by Lynn Austin
“The more valiantly a village resists them, the greater the punishment that town receives. The more you plead for mercy, the heavier the torture they inflict. They know a hundred ways to prolong death—slowly, horribly—and there are more Assyrian soldiers than there are grains of sand in the desert. No city walls are strong enough to keep them out, no army is mighty enough to defeat them. They’ll carry away entire villages full of people, and those who are carried away are never heard from again.”
The room was still when Jerimoth finished. Eliakim was afraid to speak again. Even Hilkiah seemed at a loss for words to ease Jerimoth’s pain.
But at last Jerimoth sighed, then looked at Hilkiah, who still knelt by his side. “King Hezekiah promised that if I celebrate Passover Yahweh will show compassion, and my daughter will return home to me.”
Jerimoth’s unrealistic hopes alarmed Eliakim. He didn’t believe in such an oversimplified faith. God wouldn’t make all your wishes come true if you prayed. His own father was a man of prayer and had enormous faith in God, yet Eliakim had watched as his mother and two younger brothers died of a fever, one after the other, while his father’s useless prayers ascended into the silent heavens. He remembered kneeling beside his father, praying with all his heart that his mother would live—yet she died. Eliakim knew God couldn’t answer Jerimoth’s prayer. He would never see his daughter again. It would be better if he faced the truth.
“Listen, I don’t think it’s realistic to expect—” Eliakim began, but Hilkiah cut him off.
“We will join with you in prayer, my friend. Yahweh is merciful and compassionate. And I know that He answers prayer.”
“But, Abba—”
Hilkiah silenced Eliakim with a warning look, then turned to Jerimoth. “My dear friend, tomorrow we will take your Passover lamb to the Temple, and my son and I will pray with you. Yahweh will answer you. I know He will.”
Eliakim was furious with his father for making such a rash promise—worse, for involving him. God couldn’t answer a prayer as impossible as this one. The Assyrians never returned their slaves from captivity. The girl was probably dead already.
Eliakim stared down at his plate, picking silently at his food while everyone else ate—everyone but little Maacah. While Jerimoth had been speaking she had sat as still as a stone, her eyes wide, as if she saw the same things her father did. Eliakim realized that she had probably witnessed everything Jerimoth had described, and he was moved with pity for this haunted child. Hilkiah had been right to invite them home—even though he was wrong to encourage their false hopes.
When they finished the meal, Hilkiah turned to the little girl, speaking gently to her. “Maacah, I have a very important job to do right now. Do you think you could help me?” She didn’t move or respond but stared silently at her hands, folded in her lap.
“It’s the children of the household who are supposed to perform this job,” Hilkiah said, “but as you can see, my child is all grown up.” He gestured toward Eliakim. “I could use your help, Maacah. This is the very first part of the Passover celebration and—”
At the mention of Passover, she looked up. “I’ll help you,” she said softly. “For Jerusha.”
Eliakim started to his feet, angry with Hilkiah for dragging this wounded child into his fantasies. She had obviously suffered enough already. “Abba, wait a minute. May I have a word with you, please?”
“Not now, Eliakim. You see, Maacah, Yahweh commanded us to clean our houses very thoroughly before Passover. We’re not supposed to leave even the smallest trace of leaven. That’s because our forefathers couldn’t even wait for the bread to rise when they made their escape from Egypt. My servants have been cleaning our house from top to bottom for the last few weeks, but what if they accidentally missed something with leaven in it?”
He tried to look horrified, but his sparkling eyes betrayed him. He nudged Maacah to her feet. “When Eliakim was a child he always helped me search for leaven on the eve of Passover, and you know what? I think a child’s eyes must be sharper than a grown-up’s, because he always found something we missed.”
Eliakim had fallen for this ruse for years before realizing that the leaven he’d found had been carefully planted for his benefit. But Maacah seemed convinced and eager to help. Hilkiah gave her a wooden spoon and a feather to scoop up the forbidden leaven.
“But first we must recite the blessing,” Hilkiah said. He closed his eyes and lifted his hands toward heaven. “Blessed art Thou, Yahweh our God, King of the Universe, who has commanded us concerning the destruction of the leaven. Amen.” He and Maacah set off to search the house, leaving Eliakim behind with her parents.
“It seems like a long time since I searched for the leaven like she’s doing,” he said. “My father tried to keep some of the Passover traditions even though the Temple was closed, but we couldn’t celebrate the right way. I guess he has always had a lot of faith in Yahweh.” He smiled, but Jerimoth made no response. “You have a lovely little girl,” Eliakim said, trying again.
Jerimoth finally looked up at him, his eyes mournful. “Yes. She’s all I have left,” he said softly. “All I have left.”
11
King Hezekiah stood alone on the palace roof, gazing at the Temple of Solomon on the hill. He had just returned from the evening sacrifice, where the music and worship had moved him deeply, “My soul finds rest in God alone,” the Levites had sung. “He is my fortress, I will never be shaken.”
Hezekiah found it easy to believe in a living God, to believe that he played a part in His eternal plan, when immersed in an atmosphere of praise and worship. On the Temple Mount, high above the city, God’s presence seemed real, and Hezekiah could easily forget the existence of poverty and starvation in his nation. The music and rituals lifted him far above the awareness of those realities. But now the praises had ended, and the crowds had returned to their homes. The daily sacrifice was left to roast slowly on the altar. And as the problems of his nation confronted Hezekiah again, the presence of the Lord seemed to have faded and died with the music.
A week ago he had stood before the cheering crowd on the final day of Passover. He had held up his hand for silence, but a long time had passed before the cheering stopped and Hezekiah could speak. “I wish that the Feast of Passover could go on forever,” he had told them, and they had cheered and shouted, “Yes! Another week! Another week of Passover!” Their willing response astonished him.
Zechariah had held a hurried discussion with the other Levites, then explained the precedent. The first celebration in Solomon’s newly built Temple had been such a success that King Solomon had extended the feast for a second week.
“Then let’s do it,” Hezekiah had said. “I’ll extend this Passover feast for another week, as well.”
The rejoicing was so great it seemed as if the heavens had opened and hosts of angels had joined in the praises of the people. It had been easy to believe then. But now?
Alone on the rooftop, Hezekiah felt very far away from God. Why had he started this reform movement, this revival of faith in the God of Abraham? He thought back to his coronation and all the events of that night, and he knew that part of the reason was gratitude. He owed Yahweh a debt for saving him from Molech’s fire.
But the primary reason was because he had wanted to restore his nation to prosperity and security. And if he served Yahweh, Hezekiah was promised God’s blessings in return. His selfish motives shamed him.
In the streets below, Hezekiah heard singing and dancing as the second week of Passover drew to a close. What motivated all these people? Why had they traveled great distances to Jerusalem? And why did they dance and sing songs of praise in the streets? Because of the food he provided? Because they hoped Yahweh would bless them, too? He thought of Micah and the vicious beating he had suffered for proclaiming Yahweh’s message. What motivated him to serve God? And what inspired Zechariah to endure many years of unjust imprisonment for God and then, at his age, to serve Him with the har
d work of thousands of sacrifices?
If he asked his grandfather or Micah these questions, he thought he knew what they would say—they did it because they loved Yahweh. But in his heart Hezekiah knew that he didn’t feel the depth of love for God that they felt. He felt gratitude for his salvation from Molech, and he felt obligated to serve Him in return. But he didn’t really know God. How could he say that he loved Him?
The song in the street ended, and in the stillness Hezekiah heard footsteps ascending the stairs to the roof. He turned to see Zechariah coming up to join him. How Hezekiah loved this frail giant of a man! They stood side by side in silence for several moments before Zechariah asked, “What’s troubling you, son?”
“Am I that easy to read?” Hezekiah sighed and turned to gaze down at the view again. “I guess I’ve been thinking about the first law you ever taught me—’Love Yahweh your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength.’ I’ve been trying so hard to keep all the laws of Yahweh, all the sacrifices, all the sacred observances—yet I can’t honestly say that I’m even fulfilling the first law I ever memorized. How do I learn to love Yahweh?”
“You already do love Him.”
Hezekiah shook his head. His hypocrisy had fooled even his grandfather. “You think because I’ve restored our nation’s covenant that I love Yahweh?”
“Yes. A sign that we love Him is that we keep His commandments. That’s the starting place for all of us. As the psalmist has written, the Lord’s love is with those who keep His covenant.”
Hezekiah still couldn’t face Zechariah. “I’ve been studying His Law, and I’m trying to obey every letter of it as perfectly as I can. Why doesn’t that seem like enough?”
“When you married your wife, you made a covenant with her, but you didn’t love her yet. Love will require mutual trust, opening your hearts and lives to each other. It takes work to build a true relationship. The same is true of Yahweh. You’ve renewed your vows at this Passover feast; now the work begins as you learn to love your God. Love for God is never instant. It has to grow and mature just like any other kind of love. The struggle is always with our will.”
“But why do I feel like such a hypocrite, serving a God I barely know?”
“God revealed himself to Israel in the Law at Mount Sinai. As you learn to keep that Law, you’ll learn to know Him better.”
“I don’t understand.”
“When you brought your sin offering to the Temple and placed your hand on the animal’s head, how did you feel at that moment?”
Hezekiah relived the sacrifice, feeling the cold, misty rain on his face and the warm stubble of the animal’s fur beneath his hand. “I felt . . . unworthy.”
“Then you do know Yahweh. When we feel unworthy in His presence it’s because we glimpse His holiness. You obeyed the Law, and He revealed His holiness to you.” Hezekiah nodded slightly, remembering Isaiah’s vision of a holy God. “And now, at Passover,” Zechariah continued, “when you ate the Passover lamb in obedience, how did you feel?”
Hezekiah thought for a moment, trying to put his feelings into words. “I felt like I was part of a much greater plan—a plan that began in the past and continues in the present and will go on into the future. I felt like part of a greater purpose than I can clearly see.”
“Ah! When you obeyed the Law and celebrated Passover, Yahweh revealed himself to you as the Eternal One, whose plan reaches throughout all the ages. That’s why the people wanted to celebrate; Yahweh revealed himself to them, and they hungered for more. As long as you continue to seek Him, son, your love will continue to grow. And as you express your love for Him through obedience, He’ll reveal more of himself to you.”
“Will I ever have faith like yours?”
“That’s up to you. The only way to grow in faith is to put your faith to the test. You must place yourself in His hands and let Him prove himself faithful. Unless you make up your mind to trust Him, you’ll never know that Yahweh is faithful.”
“You’re talking about trusting God to prevail against the Assyrians, aren’t you?”
Zechariah didn’t answer right away. “Hezekiah, do you remember what Yahweh promised you long ago, in the Valley of Hinnom? ‘When you go through deep water, Yahweh will go with you. And when you ford mighty rivers, they won’t overwhelm you. When you pass through the fire, you won’t be burned. The flames will not hurt you. For Yahweh is your God. The Holy One of Israel is your Savior.’”
Hezekiah stared at his grandfather as the truth struck him. “That prophecy wasn’t just for me, was it?”
“No, son. That promise is for everyone who believes in Him and trusts Him in faith.”
The merriment in the street died away as the revelers went home for their evening meals. Hezekiah gazed over the parapet, watching them go. When he turned back, Zechariah was gone. Hezekiah stood in the growing twilight, pondering the decision he knew he had been avoiding. He couldn’t avoid it much longer. The time was rapidly approaching when the tribute payments to Assyria would have to be made.
His people suffered under a heavy burden, even though God had delivered them from slavery once before, at the first Passover. Worse, the Assyrian king was receiving Yahweh’s tithe. For both of these reasons, Hezekiah knew it was wrong to send the tribute. But now there was a third reason. If he truly believed that God heard Israel’s cries of suffering, truly believed everything that the Torah said about Him and His covenant with the nation, then why didn’t he trust Yahweh to deliver him from Assyria? Was the Assyrian emperor more powerful than Yahweh? Zechariah had told him to put his faith to the test, but did Hezekiah dare to test Yahweh with the future of his nation at stake? Was it fair to risk the lives of his people? Would God really intervene in the political struggles of his nation?
Hezekiah felt as if he were balancing on the parapet and one mistake—one misstep—would send him hurtling to disaster. No matter whether he decided to send the tribute or not, the effect on his nation was certain to be great. He needed only a push, a gentle shove to help him decide which way to fall—to allow his nation to plunge deeper into poverty and debt, or to let them fall into the hands of God. Again Hezekiah heard footsteps ascending the stairs, and this time he turned to see Shebna walking toward him.
“Your Majesty, the meal is ready, and I told the servants I would summon you. I . . . I wanted to talk to you.”
Hezekiah was surprised to see Shebna struggling for words. It hadn’t happened before, in all their years together. “What is it, Shebna?”
“Your Majesty, I owe you an apology. You know that at first I did not agree with all the religious reforms you were making.”
“Yes. I know.”
“I am sorry. I was wrong. Now I can see the wisdom in what you have done.”
“Does that mean you believe in God?”
“No, my lord. I still cannot say I believe. But in the short time that you have been king, I have seen this shattered nation pull itself together almost miraculously. It is wonderful! I have never seen such strong bonds of nationalism, such a sense of shared history. You used the same strategy that your ancestor King David used. He strengthened his power by returning the ark to Jerusalem. And now, by celebrating Passover, you have unified the nation in support of your reign. It was a brilliant strategy, Your Majesty. No king has been this popular since David. You could do anything now, ask anything of them, and they would follow you.”
“Is that what you think?” Hezekiah asked in horror. “That I started these religious reforms as . . . as some sort of political strategy? For my own personal gain?”
Shebna didn’t need to answer. Hezekiah knew that his friend wasn’t far from the truth. His original motives had been self-serving—to save his reign from economic and political disaster. And Yahweh, who knew all men’s hearts, knew the truth, as well.
“Please, don’t let it be true,” Hezekiah murmured.
“Pardon, Your Majesty?”
“You’re wrong, Shebna,
” Hezekiah said quietly. “David brought the ark to Jerusalem because he wanted the reality of the presence of God.”
“I do not understand.”
“No, of course not,” he said to himself. “You couldn’t possibly understand unless you believed.” Hezekiah felt the push he needed, the gentle shove that forced him off the wall of indecision. He made up his mind. “Shebna, I know you’ve argued against this in the past, and that’s why I want you to be the first to know.”
The Egyptian looked alarmed. “To know what, Your Majesty?”
“At harvesttime, when the tribute to Assyria is due, we won’t be sending it. Our nation is in God’s hands now.”
“Your Majesty, no! Are you certain you want to do this? You cannot possibly believe that some invisible god will be able to protect you if you rebel against the Assyrians!”
Once again Hezekiah recalled the prophet’s words: “When you pass through the fire, you won’t be burned . . . for Yahweh is your God.”
“Yes, Shebna,” he answered quietly. “I do believe it.”
Shebna looked up from his evening meal as Prince Gedaliah pushed past the servant and barged into his private chambers without waiting to be invited. Gedaliah’s face was flushed, and his body bristled with anger. Shebna knew immediately why he had come.
“You can’t let him do it!” Gedaliah shouted. “He’s rebelling against Assyria? Are you both crazy?”
Shebna laid his bread down and pushed his plate aside. “I had no choice,” he said, controlling his own anger. “The king never asked for my advice. He reached the decision on his own.”