by Mesu Andrews
The high priest nodded his agreement, and Abba chuckled, then addressed those in the dining hall who’d grown awkwardly silent. “It appears my queen wishes to assuage any lingering fears. Tell us, Mattan, how we can be sure Yahweh’s power is waning.”
Sheba focused on the creeping stain on Abba’s robe, his overturned goblet. Hadn’t Mattan taught her such unsettling images foretold unsettling times? But her mentor and high priest rose with puzzling calm.
As he nodded first to the king and then to the gathering, Mattan’s deep, resonant voice echoed off the stone walls. “Many of you will remember when King Jehoshaphat trusted Yahweh to bless his joint shipping venture with Israel, but the almighty storm god Baal destroyed Jehoshaphat’s ships before they left the port of Ezion Geber.”
“Yes! I remember!” shouted a white-haired nobleman. “Almighty Baal reigns!”
Mattan offered a condescending smile but lifted his hand for silence. “And remember that even Moab’s god bested Yahweh when Elisha led Israel and Judah against King Mesha’s rebellion. Israel still languishes without Moab’s wool tribute because Yahweh couldn’t secure the victory after King Mesha offered his son to Chemosh.” Mattan reached for his goblet and lifted it high. “Stand, all of you, and bless your king and his queen in the name of almighty Baal Melkart!”
The dining hall erupted with shouts of praise for the Rider of the Clouds, but Abba turned to Ima Thaliah and spoke in a hushed voice. “What if the letter is right and Yahweh takes you, my love? I’d die if Yahweh took you from me.”
Sheba’s heart nearly melted. Of all Abba’s wives, Ima Thaliah was the only one Sheba had heard him declare his love for.
The queen cupped his cheeks and drew him close. “I am the daughter of Jizebaal. Yahweh wouldn’t dare touch me.” She released a throaty laugh and pulled Abba into an impassioned kiss.
Applause transformed their evening meal into a celebration. Men shouted from every direction, “Long live King Jehoram! Long live Queen Athaliah!”
Sheba stood, joining the chorus, reveling in her parents’ embrace. Oh, how I long for a kiss like that. She turned away, unable to bear the growing yearning in her heart. Blasphemy! she accused herself, unwilling to let a romantic thought take root.
In only a few weeks, she’d be initiated as a high priestess and vow a lifetime of service to Baal Melkart, dedicating her body to the prince of gods alone. Celibacy was a small price to pay to become the only high priestess presiding over her own temple. She’d endured the intimate Astarte training with full knowledge she’d never need the seductive skills. But on lonely, moonlit nights, she often wondered how she’d bear a lifetime without a man’s love.
At least I won’t be one of many in a harem. She had only vague memories of her birth ima, Naamah. She had died when Sheba was very young, but a little girl remembers her ima’s tears. “Celibacy is better than a life of rejection,” Sheba whispered, watching the crowded dining hall become more raucous.
Hazi’s fellow guards grabbed serving maids for pleasure, and Abba’s other wives danced while keeping their eyes on the king—undoubtedly hoping to gain his attention. But Abba Jehoram grew more passionate with his beloved Thaliah.
Sheba stood awkwardly, focusing on her new sandals. She felt Mattan’s gaze on her. Why was she avoiding him? If I’m going to become a high priestess, I can’t blush like a child when the revelry begins. Taking a deep breath, she squared her shoulders and raised her chin. Mattan grinned, his eyelids at half-mast, brows slightly raised as if challenging her somehow. She tried to look away but couldn’t. Her breath became ragged as his eyes grew bolder, raking over her.
She’d heard rumors among the Astarte priestesses that Mattan had broken his vow of celibacy, but no one was foolish enough to accuse him. He’d come to Jerusalem as part of Athaliah’s dowry from King Ahab, and he’d worked his way into Abba Jehoram’s inner circle of trust. Sheba squeezed her eyes shut, retreating into darkness rather than facing her ruthless tutor. She dared not offend him. He was the key to maintaining favor with Ima Thaliah.
Balling her hands into fists, she dug her nails into her palms. Stop this, Sheba. You have the power to create your own destiny. No man can steal your future. She repeated Ima Thaliah’s relentless mantra, words hammered into a thin gold plate covering Sheba’s thoughts, words, and deeds since she had come under the queen’s care. She’d been a whimpering brat when Ima Thaliah began training her.
Not anymore. Independent. Capable. Strong. These words described Sheba now.
So why did her insides shake like curdled milk when Mattan looked at her that way?
You have the power to create your own destiny. No man can steal your future.
She opened her eyes to meet Mattan’s stare again. This time she lifted her golden goblet, toasted him, and found the courage to turn away with a smirk. Since before Sheba’s first red moon, Ima Thaliah had taught her to humiliate men with a glance—but she’d never dared use it against Mattan.
From the corner of her eye, Sheba saw the high priest tap Abba Jehoram’s shoulder, interrupting the royal couple’s before-dinner passion. Her heart skipped a beat, rattling her fragile courage. Had the condescending smirk been too disrespectful? Would he tell Ima and earn Sheba more bruises? Or worse—days of silence from the woman whose approval meant more than life’s breath?
Abba Jehoram leaned toward Mattan’s hushed voice, and then he listened to Ima Thaliah’s whisper. The king seemed troubled by Ima’s words, but Mattan’s obvious approval gave Abba pause.
After studying their faces for a long moment, the king lifted his hands to quiet the dining hall. “To show our disdain for the Yahwists’ attempts to influence Judah’s throne, I’m sending our youngest son as delegate to affirm Judah’s parity treaty with Israel.”
Sheba glanced at Hazi and found his expression chiseled stone. Hazi hated politics, as evidenced by his choice to join the royal guard rather than govern a fortified city as a Baal high priest like Ima Thaliah’s other sons.
Abba Jehoram seemed oblivious—or impervious—to Hazi’s displeasure. “Prince Hazi will lead his detachment of Carites to guard my lovely wife, who has demanded a visit with her ima, the Gevirah Jizebaal, in Jezreel.” He lifted a newly poured glass of wine in Hazi’s direction, and the usually charming prince offered a begrudging toast in return.
Sheba watched Ima Thaliah nudge Abba and whisper again. He cleared his throat and turned his attention to Sheba. “And you, my dear, will accompany Queen Athaliah to meet Jizebaal.” Mischief crept into his handsome features. “May the gods help you.”
Sheba gasped with delight—drawing a chastising glance from Ima for her lapse in etiquette.
A rumble fluttered over the gathering, and Sheba noted the impatient grumbling of the guards as they pulled the serving maids close again. Why were men so feral?
Abba Jehoram chuckled and extended his hand as an invitation for Mattan to address the gathering. “I can see our evening has whetted your appetites for celebration, but we must allow our maids to serve the evening meal.” Disapproval threatened to delay the lovely meal Sheba smelled wafting through the hall. With good humor, Mattan raised his voice above the din. “Take heart, my friends. We’ll open our temple gates for special offerings through the Astarte priestesses this evening.” Roaring support erupted as the men released the maids to their appointed tasks. Mattan lifted his goblet again, signaling the meal to be served, while those at the head tables resumed their seats.
Sheba glanced at Hazi, his previous alarm replaced with a confident smile. He winked at her and bantered with his comrade Carites. As the youngest of Jehoram and Athaliah’s sons, Hazi had been given the chance to choose his future, and he’d chosen a soldier’s life. He was as tall as any of the paid mercenaries and more skilled with his dagger than most. Hazi and Sheba had always been the queen’s favorites, the “chosen ones,” as Athaliah’s other sons had called the pair. Hazi’s brothers hadn’t been as appreciative of their roles as Baal’s high
priests—nor as committed to celibacy—as Sheba.
Ima Thaliah’s hand gently enfolded Sheba’s. “Are you pleased to finally meet Gevirah Jizebaal, Daughter?”
More than anything, she wanted to hug her ima and squeal. Instead, she met the queen’s penetrating gaze and offered a slight bow. “I am pleased to do anything you ask of me, my queen.”
The answer won her ima’s approving smile. Respect. Decorum. Compliance. Queen Athaliah was as gentle as a lamb when people met her expectations.
2
1 CHRONICLES 23:28
The duty of the Levites was to help Aaron’s descendants in the service of the temple of the LORD: to be in charge of the courtyards, the side rooms, the purification of all sacred things and the performance of other duties at the house of God.
Jehoiada let the warm, honeyed wine soothe his parched throat and eyed Amariah, his old friend and high priest. He looked bone-weary, his eyes heavy, head nodding. Perhaps he could get a short nap before the meeting.
The meeting. Yahweh, will enough priests and Levites arrive to do the work? It had become a weekly concern. Fewer men from outlying villages reported to the Temple for duty, which meant a smaller number of men must complete the same required tasks. Everyone fought exhaustion.
The downward spiral had started years ago when King Jehoshaphat toured the cities in Judah, appointing Levites as judges and scribes. Upon returning to Jerusalem, he established a central court, assigning two supreme judges. The high priest ruled on matters concerning the Temple, and a Judean tribal leader decided civil cases. Jehoshaphat intended to limit the power of his successor—the current King Jehoram—but the sweeping changes demanded more service from the priests and Levites.
While King Jehoshaphat reigned, Jehoram and his wife shrewdly integrated Baal worship into some of Yahweh’s celebrations, but when Jehoshaphat died six years ago, the new king and queen set aside all subtlety. Pagan altars polluted every high place, and the people’s commitment to Yahweh faded amid promises of Baal’s freedom and pleasure.
How can we restore Your worship, Yahweh?
As if sensing Jehoiada’s prayer, Amariah stirred, and Jehoiada reached across the table to wake him fully. “Are you ready, my friend?”
Amariah roused with a snort and a sheepish grin. “I suppose the Levites have put away their harps and lyres by now. I wonder why, among all Yahweh’s instructions to David, He excluded a tidy work schedule for weekly assignments?” He chuckled, clearly amused with himself, and then stretched his back, joints popping like pebbles under new sandals.
Jehoiada hurried from his own cushion to Amariah’s low-lying couch. He held out a steadying hand. “Let me help you.”
Amariah stared at the proffered hand, grabbed it, and then turned it over and back, examining Jehoiada’s smooth, brown skin. The high priest compared his own gnarled fingers and blue-veined hand. “How is it that you’re almost as old as I am, but you look like a man half my age?” Jehoiada grinned and drew a breath to answer, but Amariah added, “And how many animals did you sacrifice today? I don’t mean how many slaughters did you oversee. I mean how many did you yourself actually place on that altar?”
Jehoiada answered with a wry smile. Amariah wouldn’t believe the numbers if he confessed. He’d offered three bulls, five rams, and fifteen lambs to Yahweh this day, and only one very young priest had kept pace. “You want to know why I look younger than you?” The high priest furrowed his brow, and Jehoiada knew he’d piqued his curiosity. “It’s because the priests’ assistants like me better than you and give me the best portions of sacrifice for evening meals.”
Amariah cackled, good-natured as always, accepting Jehoiada’s help to stand. “Well, let’s go see if those priests’ assistants have everything ready for our meeting.” Laying his hand on Jehoiada’s arm, he leaned in gently. “One day you’ll be high priest, my friend.”
“What? No. I’m your second, and seconds are never promoted to high—we choose by lot, someone younger, Amariah. Like you said, I’m almost as old as you are. A high priest serves for a full generation. It wouldn’t make sense—”
“You have the qualifications, Jehoiada. You’re a firstborn. You’re a priest of Aaron’s line and the family line of Zadok.”
“But I’m old!” he said as they emerged from Amariah’s chamber to the Temple’s inner court. Several passing Levites issued sidelong glances, and the two top priests regained their dignity and returned respectful nods.
“Yes, you are old,” Amariah whispered, allowing the Levites to gain a safe distance. “But the Lord has placed on you the spirit of Moses, Joshua, and Caleb. Like those wilderness fathers, you haven’t aged and declined as normal bodies do. Yahweh doesn’t offer that kind of blessing without a godly purpose—a holy calling.”
Shame colored Jehoiada’s cheeks. “How could I ever be Yahweh’s high priest? My wife—may the Lord bless Anna’s soul—never bore children during our forty-year marriage. Surely if I wasn’t fit to be an abba, I am not fit to be high priest.”
“Our good King Jehoshaphat proved that siring sons doesn’t ensure God’s blessing. He was a faithful king, sought Yahweh with his whole heart, and had seven sons. But when he died, his firstborn killed all six brothers and holds his nephews hostage in the palace to dissuade retribution. We priests are faced with the very real concern of keeping the lamp of King David’s descendants glowing on Judah’s throne.”
Jehoiada felt his temper rising—as it always did when they discussed Judah’s reigning king. He glanced behind them to be sure he wouldn’t be overheard as they walked past the brazen altar and bronze lavers toward the large gallery behind the Temple. “King Jehoram is David’s descendant in name only. He put Judah at risk by killing his brothers in cold blood—men who were loving husbands and abbas. Jehoram’s brothers followed Yahweh and—”
“And that’s what got them killed.”
Jehoiada squeezed the knots at the back of his neck. “Their faithfulness got them killed, but their leadership kept Judah’s borders safe. When Jehoram replaced his brothers with his pampered, pagan-priest sons as governors, it weakened the fortified cities, which weakened the whole nation—the military, the worship, and the morale. How can you stomach this king, Amariah?”
The high priest stopped walking and pulled Jehoiada into one of the storage chambers in the northern gallery. He, too, checked the hall to be sure they were alone. “I tolerate King Jehoram because I want our wayward king to know there’s always a way back to Yahweh. You and I remember him as a boy—before he fell under Athaliah’s spell. We knew his abba Jehoshaphat and the godly training invested in Jehoram and in this nation. Jehoram would never have killed his brothers without Athaliah’s evil influence. And now her sons build temples in the fortified cities they govern, as Jehoram built high places on every hill.” He straightened, adjusting his breastpiece, calming his tone. “For now, Jehoiada, Yahweh asks us to wait.”
“Wait for what?” Jehoiada’s shout echoed in the chamber.
Amariah’s single raised eyebrow tamed Jehoiada’s temper, reminding him of the high priest’s authority. An effective muzzle.
Jehoiada inhaled, closed his eyes, and regained his composure. “Will we wait for another of King Jehoram’s disastrous decisions—like going to war when Edom rebelled? The king and his commanders barely escaped with their lives, and now we’ve lost a third of Judah’s top soldiers in a fight we shouldn’t have fought. If Jehoram hadn’t killed his brothers, Edom wouldn’t have rebelled.”
“Should haves and would haves mean nothing, my friend. We wait for Yahweh’s decision through the Urim and Thummim to know what will be.” Amariah patted his sacred breastpiece, indicating the two stones hidden within it. “They’ve been Yahweh’s mouthpiece since the days of Aaron. We wait until we have a question with two alternatives—black or white, yes or no, guilty or innocent.”
Jehoiada sighed, bone-weary, unsettled by the question nipping at his conscience. Are the Urim and Thummim always
right? “You see, my friend?” He squeezed Amariah’s shoulder and guided him out of the side chamber, refusing to voice his doubts. “Your wisdom makes you a better high priest than I could ever be.”
They continued down the hallway and into the rear gallery, the only part of the Temple complex large enough to muster a full week’s course of priests and Levites—sometimes as many as a thousand men. Yahweh’s servants awaited their assignments for the coming week, but what normally sounded like a beehive in the sprawling space sounded more like subdued echoes in a tomb.
Amariah’s puzzled gaze mirrored Jehoiada’s words. “Where are all the others?” They stood gawking at the four hundred who’d completed their week and maybe another hundred who’d reported for their upcoming duties.
At the height of King Jehoshaphat’s reign, his census of priests and Levites numbered thirty-eight thousand men aged thirty years or older. Every priest was a Levite, born of Levi’s tribe, but not all Levites were priests. The priests, all direct descendants of Moses’s brother Aaron, offered sacrifices before the Lord and were divided into twenty-four families. The Levites, divided into three clans, served within their specialized ministries as musicians, gatekeepers, and scribes.
Jehoiada knew most of the family leaders and many of their sons. A quick perusal of those present told him more Levites than priests had reported for duty, but they still might be unable to muster a full choir with the musicians.
Jehoiada lifted his hands for silence. “Quiet down! Quiet down!”
Sullen faces met his plea. Most of Yahweh’s servants lived on small plots of land interspersed throughout Judah and viewed their three to five weeks of Temple service each year as sort of a family reunion. Disappointment undoubtedly colored their reaction.
“Where are the rest?” Amariah’s reedy voice dissolved into the now echoing expanse. Those who stood before him stared at their feet, the ceiling, the walls—anywhere except the kind eyes of their gracious leader.