Empathy for the Devil

by J R Forasteros

  One of the great joys of that quirky little café was the question we got from the students, usually by their third or fourth visit: “Is this a Christian coffee shop?” We always affirmed that a church ran the café, but that it was not only for Christian students. I often inquired how they could tell, and their response was invariably the same: “I’m not sure. There’s just something different about this place.”

  Students from all walks of life found a home away from home at the Bridge Café. Late-night conversations about life routinely turned to questions about faith, and that home away from home became a spiritual home. One of my proudest moments as a pastor was an Easter Sunday when my friend Nikki, then a dance major at Wright State, performed a dance she had choreographed as part of our Easter celebration. I had the privilege of baptizing her a few minutes later, and in her testimony, she shared how she had come to faith in large part because of how she had encountered Jesus at the Bridge Café.

  God’s way is beautiful and compelling. We were created to be God’s image-bearers and to care for the world as God’s representatives. We are called to live out God’s way in front of the world around us. But like Samson, we can refuse God’s call. We can instead do what is right in our own eyes, which often results in buying into the various visions of the good life our culture endorses. We become consumers, or we let fear determine our path. We treat pastors like celebrities or run our churches like businesses. These idols entice us from God’s torah, and we cease to be holy. Without a holy people to shine God’s light into the world, the world remains in darkness.

  To be holy is to be the image of Jesus in the world around us, to be different in character, not only in branding. To be holy is not to wear Christian T-shirts and listen to Christian music.16 To be holy is not to wage culture wars. To be holy is to be loving, joyful, peaceful, patient, kind, generous, gentle, faithful, and self-controlled. To be Christian is to seek peace with our enemies and treat outsiders like family. When we are truly different from the world around us in character, not only in behavior, we are a light shining in darkness. We are a sun that banishes the night.

  5

  Jezebel

  As if it had been a light thing for [Ahab] to walk in the sins of Jeroboam son of Nebat, he took as his wife Jezebel daughter of King Ethbaal of the Sidonians, and went and served Baal, and worshiped him.

  1 KINGS 16:31

  Dogs howled in the alleys below as Jezebul reached for the kohl. The queen of Israel began to apply dark lines to her eyes for the last time. In what was fast becoming a tired ritual, she cursed Yahweh and his meddlesome prophets. A tear leaked from her eye, and she was forced to start again. Jezebul banished thoughts of prophets. Instead she thought back to her last day as the princess of Tyre. It was the spring equinox, and her tutor, Ezermarq, had accompanied her to the festival and her betrothal.

  QUEEN

  The roar of voices announced their approach to the capital’s main thoroughfare, and Jezebul peeked through the silk curtain of the litter. The streets of Tyre were packed with people darting like minnows among the stalls while merchants shouted over one another, each promising the best incarnation of what their competitors offered. After several moments, she fell back into the litter and remarked, “The crush of pilgrims never ceases to amaze me. Never is the city so full as on this day.”

  Ezermarq nodded and smiled. “All for the glory of Baal, Your Highness.”

  Jezebul laughed. “Yes, for the glory of the Lord, and plenty left over for Tyre herself.”

  “Jeze-bul! Jeze-bul!” The chant from outside told the princess they were nearing the Temple of Baal. Her mouth tightened as she grew both amused and frustrated. They chanted her name but did not call for her. Their cry meant, “Where is the prince?” This was the equinox, the climax of the spring festival. Throughout the winter, Baal had slumbered and the world died. Today his faithful called his name, waking him so that life may return to the world.

  “Jeze-bul!”

  Staring toward the chants as though she could see through the curtain of the litter, Jezebul spoke, “My brother is not fit to be king.”

  Ezermarq was silent for a moment then said softly, “Do not do this, Highness. Not again.”

  As though she had not heard, Jezebul continued, “Baal-Ezer is a sweet boy. He is kind and thoughtful. But he lacks the cunning a monarch of Tyre needs.”

  Some of the old authoritarianism crept into Ezermarq’s voice. “Baal-Ezer is now a man, Highness. You attended his naming not a month ago.”

  Jezebul turned to glare at her former tutor. “My brother is not fit to rule. I am more fit for the throne by far.”

  Ezermarq was silent.

  “I told my father as much. Do you know what he said? ‘You are a woman. You are not fit even to be sacrificed.’ Now that he has a male heir, I am useless to him. I wondered what would become of me. Would I be allowed at least to become a priestess to Astarte, to follow in his footsteps in that way if I cannot wear his crown? No. Now I learn that I am to be given to the prince of Israel. Tell me, Ezermarq; what do you know of Israel?”

  Her tutor shifted uncomfortably. “They are a young nation, Your Highness. But they show much promise.”

  Jezebul laughed, though there was no humor in her eyes. “You are too kind, Ezermarq. They are barbarians—a nation of shepherds with a jealous god. I am to be queen of the dunghill.”

  They traveled the rest of the way in silence, the clamor of the pilgrims their only company. Finally the litter stopped, and Jezebul’s heart skipped a beat. She flung open the curtains of her litter to gaze upon the Temple of Baal, examining the stones a cubit across and pillars as high as three men, all white marble, smooth and polished. Gold leaf adorned the tops and bottoms of the pillars that flanked the building, towering over the mass of pilgrims. It was magnificent, even on a gray morning.

  Jezebul thought of how it glowed in the sunlight, and despite her foul mood, she smiled to herself. Where is my prince? Are we not here today to awaken Baal from his slumber, that he might bring life back to the world? Would not Baal himself soon chase away the cold of winter with the warmth of his light? She stood at the center of the world to call the prince from his rest.

  Jezebul’s guard led her to the gates of the inner courtyard, passing priests dressed in fine purple robes expertly managing the throng of pilgrims. She was announced, and the gates were opened to admit her. She crossed into the inner court, and the gates closed behind her. The princess of Tyre paused to savor this sacred moment; it was as close as she would ever likely come to the glory of Baal.

  Jezebul sighed heavily. The life of a priestess was a life of power in its own way. But her father had other plans. She prepared herself to meet him, Ithobaal, the king of Tyre. He waited on the very steps of the temple itself, standing with the high priest and two strange-looking men. The two were clearly foreigners—shorter than Phoenicians, with beards thicker than the current fashion. Their robes and jewelry marked them as royalty.

  Jezebul noted that her father’s royal guard stood well removed behind him, and across the courtyard from them were half a dozen foreign soldiers. Though their postures were relaxed, they scanned the courtyard as men well acquainted with violence.

  As she neared, Ithobaal swept his arms open and approached. “My daughter, Jezebul, princess of Tyre and treasure of my kingdom!” A translator echoed her father’s words as Jezebul stiffened in his embrace. She made her final plea into his ear. “Father, do not give me to this prince. Let me serve Tyre.”

  He whispered in return, “Be strong, princess. In this you serve our kingdom and our lord.” His tone was thick with dark threats as he gripped her arm, compelling her toward the foreigners. Jezebul nearly looked back for Ezermarq, but she chose instead to imagine her tutor would not see her offered to savages.

  Ithobaal gestured to the older of the men. “Here is Omri ben-Zuar, king of Israel and first of his dynasty—and the crown prince of Israel, Ahab ben-Omri. Jezebul, daughter of Ithobaal
and princess of Tyre, here is your prince.”

  Jezebul smiled and declined her head demurely. “King Omri, may your reign be long, and may Baal protect you from the unholy sword of the usurper.” She watched as the translator related her words in the barbaric Hebrew tongue and saw when Omri’s eyes darkened with comprehension. He growled words that hardly needed translation, though the interpreter stammered, “His—His Grace King Omri had expected better manners from the princess of the great Sidonians.”

  Ithobaal’s grip tightened further on Jezebul’s arm. “My daughter apologizes, Your Grace. She seems to have forgotten the manners of court in the commotion of the festival. Women are so excitable. She meant no harm.” He grasped her arm painfully, and his voice promised vengeance. “See now how excited she is for this union of our two nations.”

  Jezebul gave Omri her most radiant smile. “My father has the right of it. Allow me to apologize. I am but a woman, a shame to my proud people. Your Grace knows, of course, that Tyre has reigned in Baal’s mercy for two millennia. And doubtless Your Grace, in his wisdom, is grateful for our people’s many gifts to the world. He is aware, of course, that our greatest achievement is not our ships, nor can it be measured in horses and chariots. We gave the world the alphabet. The greatest minds of ancient Sumer and the wisest sages of the Pharaohs could do no more than draw pictures. Our people divided words into sounds and syllables, and so changed the world. Sounds and syllables, Your Grace.”

  As the interpreter rendered her words, the men exchanged uneasy glances. Before her father could cut her off, Jezebul pressed on. “For instance, change the first syllable of my name, and I am Balzebul—‘Baal is husband to me.’ Why did my father not name me so? Before he took the throne, he was priest to Astarte. Balzebul is a fitting name for the daughter of Astarte’s priest. But I was born to no priest. No, I was firstborn to a usurper. A man who needed a dynasty—and quickly. A man who needed sons.”

  Her voice grew even stronger. “My father is no priest. And I am no son. So I am Jezebul, ‘Where is the prince?’ A prayer to a sleeping god. A disappointing child.”

  Ithobaal sputtered with rage, and Jezebul turned to face him. “More disappointing yet, my father had no sons. I was to be queen. But finally my father had a son who has just attained manhood. Though he is a fool, he is a son, and so is more fit to rule than I. Now I am again the disappointment, of no more use to my father than to be traded for political favors.

  “So I apologize, Your Grace, that my father thinks so little of your nation that he would offer you his shame. Perhaps it’s because you so recently crawled out of the dung heap of barbarism. Regardless, you came here looking for an ally, but my father clearly sees in you only—what, Father? A buffer from the great Assyrians? Fodder for your wars of conquest?”

  Jezebul could no longer feel her arm, and she braced herself for her father’s wrath even as Omri’s eyes flashed murder. But before anyone else could speak, Prince Ahab stepped forward, his eyes shining with mirth. He bowed deeply to Jezebul and in nearly flawless Phoenician said, “Your highness, forgive my brute speech, but would you not agree that though a father may have but one firstborn, all his sons are beloved? Israel can never match the glory of Phoenicia, but we are honored to call your people brother, to glean from your wisdom and your gods. I will do everything in my power to ensure Your Highness is most happy among our people. They will be honored to have such a wise and beautiful queen to lead our crude people into the light of civilization.

  “As for our fathers, I am sure you would agree that both our kingdoms are most fortunate that men such as our fathers stepped forward to end the strife that would have consumed us and wounded our people. Your father slew Phelles, the would-be usurper who ruled but eight months. My father slew Zimri, the would-be usurper who ruled but a week. May Israel and Sidon both prosper under their rule. May their legacies be long and their friendship powerful. The Lord Baal grant it be so.”

  Ahab’s words made peace. From that first moment, Jezebul had been captivated by him. She stood near enough to him at the ceremony to explain the winter rituals, and he joined in the liturgical chants: Jeze-bul! Jeze-bul! She found herself smiling as he shouted her name.

  At the close of the ceremony, her father led the sacrifice to consecrate their betrothal. After Ahab left, she found her thoughts returning again and again to him. Who is this cunning, well-spoken man? Who is this prince?

  A year later, Ahab returned to make her princess of Israel. She had not lived among the Israelites for a year before Omri died and she became queen. Ahab celebrated his ascension by building a magnificent temple to Baal in Samaria, and he brought in Tyrian engineers to ensure his new capitol was state-of-the-art. Jezebul found Ahab to be a fierce warrior and a brilliant politician. She grew to love him quickly, and he loved her.

  PROPHET

  As Jezebul replaced the kohl on the vanity that held her makeup, she smiled grimly to herself. The Hebrews called the kohl puk. Change just one syllable—purah—and you have winepress. She thought with ire, That Mot-cursed vineyard.

  If the queen of Israel had a black mark on her reign, it was the vineyard in Jezreel. Ahab wanted it, and the owner would not sell. Despite all Ahab’s machinations, he was defeated and for days was inconsolable. Jezebul chastised him, saying, “You are king. Your subjects may not refuse you.”

  But for all their talk about kings, the Hebrews were inescapably tribal. Ahab explained that he was limited by the Hebrew god—that this god had given the land not to the crown or the temple, but to the tribes. The tribal allotments were sacred. The vineyard was not Ahab’s by right, but Yahweh’s.

  Jezebul had not understood her husband’s wisdom in this. She pleaded with him, berated him, shamed him. She pointed out that his god had stolen the land in the first place, so his king should be able to take what he wanted as well. She reminded him of the great songs of Baal, the mighty warrior who may not be refused. Still he pouted like a child.

  So Jezebul had taken matters into her own hands. The elders of Jezreel knew to whom their position and wealth were owed. They did not hesitate to frame the vineyard owner and execute him on their king’s orders. Within days, Jezebul had procured the vineyard for Ahab.

  But somehow the prophet had found out—Elijah, the prophet of Yahweh. He had sneaked into the city and confronted Ahab publicly, declaring God’s judgment for his theft of the vineyard. The truth had been a barely kept secret, and the prophet’s righteous indignation had galvanized Ahab’s opposition. Plenty of Israelites still feared Yahweh, and Ahab was forced to make a very public spectacle of his repentance to keep the peace.

  Elijah. Jezebul cursed his memory then picked up her wig. As she carefully tucked errant strands of her hair out of sight, her mind ran ahead of her. Wig. Sheitel becomes with one letter shetek, or flood. Three years the prophet had shut up the heavens. Three years she had hunted him while he spread his filth, his intolerance. Elijah has always been too small-minded, she thought. He imagines that his tiny tribal nation can cling to its tiny tribal god on the world stage.

  But she and Ahab were committed to bringing Israel and her people into power. Tyre was crumbling whether her father would admit it or not. Assyria and Egypt waned as well. If Israel could cast off her backward, isolationist god, it could become a leader among the nations.

  Elijah told anyone who would listen that Ahab had abandoned the gods of his fathers. Foolishness, Jezebul thought. The land had belonged to Baal and Astarte before Yahweh stole it. She knew not how many of the Hebrews still worshiped the gods of the land. In any case, Ahab named his children Ahaziah, “Yahweh has taken hold,” and Jehoram, “Yahweh is exalted.” He worshiped Yahweh, but not Yahweh alone. Because he welcomed other gods too, Elijah had declared Ahab an unfit ruler.

  What did Ahab do that the great Solomon did not? Jezebul cursed again. She did not care to spend her final moments with the prophet. But her mind raced around a groove worn too deep.

  Elijah liked to call Jezebu
l the Murderer of Prophets. He had gone around insisting he was the only prophet of Yahweh left, implying she had killed all the rest. “Untrue!” she had exclaimed. Admittedly she had killed a small number of prophets who—like Elijah—refused to acknowledge that Israel had space for Baal and Astarte as well. Intolerance could not be permitted; it tended to flourish like a weed. But many prophets in Israel still spoke in the name of Yahweh.

  Besides, who was the true murderer of prophets? Jezebul clenched her teeth at the memory of Carmel. She should never have allowed Ahab to leave her at the palace. After all, he and those Mot-cursed tribal elders had assembled with nearly a thousand of her prophets, none of whom had returned.

  According to Ahab, her prophets had foolishly allowed Elijah to set the terms of the contest: whichever god answered with fire would be the true god of Israel. Elijah had allowed the prophets of Baal to go first.

  “Jeze-bul! Jeze-bul!”

  Four hours they cried out to Baal—to no effect. Elijah had let it go on, and as the morning faded with no response, he had begun to mock them: “Perhaps your god is sleeping? Wake him up!” And then he joined in their chant, mocking them with her name.

  “Jeze-bul! Jeze-bul!”

  Ahab admitted the prophet had laughed and laughed between his chants. “Where is the prince?”

  Involuntarily she clenched her hands into fists as she remembered Ahab’s account. Her husband had faltered, but she insisted he leave nothing out. He finally told her how Elijah’s mockery had shifted, as he said, “Perhaps your god is relieving himself?” Then he began chanting, “Jeze-bel! Jeze-bel!”

  Just one syllable made all the difference. Zebel in the Hebrew tongue meant “dung.” “Where is the prince?” became “Where is the dung?” The people had understood; according to Ahab, they had laughed as her prophets screamed and Elijah taunted and Baal remained silent.