In the Shadow of Jezebel

by Mesu Andrews

  He’d lived on Temple grounds since he was a child, but these bleak days were more discouraging than any he remembered. During the flourishing days when Asa and Jehoshaphat reigned, almost forty priests’ families were permanent residents on Temple grounds. The high priest, his second, the chief gatekeeper, and several other officers of the Temple remained on-site year-round, their wives living in a designated city house during their monthly uncleanness or prescribed child-bearing separation.

  After observing the stress of such separations, King Jehoshaphat added a grand outer courtyard with living quarters built into the outer walls, where families could dwell together regardless of the women’s state. The outer courtyards themselves served as overflow for the thousands of worshipers who had sacrificed daily at Yahweh’s Temple.

  Now, worshipers numbered less than the weekly course of priests, and the outer court family chambers were empty. Offerings provided barely enough food to support the priests and Levites who served.

  With a sigh, Jehoiada peered from beneath his lamb’s wool. How did Amariah maintain his cheerful spirit when the future looked so bleak? How could he continue to judge at the palace’s central court when a pagan king sat on Judah’s throne?

  Amariah! We must hurry!

  Jehoiada leapt out of bed, reached for two flint rocks, and ignited the wick on a clay lamp. Amariah moved a little slower lately, requiring more time for Jehoiada to dress him. The high priest’s pained expression on the ascent to the raised altar had been a hushed topic among the Levites last week. Jehoiada had issued a deadly glare and heard no more about it.

  A quick peek out his window revealed a faintly reddening sky. He must wake Amariah and get them both to the Molten Sea for purification. After a single knock on the adjoining door, he lifted the iron latch and let himself in, offering the usual morning greeting. “All right, my brother priest. Enough dreaming. It’s time to begin a new day.”

  The flickering flame barely cast a shadow on the wall, but even the dim light made Amariah squint. “I keep hoping I’ll wake up to words from Yahweh’s lips and open my eyes in paradise.”

  Jehoiada chuckled. “Sorry. Instead, we get to wash our hands and feet in the ice-cold waters of the Molten Sea.”

  Amariah slipped into his woolen robe. “It is an honor, isn’t it? To serve Yahweh each and every day of our lives?” Wonder laced his voice as he leaned on Jehoiada’s forearm, and the two walked toward the door.

  “It is an honor indeed.” There it was. That inner joy. That undaunted eagerness to serve. Let it be so in me, Yahweh.

  Jehoiada and Amariah finished their purification and donned the high priest’s golden garments well before the morning service began. Blaring silver trumpets announced the Temple gates’ opening, and Jehoiada stood at the eastern entry, watching the faithful worshipers straggle in. His heart sank. Fewer than yesterday.

  Since King Jehoram had completed Baal’s temple four years ago, offerings to Yahweh had steadily declined. Positioned south of the palace and closer to the city’s market, Baal’s temple greeted travelers entering Jerusalem’s busiest gates. The mysterious-looking citadel of Baal beckoned those visiting the Throne Hall, which meant any foreign dignitaries arriving from south, east, or west met Baal’s abomination before they glimpsed Yahweh’s splendor.

  Jehoiada breathed deeply, trying to calm his rising anger, but the stench of Baal’s sacrifice already wafted on the northerly breeze—a lamb or goat, just like Yahweh’s sacrifices. The similarities confused Judah’s worshipers, and when the royal household vowed the New Moon celebrations were equally beneficial at either temple, offerings to Yahweh plummeted in favor of the pleasure-based rituals of Baal’s shrine prostitutes. How many worshipers had entered Baal’s court this morning? Was the high priest Mattan dissecting some goat’s liver to predict the next battle, or were they reenacting some dramatic story of the pagan gods’ antics?

  “Shalom, Jehoiada.” A man walked by, clutching a lamb, concern creasing his brow. “Is everything well? You look ill.”

  Kicking himself for his obvious scowl, Jehoiada wrapped the man’s shoulders with a comforting embrace. “All is well, my friend. I overslept and didn’t have time to break my fast. A time of worship will brighten my day and make me forget my empty stomach.”

  The sound of rhythmic marching approached, and Jehoiada pulled the man aside as palace guards streamed in the gate designated for royalty, though no king had entered it since Jehoshaphat fell ill years ago.

  “Make way for King Jehoram,” one of the guards shouted. Almost immediately the king rounded the corner, surrounded by the elite Carite guards entrusted with his care—one of them leading a year-old male goat through the gate, toward the inner portico.

  The priests in the inner court bowed as King Jehoram marched his goat to the altar. Amariah received his offering and directed the king toward the upper porch, where royal guests were invited to participate in Temple services. Before retiring to the porch, the king whispered something to the high priest.

  What is our pagan king up to?

  Jehoiada nodded greetings to the sparse worshipers in the other courts, making his way toward the portico. He had almost reached the steps when he felt a firm tug on his arm. “Obadiah?” Lowering his voice, Jehoiada guided the king’s advisor to the portico, where they could whisper without being overheard. “What is going on here? Why is Jehoram bringing the sin offering required of a leader to a routine morning sacrifice?”

  “He seeks forgiveness from Yahweh.”

  “You mean he wants a favor from Yahweh. What game is he playing?”

  “It’s no game, Jehoiada. I delivered a letter from Elijah to King Jehoram last night—”

  “What? That’s impossib—”

  “Please, Jehoiada. I don’t understand it myself. Either the prophet wrote it before he died and his students knew the right moment to deliver it, or . . .” He shrugged, leaving Jehoiada to consider the supernatural alternative. “But there’s more. The letter condemned King Jehoram’s murder of his brothers and his adoption of Ahab’s practices and gods, but what really frightened him was the prediction of a wasting disease of the bowels. Jehoram remembers his saba Asa’s death—the lingering disease of his feet.”

  Jehoiada released a disgusted sigh. “Obadiah, both you and I know feet was just a kind word for a very private and humiliating affliction.”

  Obadiah wiped both hands down his weary face. “That’s the point. Jehoram is terrified that something just as demoralizing will happen to him. He’s willing to pledge anything in hopes Yahweh will relent on his judgment.”

  “What do you mean, ‘pledge anything’? That’s not the way it works, Obadiah.” Every word escalated, drawing attention from those nearby.

  Jehoiada pasted on a smile, as did Obadiah, and the men resumed a calmer conversation. “He sent messengers this morning at dawn to collect the royal princes from the fortified cities,” the nobleman said.

  “You mean Athaliah’s sons.”

  Obadiah nodded, sweat dripping from his brow though the spring morning was cool. “None of Jehoram’s other sons would dare make a play for Judah’s throne. Athaliah has made certain hers are the only sons given the title prince.”

  The thought of Athaliah’s blood mingled on the throne of David piqued Jehoiada further. “What does Queen Athaliah think of Jehoram’s sudden offerings to Yahweh?”

  Obadiah glanced around them and kept his voice low. “Prince Hazi escorted Queen Athaliah to Jezreel to meet Jizebaal—or Jezebel, as she is so deservedly called, that pile of dung.”

  Jehoiada grinned for the first time, enjoying the nobleman’s momentary lapse in decorum.

  “I’m not sure why King Jehoram has summoned his royal sons or what restitution he has planned, but it seems he hopes to accomplish something of import while Athaliah and her Baal high priest are gone. Perhaps it has something to do with the Awakening Festival of Melkart.”

  “We shouldn’t even be having this conversation,�
� Jehoiada whispered between clenched teeth. Breathe. Breathe. “King Jehoram is a coward. Let him make his restitution while his wife and high priest are in Jerusalem! They should cancel the Awakening Festival and participate in the true Feast of Passover.”

  “Shh, Jehoiada. Keep your voice down.”

  “Might I also suggest his restitution include the Day of Atonement seven moons from now?” Jehoiada covered a sarcastic gasp as though a thought had just occurred. “Wait! I guess he’ll never make restitution to the six brothers he murdered in cold blood.”

  Obadiah squeezed his eyes shut and let out a sigh. “Jehoiada, set aside your anger long enough to appreciate this moment. Yahweh’s prophet has spoken to the king of Judah! Granted, we enjoy Yahweh’s presence through His Temple, but we’ve had no direct word from Him since King Jehoshaphat’s reign. Yahweh is at work again in our midst, Jehoiada. This is exciting news!”

  Unconvinced, Jehoiada folded his arms across his chest. “I’ll lead the rejoicing when Yahweh regains His rightful place in Judah, but I don’t believe King Jehoram will make long-term changes because of a single letter from a dead prophet.” He fell silent, awaiting Obadiah’s next round of excuses.

  Instead, the stately nobleman met his gaze, eyes glistening. “I don’t believe Judah’s fate ultimately lies in Jehoram’s hands. The Yahweh I serve is bigger than Jehoram’s failures and Athaliah’s influence.”

  Before Jehoiada could utter a sound, Obadiah hurried up the portico stairs to join the royal delegation, leaving the second priest to search his heart. Could Yahweh overcome the decline Jehoiada had seen during his years at the Temple? If He had the power to stop evil, why didn’t He?

  Jehoiada heard little of the Levite choir’s praise and barely noticed when Amariah made the king’s personal offering. The royal delegation marched down the stairs and past the few worshipers lined up to present their sacrifices. As other worshipers filed out, Jehoiada walked against the flow toward the sectioning tables behind the brazen altar. Since fewer priests had reported for duty, he helped section the daily offerings—sacrificing the prescribed portion on the pyre and separating the priests’ portion for their meals. The day passed in a blur of torment, his mind consumed with the wickedness of the royal house.

  When evening came, he was more than a little surprised when the king reappeared with all four royal princes. The four Baal priests stood defiantly at the King’s Gate, halted by the Temple guards, who refused them entry. Boasting their white priestly garb, bare feet, and shaved heads, they didn’t come with a sin sacrifice, as their abba had earlier this morning. Instead, they stood aloof, protected by the Carites at the threshold of Yahweh’s Temple while King Jehoram again stood on the upper porch to watch Amariah’s sacrifice. Their unrepentant presence was an affront to Yahweh, His Temple, and His servants.

  Jehoiada claimed a dark corner of the inner court, brooding, watching the evening sacrifice from afar. How could God forgive a king who had sinned so grievously? What if Amariah’s prediction came true—which, of course, it never would—and Jehoiada became Judah’s high priest? On the Day of Atonement, he would be expected to act as intercessor for all of Judah, transferring the sins of the nation to a single, sacrificial animal—a scapegoat. Could he, in good conscience, ever ask Yahweh to forgive people as utterly unworthy as Jehoram—and even his sons?

  Another reason I can never be high priest.

  The evening service ended, and Jehoiada lingered in the shadows, watching the king rejoin his sons and file out of the main gate with the straggling worshipers. When faithful Eleazar locked the last Temple gate, Jehoiada wandered over to one of the ten bronze lavers and washed the blood from the day’s slaughters from his arms. He would help refill the ten basins with fresh water before helping Amariah remove his priestly garments tonight. His old friend knew him too well and would sense the unrest in his soul. The less time they spent alone, the better. Jehoiada needed a quiet evening, a good night’s sleep, and a new day. Hopefully, a day unmarred by so many unanswerable questions.

  5

  2 CHRONICLES 15:16

  King Asa also deposed his grandmother Maakah from her position as queen mother, because she had made a repulsive image for the worship of Asherah.

  Sheba was still shaking from the evil she’d glimpsed in Ima Thaliah’s eyes at Gideon’s Pool of Trembling. The imminent reunion with Gevirah Jizebaal had awakened a darkness in Ima that surpassed her typical discipline. After their so-called bath, Ima returned to the demanding yet loving woman Sheba knew her to be—with one exception. She insisted they both wear heavy cosmetics, painting their eyelids with thick malachite, lining them with kohl, and using red ochre mixed with fat to redden their lips and cheeks.

  “We must look like Phoenician royalty to meet Phoenician royalty,” she said, which Sheba thought odd, since they were meeting the king and Gevirah of Israel—not Phoenicia.

  Trumpet blasts from Jezreel’s city walls announced their arrival shortly before sunset—a little later than Abba predicted, but he couldn’t have foreseen Gideon’s Pool. Sheba kept the curtains of her sedan open, eager to absorb every detail of Jizebaal’s spring palace. She noticed a balcony with direct access to the eastern city wall. Strange. It didn’t seem safe for that chamber’s occupant to sleep so near a wall. Gawking, she craned her neck as her camel passed under the gates but quickly righted herself when she glimpsed kohl-rimmed eyes staring back.

  Their procession halted outside a spectacular, pink-hued structure much like the palaces built by the Phoenician King Hiram for David and Solomon. Jezreel’s royal residence was smaller, of course, but boasted the same four-pillared entry and grand stairway leading to double-cedar doors. Fully armored Israelites waited to usher the Judean delegation into the audience hall, but Ima Thaliah halted them in the entry, determined to perfect their appearance before meeting Gevirah Jizebaal.

  She fluffed her own fox-fur collar before straightening Hazi’s jeweled crown. She untied and retied the sash on Sheba’s linen gown, dyed a deep purple with the rare shellfish found only in Tyrian waters. Finally, Mattan’s freshly shaved head drew special attention to his high priestly appearance, which was accented by his golden turban and an embroidered stole suspended from his left shoulder by a jeweled broach. After a last glance at her charges, Ima Thaliah offered an approving nod, signaling the guards to open the double doors.

  Sheba felt as if she’d swallowed a hornet’s nest, and the buzzing in Jezreel’s grand audience hall didn’t settle her nerves one bit. In a room large enough to hold four sailing ships, King Joram—or Ram, as Ima Thaliah called him—sat on a gilded throne, scepter in one hand, Gevirah Jizebaal’s hand in the other. The great lady sat on a second throne of equal height and grandeur, her kohl-rimmed eyes fixed on Sheba.

  A huge soldier stood behind the royal pair. Probably Jehu, the general of Israel’s troops. Sheba was suddenly grateful Mattan had quizzed her mercilessly on the political and economic climate of bordering nations—including the names of top-ranking military officers of their nearest neighbors. From the stories she’d heard of Jehu, he was ruthless, having taken harsh but necessary measures of discipline on his own people during Samaria’s siege. His metal-studded breastpiece and armor, the deep scars on his face, and his watchful eyes certainly made a frightening impression.

  The Judean delegation waited at the doorway until a handsome steward announced their arrival. “May it please our mighty king and worthy Gevirah to receive Queen Athaliah of Judah; Prince Ahaziah and Princess Jehosheba, children of Jehoram; and Mattan, Judah’s high priest of Baal Melkart.” He bowed slightly. “They come as envoys of the house of David, bearing gifts that affirm Judah’s ongoing treaty with the house of Ahab and Jizebaal.”

  The four honored Judeans began their slow procession up the red woolen carpet as servants pulled a four-wheeled cart of copper behind them. Ima Thaliah stopped at the edge, where the tile began, two camel lengths from the double thrones. “A gift from my husband, King Jehoram of Judah
,” she said, directing all attention to the cart. “It is the finest copper from the mines of Edom—a people who rebelled against Judah as Moab rebelled against Israel. We’ve come to discuss these weighty matters with King Ram and his honored Gevirah.”

  Those in the gallery gasped, but Ima offered a mischievous grin before she knelt and placed her nose where the carpet met marble tile. Sheba realized she was the only one standing and felt Hazi yank her down beside him. Mattan had fallen to his knees on the other side of Queen Athaliah. Feeling as awkward as a three-legged camel, she buried her nose in the worn woolen rug, waiting in uncomfortable silence.

  Nothing. More silence.

  If this was to be a political visit, why had Ima spoken instead of Hazi? Was the king offended? Whispers fluttered across the gallery, and then nervous chatter.

  Sheba didn’t dare look up but furtively scanned to her left and right. The palace furnishings were distinctly Phoenician, the inlaid metalwork and carvings exquisite. But on closer inspection, she noticed scuffed corners, chipped ivory, and worn tapestries. Even the spectators appeared somewhat worn-out. Thin and frail, the onlookers seemed as nervous as Sheba felt.

  “You may rise, my daughter,” a smooth female voice purred, “and those with you as well.”

  The Judeans stood in a row, Mattan on Ima Thaliah’s left, then Hazi and Sheba on his right. Gevirah Jizebaal remained the spokesperson in King Ram’s court and kept her eyes firmly fixed on Sheba. “We accept the gracious gift and will address political concerns momentarily. First, let me make you more comfortable.” Turning to the steward, she said, “Bring two couches, and dismiss everyone except the seventy princes of Ahab and their guardians.”

  The room burst into activity, servants scurrying, crowd stirring, some leaving, while members of Ahab’s clan vied for the best view of their Judean cousins. Sheba looked to Ima Thaliah for etiquette and noted her hands folded in front, head in a reverent bow. Sheba followed her example, keeping a watchful eye should the occasion call for a quick revision.