by Lynn Austin
She had known this truth ever since the day she had overheard the eunuch talking and had wept with Merab. But Hephzibah had never accepted the truth in her heart until tonight, until she had watched her husband from a distance and seen him for what he was—a stranger who had never once looked her way.
Soon the banquet would end, and the eunuch would escort her back to the harem. Months or even years might pass before she saw Hezekiah again. Now that he was the king, all hope that he would ever love her had to die.
Hephzibah wanted to bury her face in her arms and weep in despair. But she would have plenty of time to mourn in the days to come. Tonight, she would gaze at her husband in his royal robes for every second that she could. But she couldn’t help wondering what he was thinking and why he looked so sad.
Hezekiah refused the servant’s offer of more wine. It wouldn’t help to lift his spirits. He had longed to return to his rooms all evening, but duty obligated him to preside over his coronation banquet. His guests showed no signs of leaving, even though it was well after midnight. Maybe he should set the example and leave first.
He hadn’t enjoyed the feast. His talk with Shebna about the state of his kingdom had drained him and left him feeling sick at heart. All around him, the banquet tables were heaped with empty plates and platters of discarded bones, but Hezekiah hadn’t felt like eating. He was much too aware of the true state of his economy and the poverty that most of his people suffered.
He leaned toward Uriah, seated at his right, to tell him he was leaving. Uriah seemed to know a great deal about running the kingdom, as well as who all the noblemen were and what roles they played in Ahaz’s administration. Hezekiah relied heavily on him for advice, although it frustrated him to do so. But just when he got the high priest’s attention, the musicians began to play again.
“Never mind, Uriah,” he said. “I was going to leave, but maybe I’ll stay a little longer to hear the music.”
“In that case, have more wine, Your Majesty.” Uriah signaled to the servant.
Micah paused halfway up the flight of stairs and leaned against the wall to keep from fainting. Please, dear God. Only a little farther. He knew from memorizing Isaiah’s map that this was the last flight of stairs he had to climb. He was almost to the banquet hall.
The guards outside the palace gates hadn’t stopped him as he and Hilkiah had boldly strode past them, dressed in Hilkiah’s expensive robes and accompanied by his servants. So far, they hadn’t seen any guards inside the palace, and the few people they’d passed had ignored them. Once Micah had gotten his bearings, he had told Hilkiah to wait for him in the courtyard; he didn’t want to endanger the little merchant’s life any more than he already had. Micah was concerned about Hilkiah’s son, too, wondering what had happened to him after he and Hilkiah had left. Micah whispered a prayer for Eliakim, then summoned all his strength to climb the stairs.
By the time he reached the top he felt dizzy and nauseous with pain. He forced himself to keep moving and turned down the hallway to the left. Suddenly Micah halted. Two palace guards stood in front of the banquet room doors, looking directly at him. He closed his eyes to keep from blacking out. He didn’t know what to do. When he opened his eyes again, one of the guards was walking toward him.
Help me, Yahweh! Help me!
The guard smiled. “You look as though you could use some help, my lord,” he said to Micah. “You’ve been celebrating a bit heavily, I see. They must be serving good wine. Would you like help getting back to your table?”
“Yes … thank you.” The soldier took Micah’s left arm to steady him, and Micah moaned in pain.
“And you’ll probably feel even worse tomorrow,” the soldier said with a grin.
The second guard opened the door for them. Micah gazed at the hundreds of people who packed the enormous room.
“Do you remember which table is yours, my lord?” the guard asked.
Micah spotted the head table on a platform at the front of the room. King Hezekiah was still seated there, wearing his royal robes and a golden crown on his head.
“You can leave me now,” Micah told the guard. “I know where to go.” The guard bowed slightly and closed the door behind him.
As Micah limped up the long center aisle toward the king’s table, he put all his mistakes and all the disasters of the day behind him. His goal was within reach. He began to praise God, and he felt His presence and power surging through him. Micah’s pain was forgotten as he concentrated on the words that Yahweh spoke to him.
The musicians finished their song. Hezekiah rose from his seat to leave—then halted. A man stood below the platform, staring up at him. The intensity of his gaze made Hezekiah’s heart beat faster. He was certain he had never met the man before, yet something about his piercing gaze seemed familiar.
“What’s wrong?” Hezekiah asked. “What do you want?”
“Listen, all you leaders of Judah,” the man said. “You’re supposed to know right from wrong, yet you’re the very ones who hate good and love evil. You skin my people and tear at their flesh. You chop them up like meat meant for the cooking pot—and then you plead and beg with Yahweh for His help. Do you really expect Him to listen to your troubles? He will look the other way!”
Uriah leaped to his feet. “Guards!” he shouted. “Take this man out of here!”
“Wait,” Hezekiah said, holding up his hand. “Let him finish.” He didn’t need this stranger to tell him how much his people were suffering. And seeing the remains of the feast all around him filled Hezekiah with guilt. Maybe this stranger had answers. The hall gradually grew silent as the guests noticed the confrontation.
“Why are you here?” Hezekiah asked.
“Yahweh has filled me with the power of his Spirit, with justice and might. I’ve come to announce Yahweh’s punishment on this nation for her sins.”
“Yahweh?” Hezekiah repeated. “One of Israel’s gods?” This all seemed like a dream he’d once had, and he had the peculiar feeling that this had happened before. Something about the man seemed familiar to him. He tried to remember but couldn’t.
“Listen to me, you leaders who hate justice—you fill Jerusalem with murder, corruption, and sin of every kind. Your leaders take bribes, your priests and prophets only preach or prophesy if they’re paid—” “Your Majesty, tell the guards to take him out of here,” Uriah pleaded. “This man is either drunk or insane.”
The banquet hall was dimly lit, and although the man’s face looked bruised and swollen, as if he’d suffered a beating, he didn’t appear drunk or insane to Hezekiah. He turned to Uriah and noticed that all the color had drained from the priest’s face. He was glaring at the stranger with a mixture of hatred and fear. Hezekiah had the eerie feeling that his elusive dream involved Uriah, too. He turned back to Micah.
“You’ve made some serious accusations. I think you’d better explain yourself.”
“My judgments are not my own. I’m here to plead Yahweh’s case.”
“All right,” Hezekiah replied. “Let’s make this a formal hearing.
You may present Yahweh’s case.” He sat down to listen, and Uriah sat grudgingly beside him.
“Listen, O mountains, to Yahweh’s accusation,” the man shouted. “Hear, O earth, for Yahweh has a case against his people. He will prosecute them to the full: ‘My people, what have I done to you? How have I burdened you? Answer me. I brought you up out of Egypt and redeemed you from the land of slavery. I sent Moses to lead you, also Aaron and Miriam. My people, remember what Balak king of Moab counseled and what Balaam son of Beor answered. Remember your journey from Shittim to Gilgal, that you may know the righteous acts of the LORD.’”
“I’ve studied our nation’s history,” Hezekiah cut in. He’d hoped to learn something that would help him, but he was growing impatient. “What does Yahweh want?”
The stranger’s tone changed suddenly as he switched roles, pleading the case for the people. He dropped to his knees. “How can we m
ake up to God for what we’ve done? Shall we bow down before Yahweh with burnt offerings and yearling calves? Will Yahweh be pleased with thousands of rams, and with ten thousand rivers of olive oil? Would He forgive my sins if I offered Him the fruit of my body? Shall I sacrifice my firstborn?”
Sacrifice my firstborn.
Suddenly the floodgate burst open, and the memories poured into Hezekiah’s mind. The rumble of voices and trampling feet. “Which one is the firstborn?” The priest’s hand had rested on Eliab’s head. “This one.”
He remembered the column of smoke in the Valley of Hinnom and the pounding drums. He remembered the heat and the flames; the monster’s open mouth and outstretched arms.
Molech.
Hezekiah began to tremble. “Yahweh,” he whispered.
Now he remembered—he remembered everything. And above all, he remembered his terror as the nightmare returned. But it wasn’t simply a childhood dream. The sacrifices to Molech had really taken place—his brothers, Eliab and Amariah, had burned to death. And if it hadn’t been for Yahweh, he would have burned to death, too. He felt shaken, unable to speak.
Micah rose from his knees and approached him, his voice quiet and soothing. “He has shown you what is good—and what does Yahweh require of you? To act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God.”
Yahweh is God—Yahweh alone.
Hezekiah’s heart pounded as he remembered another piece of the puzzle. “My grandfather …” he murmured.
“He’s alive,” Micah said with a nod. “Your grandfather, Zechariah, is still alive.”
“He’s… ?” Hezekiah shook his head to clear his thoughts, then stood. “Take me to him.”
21
IT WAS NO USE. ZECHARIAH couldn’t sleep. He threw back the tangled bedcovers and groped in the dark for the oil lamp. Once it was lit, he put on his robe and sandals. There had been many nights like this when he couldn’t sleep, and he’d learned over the years to bring his questions to God. It was the only way to find peace in his heart and soul. Tonight Zechariah couldn’t stop thinking about Hezekiah’s coronation and reliving his bitter disappointment when Uriah had prayed, “May your reign be blessed by all the gods of Judah.”
Hezekiah never would have allowed such a prayer if he still believed in the one true God. All the long years of waiting, all of Zechariah’s prayers and hopes had been in vain. Hezekiah had turned his back on Yahweh.
Zechariah walked down the deserted corridor to the Temple library. Like Job, he would bring his complaint to God, hoping to find comfort—and answers—in HisWord. Zechariah loved this room and the scrolls that lined its shelves. He loved to pray here, feeling somehow closer to Yahweh when surrounded by His Word. He lit the oil lamps that were mounted on the walls, then scanned the shelves, trying to decide what to read. He finally chose the fifth book of Moses—the scroll he had read from the day he had brought Hezekiah here—and he sat down wearily at one of the tables. But tears blurred his vision. He was too heartbroken to open it.
Hezekiah knew there were no gods except Yahweh. God had helped Zechariah teach him, he knew the truth! Zechariah remembered the day they had walked to the spring and they had recited the Shema together for the first time. “Louder, Grandpa! Make the goats bellow!”
Zechariah cleared the lump from his throat and recited the words aloud: “‘Hear, O Israel! Yahweh is God—Yahweh alone… .”’
He couldn’t finish.
But from the darkness behind him a voice continued to recite: “Love Yahweh your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength.”
Zechariah leaped from his seat. Hezekiah stood in the doorway.
At first Zechariah thought he was dreaming, but in the next moment he felt Hezekiah’s arms around him, hugging him fiercely, and he knew it was real. They held each other, without saying a word, for a long time.
Hezekiah had remembered his grandfather as tall and strong, but the man he held in his arms now seemed very different. He finally released his grasp and gazed at him. He saw the familiar kindness and love in his grandfather’s eyes and was ashamed that he could have forgotten this man he had loved so much as a child, the man who had comforted him and assured him of God’s protection.
“I’m so sorry, Grandpa—” “No, son. It’s not your fault. Everything happens according to Yahweh’s will.”
“I haven’t thought about Yahweh for many, many years,” he said softly. He felt the need to apologize and to explain himself to his grandfather. He groped for words. “My father insisted that I have the very finest education, the very best tutor. And I loved learning. I couldn’t get enough of it—languages, history, literature. But my tutor didn’t believe in any gods, and my father worshiped hundreds of them.”
Hezekiah hadn’t realized until now why he’d always hated his father. But that memory was coming back, too. Ahaz had sacrificed Hezekiah’s two brothers—and he had intended to kill Hezekiah, as well.
“I hated my father,” he said. “And I hated his idolatry. I didn’t want any part in it. When he moved his idols into Yahweh’s Temple—and when you didn’t come back—I guess I discarded Yahweh, as well. In time, I forgot all about the things you taught me. After a while, even the sacrifices to Molech seemed like only a fairy tale or a bad dream I once had as a child. I haven’t thought about Yahweh in years—until His prophet spoke at the banquet tonight.”
“Forgive me, Yahweh,” Zechariah whispered, leaning against the table. “Forgive my unbelief.”
Hezekiah reached out to support him. “Are you all right? What’s wrong?” He helped Zechariah sit down, then pulled up another bench facing him.
“Tell me about the prophet. Was it Isaiah?”
“No, his name is Micah, from Moresheth.”
“What did he say?”
“He told me that Yahweh had a case to plead against Judah, and he reminded me of our history and everything that Yahweh has done for the nation. When I asked what Yahweh required in return, he said, ‘Shall I offer my firstborn?’ And I suddenly realized why he looked so familiar to me. He reminded me of the prophet I met in the Valley of Hinnom. And that’s when I realized that it wasn’t a dream.” Hezekiah closed his eyes for a moment as the memories returned after all these years.
“I remember being so afraid—the sacrifice of the firstborn—and I was the firstborn after Eliab died. I knew I was going to die, just like he did. And then, when it seemed there was no escape, the prophet spoke: ‘When you pass through the fire, you won’t be burned … for Yahweh is your God.’ And they sacrificed Amariah instead of me.”
It was a few moments before he could continue. “I remember being so afraid that it would happen again, that my father would order a third sacrifice. Then you came, and you promised that Yahweh would protect me from Molech.” He stared at Zechariah for a moment. “But one thing you never told me … I guess I never asked you … Why? Why did Yahweh save me?”
Zechariah could barely speak. “Because He loves you, Hezekiah.”
He shook his head. “But why?”
“King David wondered the same thing: ‘When I consider your heavens, the work of your fingers, the moon and the stars, which you have set in place, what is man that you are mindful of him?’ I don’t know the answer, son, but I do know that He loves us.”
“But I haven’t done anything to deserve His love. Why would He save me?”
“Whether we deserve His love or not is irrelevant. Of all men, I’m proof of that. I sinned so greatly against Him… . but He forgave me, and I know that He loves me.”
Hezekiah still couldn’t comprehend what Zechariah was saying. “But why me? Why didn’t he save Eliab or Amariah?”
“Because Yahweh has chosen you,” Micah said, interrupting. He had been waiting in the hallway with Hilkiah, but he suddenly stepped into the library to join them. “Forgive me, Your Majesty, but Yahweh is urging me to speak, and I can’t keep silent any longer. Yahweh has chosen you to lead this nation b
ack to Him.”
Another memory stirred in Hezekiah’s mind. The other prophetd told him the same thing a long time ago, in the Valley of Hinnom: “Yahweh has ransomed you. He has called you by name. You belong to Yahweh.”
“God still loves His people,” Micah continued. “And He remem-bers the covenant He made with them. But we’ve broken that covenant and disobeyed all His commandments and worshiped idols. So, like a loving father, Yahweh punishes us, giving us over to our enemies until we turn back to Him again. Everything has happened just as the Torah said—if your heart turns away and you bow down to worship other gods, you will certainly be destroyed.”
Hezekiah stared at Micah. “Wait a minute. Are you saying that our nation has been conquered and impoverished because we broke our covenant with Yahweh?”
“Yes.”
Hezekiah expected a lengthy debate from the prophet, but he had replied with bold conviction. Hezekiah exhaled slowly.
“I’m sorry, Micah, but your reasoning is too oversimplified to take seriously. Judah isn’t an isolated nation living quietly with our God. The Assyrian Empire is slowly conquering the entire world—and that’s a reality I can’t ignore.”
“Nevertheless, it’s true, Your Majesty. Yahweh’s wisdom often seems foolish in man’s eyes.”
Hezekiah looked at his grandfather in surprise. “You taught me that once, with the story of David and Goliath.”
Zechariah smiled.
“Your Majesty,” Micah continued, “Yahweh doesn’t simply observe mankind from His heavenly throne. He’s actively involved in the affairs of men—in the affairs of all nations. He’s using the Assyrians as an instrument of His wrath, and when He’s through judging our nation, they will be judged also. Yahweh is sovereign over all.”