep that promise.
Suddenly his door flew open and Uriah filled the doorframe. Zechariah knew by his expression that Uriah’s anger was raging dangerously out of control.
“Your actions at the sacrifice have outraged the king!” he shouted. “Maybe you were once a highly respected rabbi, but you have no right to interrupt the sacred observances whenever you feel like it!”
Uriah towered over him like a stone giant, but Zechariah remained calm. “I have sworn an oath to be faithful to Yahweh, and I will keep that oath, speaking out whenever my God is blasphemed.”
“Why now? Why all of a sudden? You didn’t protest when Ahaz sacrificed to Molech—and you were there, Zechariah.”
“I know. And I’m ashamed of what I’ve done—and haven’t done—in the past.” He stepped closer to Uriah in an act of defiance. “But my past is forgiven. And I will no longer stand by while you and Ahaz lead the entire nation into idolatry. I won’t let you do it. I’ll join with Isaiah to preach against it every chance I get.”
The muscles in Uriah’s face rippled as he clenched his jaw. “You’ll never get that chance. And neither will your friend, Isaiah,” he said with quiet control.
“Is that a threat?” he asked in surprise. Uriah didn’t answer. Zechariah sensed the struggle that was raging in the high priest’s soul. “When did we become enemies, Uriah? You were my finest student. My protégé. When did you join the opposing side?”
“This is very hard, for I have great respect for you, Rabbi. Look, we don’t have to be enemies. You’re entitled to hold opinions that are different from mine. Promise me that you won’t cause any more public disruptions, and you’ll be free to believe whatever you like in private.”
Zechariah heard something in Uriah’s tone that sounded like an ultimatum. For the first time that day, Zechariah felt a
tremor of fear. “And if I don’t promise?”
“Then you’ll be in rebellion against the king.” They stared at each other for a long moment before Uriah spoke again. “Look, the king holds me responsible for what my priests and Levites do. He has ordered me to silence you—any way that I have to.”
Zechariah knew that Uriah was begging for a promise of silence. And he knew that Ahaz would go to extreme measures to guarantee that silence. But he also knew that he could never turn his back on God’s forgiveness. He remembered watching his little grandson die, and knew that he feared the wrath of God more than he feared Ahaz’s threats. He slowly shook his head.
“I can’t promise to be silent.”
“Then you’re a fool!” Uriah’s stony efforts to control his rage began to crack. “I’m warning you, the king won’t stand for it!”
“He’ll have to kill me to silence me.”
“That’s what he’s planning to do! Don’t you understand? He sent me here with orders to get rid of you. Ahaz is accusing you of treason—of making a grab for political power. Why are you being so stubborn, Rabbi? Give up! You can’t possibly win against the king.”
“Maybe not, but at least I’ll die with a clear conscience. Will you?” He stared up at the high priest without flinching, and Uriah’s rage boiled over.
“Curse you, Zechariah! Why can’t you forget your holy crusade for Yahweh and go back to your wine?” He had scooped up an empty wineskin lying on the littered floor and shoved it into Zechariah’s hands, then stalked from the room, slamming the door behind him. A cloud of dust filtered down from the plastered ceiling.
The confrontation left Zechariah shaken. He sank down on his bed and sat there for a long time, staring at the wineskin and replaying the scene as if he could somehow alter it and convince Uriah of his error. Then he remembered Hezekiah. Zechariah had promised to return to the palace hours ago. He lifted his trunk by one end and dragged it across the room. But when he opened the door, two Temple guards stood outside.
“What are you doing here?” he asked in surprise. “Can you give me a hand with this trunk?”
“I’m sorry, Rabbi, but we have orders to make sure you remain in your rooms.”
“Orders? What are you talking about? I have business to attend to.” He tried to push past them, but they stood firm.
“Uriah’s orders. Rabbi, please, you must cooperate with us. We can’t let you leave.”
Zechariah stared at them in disbelief, then finally went back inside and closed the door. He had never expected Uriah to carry out his threat so soon. He felt dazed, unable to grasp what was happening to him. God had given him a second chance, and he had been obedient. Surely God would honor that obedience and protect him for his faithfulness. Why was he being held prisoner?
He thought again of Hezekiah. He had scarcely begun teaching him God’s Law. There was so much the boy had to learn. And he loved him. Dear God, how he loved him!
But with two guards outside his door, there was no way Zechariah could go to Hezekiah. He picked up the empty wineskin and hurled it against the door in frustration. It burst at the seams, splattering the remaining dregs of crimson wine across the floor and walls. Then Zechariah sank to his knees and buried his head in his hands.
“Why, Yahweh?” he cried. “You told me to teach Hezekiah and that’s what I’m trying to do. How have I failed you?”
Zechariah was still praying hours later when he heard the door open. He looked up to see his friend Hilkiah standing in the doorway, his jovial face furrowed with concern. The guards loomed behind him in the passageway.
“Zechariah? How are you feeling, my friend?”
Zechariah scrambled to his feet. “Hilkiah, please come in, come in.”
Hilkiah eyed the guards briefly. “All right—but they told me I can only stay for a minute.” He closed the door and glanced around uncomfortably at the disheveled room and the puddle of splattered wine. “Zechariah, I think you should know . . . Uriah has told everyone that you’ve gone insane.”
Zechariah was stunned. “Insane? Is that what he’s saying? Because I dared to speak out against his idolatry? You don’t believe him, do you?”
“No, no, no. Of course not. You’re my friend. I should believe Uriah? May the Holy One strike me dead! All my life I’ve been faithful to Yahweh—blessed be His name. I hate what they’ve done to His Holy Temple, and I’m proud of you for speaking out. I’m just sorry that you’re being held here. Such a place! I’ve come to ask how I can help you. Is there anything you need?”
“Yes, please!” Zechariah clutched Hilkiah’s arm in desperation. Then, forcing himself to stay calm, he loosened his grasp. “Please—my grandson Hezekiah is waiting for me at the palace. I told him I’d come back, but I don’t know how long Uriah is going to keep me here. Can you deliver a message for me?”
“You want me to go to the palace? Ah, my friend, I don’t know how I can do that. I don’t have the right to speak to the prince. And who can I trust there to deliver your message? I could end up getting you into even worse trouble. Please, I can’t promise something like that.”
Zechariah sighed and rubbed his eyes. “You’re right. Never mind.” He would have to wait a while longer and hope that Abijah would be allowed to come and see him.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” Hilkiah murmured.
“No, it was an impossible request. I guess there’s nothing else you can do for me. Go home, my friend, before they lock you up, too.”
“Are you sure?” As Hilkiah reached to open the door, Zechariah suddenly remembered what else Uriah had threatened to do.
“Hilkiah, wait a minute!” He quickly crossed the room and leaned against the door to close it. “Listen,” he whispered urgently. “You must get a message to Isaiah. He’s in danger, as well. Have they arrested him yet?”
“I don’t think so. He disappeared before they could.”
“Then you must reach him and warn him. He has to leave Jerusalem. They’ll silence him the next time he tries to prophesy.”
Hilkiah looked doubtful. “Well, I’ll try—”
“Hilkiah, please! Swear to me that you’ll do it!”
“Very well, my friend. With the Holy One’s help, I will go to Isaiah and warn him—somehow.”
“Thank you, Hilkiah. May God go with you.”
“And also with you. Shalom, my friend.”
They quickly embraced, then the door closed behind Hilkiah with a hollow thud. Once again, Zechariah was alone with his doubts.
“Why, Yahweh?” he whispered. “Why?”
11
Hilkiah rolled over on his bed, changing positions for what seemed like the hundredth time that night. His body craved sleep, but his mind refused to be silent. The night air felt as hot as noontime and both his tunic and his bedding were soaked with sweat. But it wasn’t the heat that kept him awake. Every time he closed his eyes he saw his friend Zechariah pleading with him to warn Isaiah. Hilkiah had promised to do it, and he knew he would never get to sleep until he did. Yet how could he?
At last he gave up trying to sleep and crept up to the roof of his house, hoping for a breeze. Hilkiah’s house stood high on the city mount among the wealthiest homes, just below the king’s palace. It clung to the hillside, and from his rooftop he could look down on the roofs of the other houses from a dizzying height. A full moon shone above the surrounding mountains, and as Hilkiah slowly turned to view them, he saw the outline of the Temple wall on the hill above him. He groaned and looked away, pulling his beard in frustration.
“Ah, God of Abraham, how I can I do it?” he whispered.
He wondered if Zechariah realized what a dangerous thing he had asked him to do. Visiting Zechariah at the Temple had been a risk in itself, but if he was seen with Isaiah now, he could be accused of conspiracy. His own life would be in danger.
Hilkiah truly believed that Zechariah and Isaiah were right. The heathen altar didn’t belong in Yahweh’s Temple. And he knew that he s
hould have the courage to fight idolatry the way those two men did. But how would his young son Eliakim survive if his father were imprisoned in the Temple—or executed as a traitor to the king?
A year ago during the sultry summer months, a fever had crept through the city from house to house, stealing away Hilkiah’s wife and two youngest children. All that he and Eliakim had left were each other.
He looked up at the Temple again. In a few hours it would be time for the morning sacrifice on the new altar. Imprisoned in the Temple, Zechariah couldn’t stop the ceremony this time or prevent King Ahaz from presenting his own offering. But Isaiah would probably try to intervene, and the guards would be waiting for him when he did. He wouldn’t slip away this time. Hilkiah thought of his son sleeping peacefully in the house below and shuddered. Then he had another thought. Isaiah had a family as well—two small sons with strange prophetic names. What would become of them if Isaiah was arrested? Hilkiah took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.
“God of Abraham, help me.” He turned to descend the stairs that led from the roof to the street, determined to warn Isaiah.
“Where are you going, Abba?”
“Oh, Eliakim!” he gasped. “What are you doing up here in the middle of the night?”
“I couldn’t get to sleep.” Eliakim’s thick black hair was tousled and damp with sweat. He was a slender, handsome boy, nearly as tall as Hilkiah was. Hilkiah rested his hand on his son’s shoulder, and his heart swelled with love.
“I know. I know. It’s hot, isn’t it? Why don’t you get a mat and come up here to sleep?”
“It’s not because of the heat!” Tears sprang to Eliakim’s dark eyes, and he twisted away to hide them.
“What’s wrong, son?”
Eliakim exhaled angrily. “I’m mad about what happened yesterday. They ruined my birthday and it wasn’t fair. I’m finally a man, finally old enough to watch the sacrifices in the men’s court with the others, and everything got ruined.”
“I’m sorry, son. I didn’t realize you were so upset.” Hilkiah tried to draw him into his arms, but Eliakim pulled away.