by Lynn Austin
When he reached the royal palace below the Temple Mount, Micah saw thousands of people already gathering in the outer courtyard, even though the coronation wouldn’t begin for three more hours. He wondered what drew them. Did they hope for a better life under a new king, with renewed prosperity and peace? Micah longed for those things, too, but he knew that they couldn’t come from an earthly king, only from God.
He scanned the thousands of faces he passed in the crowd, but no one seemed happy, in spite of the drinking and laughter. For a brief moment he saw them the way Yahweh did—like sheep without a shepherd—and he knew that Isaiah had been right. The time had come for Yahweh’s prophets to speak His message once again. God loved these people, and He longed for them to return to Him. But as badly as Micah wanted to proclaim God’s Word to them, he knew it was still too soon. He had to wait until tonight at the coronation feast.
He sighed and leaned against the wall of the courtyard, away from the crush of people, and took out the sketch of the palace Isaiah had drawn for him. He had studied it every spare moment along the way to Jerusalem until he had memorized it. Now he compared the drawing to the actual palace in front of him, trying to decide which route he would take to the banquet hall. He didn’t know exactly what he would say to King Hezekiah, but Yahweh would provide the words when the time came.
As Micah watched, a squadron of palace guards, armed with swords and spears, pushed the crowd back, then assembled in a protective circle around the perimeter of the palace stairs. He hadn’t realized that there would be so many guards, and he wondered how he could get past them. He also wondered what would happen to him after he prophesied—would they let him quietly walk away and return to his home in Moresheth or would he be imprisoned or even killed? To his surprise, he felt no fear. He would listen to the voice of Yahweh and speak the words He gave him—what happened after that didn’t matter.
As the restless crowd pressed in on him, Micah decided to go someplace where he could be alone with God and prepare himself for his task. He folded the map once again and pushed his way out of the palace gates, feeling in the folds of his cloak for the silver pieces that Isaiah had given him. He wanted to use some of them to purchase a dove for a burnt offering of purification, and he climbed the steep steps to the Temple Mount—God’s dwelling place.
But as soon as Micah entered the men’s court and saw the huge Assyrian altar, he stopped short. Isaiah had warned him that Ahaz had erected a pagan altar in Yahweh’s Temple, but Micah hadn’t been prepared for the overwhelming sense of violation he felt. The idols carved around the altar’s base seemed to mock God in His own Temple. Yahweh’s altar of burnt offering had been pushed aside, just as He had been pushed aside in men’s hearts to make room for their false gods. Micah wanted to cry aloud at this outrage. Instead, he turned and fled from the Temple. He could never offer a sacrifice to Yahweh in this place. God no longer dwelled here. No wonder His nation was suffering.
Micah plowed through the winding streets, not caring where they led him. The crowds jostled and buffeted him, but he was too numb with anger and grief to feel it. He hurried blindly down the hill and found himself in the marketplace, where the noise and activity brought him back to the present. Voices assaulted him from all sides as shopkeepers hawked their wares, competing with each other for customers. Micah was still dazed when an idol merchant stepped into his path.
“Come over here and look at these,” the man invited, pointing to his booth. “I sell the finest household gods in the city. See? I have olive wood, gold, ivory . . . What’ll it be, friend? Baal, for good crops? Only thirty shekels.”
“Leave me alone.” Micah tried to push past him, but the merchant grabbed his arm.
“You won’t find any gods better than these. For you—twenty-five shekels.”
“I don’t want your filthy idols!” Micah wrenched free of the merchant’s grip, shoving him backward a little harder than he intended to. The man lost his balance and stumbled, knocking over some of the images on his table.
“Hey! You can’t push me around! Come back here!”
Micah elbowed through the crowd, hoping the man wouldn’t follow him. He didn’t know how he had ended up in the market district, but he wanted to get away from here as quickly as possible. He looked around for the street that led to the Valley Gate, but he couldn’t see past the jostling people.
Suddenly, someone gripped his arm. Micah spun around, expecting to see the idol merchant, but faced an older man instead. “You’re not from around here, are you?” the man said. “Came to the big city for the celebrations, huh? Listen, I can give you a good deal on incense for the gods. It’s imported stuff—only ten shekels.”
“I don’t worship idols,” Micah said, prying the man’s hand off his arm. He tried to walk away but a woman stepped smoothly into his path. She wore no veil or head covering but approached him immodestly, face-to-face, her eyes painted with kohl.
“Is that old toad bothering you?” she asked Micah, pointing to the incense merchant. “Want me to cast a spell on him?”
Micah couldn’t reply. To speak to such a shameful woman was improper.
“Maybe you have a departed loved one you wish to speak to?” she asked, smiling. “Why don’t you come home with me, honey, and I might even conjure up King Ahaz for you.” She tossed her long black hair over her shoulder and laughed.
Micah turned away and dove into the crowd, shoving people out of his path. He felt shaken and contaminated with the filth of idolatry. But in his haste to leave the marketplace, he unwittingly stumbled into a gathering of Asherah worshipers. The cult prostitutes stood on a small raised platform while an eager group of men bartered for their services. As Micah burst through the mob into the open space in front of the platform, the bartering suddenly stopped. Everyone stared at him as if waiting for him to explain the interruption.
Micah began to tremble as the power of Yahweh flowed through him. Once again he saw the people through God’s eyes—saw that His grace was strained to the limit and about to run out. Yahweh’s wrath and righteous judgment loomed above the whole nation because of their sins, yet the people were blind to their peril. Micah had to warn them. They needed to know. He leaped onto the platform, shoving the prostitutes into the street.
“Listen to me!” he shouted. “All of you, listen! The Lord in His holy Temple has made accusations against you!” As Micah’s voice carried across the marketplace, the chattering and bartering stopped. A hushed silence swept through the crowd.
“Look! Yahweh is coming from His dwelling place to tread the high places of the earth. The mountains will melt beneath Him and the valleys will split apart, like wax before the fire. All this is because of your sins! ‘In that day,’ declares the Lord, ‘I will destroy your witchcraft and you will no longer cast spells. I will destroy your carved images and your sacred stones from among you; you will no longer bow down to the work of your hands. I will uproot from among you your Asherah poles and demolish your cities. I will take vengeance in anger and wrath upon the nations that have not obeyed me. Zion will be plowed like a field, Jerusalem will become a heap of rubble, the temple hill a mound overgrown with thickets.’”
Micah leaped off the platform and overturned a table of carved images, dumping its contents into the street, smashing all the idols that lay in his path. “Yahweh will pour Jerusalem’s stones into the valley and lay bare her foundations. All of her idols will be broken to pieces!”
As he paused for breath, Micah looked around at the people, wondering if they would heed his warning and repent. But before he could continue his prophecy, a gang of drunken youths decided to follow his example and began overturning tables of fruit and vegetables, smashing jars of olive oil and ripping open sacks of grain. The crowd went wild, scrambling to loot the smashed booths, and the marketplace erupted into a riot.
“No, wait! Stop!” Micah shouted. “You don’t understand!” He had never intended for this to happen. He watched as the violence raged
around him, feeling as if he’d stepped into a nightmare.
Suddenly the idol merchant stood in front of him, brandishing a club. Micah tried to step back and realized that angry merchants swarmed all around him, armed with bats and sticks. His heart pounded with fear. This couldn’t be happening to him. He had to get away. He had to prophesy to the king tonight. He tried to run, but there was no place to go.
The idol merchant swung at him, and Micah dodged, only to catch a blow from behind. He tried to defend himself, but the force of their attack was overwhelming. Clubs struck him from all sides with unrelenting pain. He raised his arms to shield his head and felt a sickening crack as a bone in his left arm fractured, leaving it limp and useless. They meant to kill him.
“Help me . . . Yahweh, help me!” he cried as he struggled to get away, to keep from collapsing. A violent blow smashed into his forehead and pain ripped through his skull. He staggered forward as blood poured into his eyes, blinding him. Another blow knocked him to the ground, and the angry merchants closed in on him, kicking and beating him until everything went black.
19
Hilkiah watched in horror from his booth in the marketplace as angry merchants surrounded Yahweh’s prophet and began beating him. Hilkiah had thought that the dark-bearded man was just another peasant who had come to Jerusalem for the festivities—he had the calloused hands and brawny arms of a man who wielded a plow behind a team of oxen. But then he’d begun to prophesy, and Hilkiah recognized the powerful voice of Yahweh that had been silent for so long. But what came next happened much too fast. One minute Hilkiah had listened spellbound to the prophet’s warning vision, and the next thing he knew, the merchants were attacking the man.
“Stop, stop—you’ll kill him!” Hilkiah cried. He raced from his booth into the street to save the prophet, but before Hilkiah could get there, his son Eliakim grabbed him from behind.
“Abba, no. Don’t go out there.”
“Let go of me, Eliakim! Let me help him! They’re killing him! They’re killing God’s prophet!” He struggled to break free, but his son was taller and stronger than he was. He wouldn’t let go.
“They’ll kill you, too, Abba. Stay out of it. It’s none of your business.”
“Let me go! God of Abraham—somebody! Help that man!”
Hilkiah felt each blow that the angry men rained down on Micah, but he couldn’t break free as Eliakim dragged him back to his booth. Suddenly he heard the sound of horses as a squadron of soldiers from the palace guard thundered into the marketplace.
“Oh, thank God—thank God,” Hilkiah breathed.
“That’s enough!” the captain shouted above the chaos. “Stop where you are! All of you!”
The mob quickly backed away from Micah, dropping their clubs. All over the marketplace, the destruction and looting suddenly stopped as people scrambled to disappear and avoid arrest.
“Spread out,” the captain ordered. “Arrest anyone who moves.” He stood with his sword drawn, gazing at the destruction all around him. “What’s going on here? Who’s responsible for this?”
“Let me go!” Hilkiah begged. “Let me explain it to him.”
Eliakim tightened his grip. “No, Abba. Stay out of it.”
One of the angry merchants pointed to the prophet’s motionless body. “He’s the one who started it all. He destroyed my booth, and he has to pay for it.”
“Are there two other witnesses who can confirm your testimony?” Jonadab asked.
“Yes—I’m also a witness,” another merchant said. “The man claimed to be a prophet of Yahweh.”
“A prophet?” the captain repeated as he studied the man’s bloody peasant clothing.
“Yes! Yes! A man of God!” Hilkiah tried to step forward, but Eliakim pulled him away from the door.
“Shh! Abba, please. Don’t get involved!”
“Let me go! Let me explain!” His arms ached from Eliakim’s grip.
The crowd murmured as Captain Jonadab paced the length of the street, surveying the damaged booths. Then the captain walked back to where the prophet lay.
“Whoever wants to press charges should bring witnesses before the judges at the city gate. If the prophet lives, he will have to pay for the damages. In the meantime, I’m placing him under arrest at the guard tower. As for the rest of you—go about your business or I’ll arrest you, as well!” He signaled to his soldiers, and they lifted the prophet beneath his arms and dragged him away.
Hilkiah sagged against his son as he watched the soldiers leave. When Eliakim finally loosened his grip, Hilkiah turned on him, angry and frustrated. “What is the matter with you? That man was God’s prophet. Why didn’t you help me instead of stopping me?”
“Abba, I helped you the best way I knew how—I kept you out of it. That mob was out of control. They would have killed anyone who helped him, including you.”
Hilkiah sank onto a stool, shaking his head. “I can’t understand why you don’t share my outrage. Do you even see the evil all around us, or have you grown so accustomed to it that it no longer bothers you?”
“Abba, I stopped you because they would have killed you, too, and—”
“You were so young when it started creeping in that you probably can’t even remember when our nation still worshiped the one true God. I wonder if there are any good men left in the world, or if you and I and this prophet are the only faithful followers Yahweh has left?” He sighed in frustration. “It’s been so long since I’ve heard the Eternal One’s prophets speak. You probably can’t even remember them.”
Eliakim rested his hand on his father’s shoulder. “Yes, I do, Abba,” he said quietly. “I once met Rabbi Isaiah—remember? I went to warn him for your friend, Zechariah.”
“The prophets are the only hope for this nation,” Hilkiah said sadly. “They’re our only hope.”
“We have a new king now, Abba. Maybe things will be different.”
Hilkiah shook his head as he stared out into the street, watching the merchants sweep up the remains of their damaged booths. “No, I don’t think so. Each new king that has come and gone has been worse than the one before him: Uzziah, Jotham, Ahaz . . . O God of Abraham, what can we do?”
“Come on, Abba. I’ll help you close up for the day. It’s almost time for the coronation.”
“Yes, I suppose we may, as well.”
“At least they didn’t damage your booth,” Eliakim said.
Hilkiah stood and began rolling up the colorful bolts of cloth he had placed on display, stacking them inside his shop for the night. The more he thought about Yahweh’s prophet and what he had suffered for his faith, the more Hilkiah’s thoughts grew into a pressing conviction of what he must do. He walked over to where his son was stacking cloth and took the bolt from his hands, careful to conceal his sense of urgency.
“The coronation will start soon, Eliakim. Why don’t you go on ahead and pick a good spot where we can watch it? I’ll close up the booth and meet you there in a little while.”
“You’ll finish faster if I help.”
“No, no, no. You go, son. I’ll be along shortly.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, yes! ‘Are you sure?’ he asks. Of course I’m sure. Go, already!” He motioned for Eliakim to leave, then turned his back and continued rolling up bolts of cloth and straightening the piles with deliberate patience.
“Okay, then. I guess I’ll see you later,” Eliakim said.
Hilkiah busied himself with his goods as his son set off up the street toward the palace. When he was certain that Eliakim was out of sight, he hurried over to the idol merchant’s booth.
“Shalom, my friend,” he said cheerfully as he bent down to help him pick up the remnants of his booth. “What a mess—what a mess!”
“Lousy religious fanatics,” the merchant grumbled. “I hate them! They’re bad for business.”
“Yes . . . yes . . . I see what you mean.” Hilkiah prayed for God’s forgiveness as he gathered up the smashed
idols. He helped the man clean up the debris and repair some of the damage, then stood back to survey their work. “So—how much do you figure it’ll cost you to make things right again?” Hilkiah asked, idly jangling the silver pouch that hung at his waist.
The merchant eyed him suspiciously. “What do you mean?”
Hilkiah hung his thumbs in his waist belt and patted the money pouch. “It’s a holiday, and my business has been good. I was lucky that none of my goods were destroyed, so I’m willing to help you out a little. That way we can both forget this whole nasty mess as quickly as possible and get back to business.”
“What’s in it for you?”
Hilkiah laughed. “‘What’s in it for me?’ he asks? Look at this mess! It’s an eyesore. It’s bad for business—yours and mine. And a lawsuit at the elders’ gate will be even worse.”
“But why would you want to help that filthy peasant?”
“I’m not helping him—I’m helping you. Besides, the poor beggar has suffered enough, don’t you think?”
“Yeah, we did get him pretty good,” he said, smiling.
“Precisely. You already got more justice than the elders at the gate will ever give you. Why bother with a lawsuit? Besides, I’ll wager that fellow hasn’t a shekel to his name.”
“That’s probably true.”
“Of course it’s true.” Hilkiah clapped the man’s shoulder and pointed him toward the inn down the street. “So—why don’t we drink a toast to the rebuilding of your booth? It’ll be my treat. We’ll round up some of these other merchants and they can join us.”
By the time Hilkiah bought a third round of drinks for the idol merchant and his allies, he knew that the prophecy in the marketplace had long been forgotten. And even if they suddenly did remember, they were much too drunk to testify. Hilkiah smiled, pleased with his afternoon’s work, and quietly slipped out of the inn.