Song of Redemption (12 page)

King Hezekiah’s courier rode steadily during the daylight hours, traveling out of the mountains into the rolling foothills of the Shephelah. So far he found that the response to the announcement that Passover would be celebrated had been mixed. In some towns the people greeted the news with joy; in others, with indifference.

The day was just beginning to cool off as the courier reached Lachish, one of Judah’s largest cities. He headed up the ramp to the main gate, knowing that he would find the new city governor, Prince Gedaliah, seated there with the elders of Lachish, judging regional disputes and local squabbles. He slowed his horse to a walk to avoid creating a dust cloud around them. The governor was arguing loudly with a dark-haired man in peasant clothing, and several moments passed before the men even noticed the courier. But when he finally dismounted and the emblem of David became clearly visible on his horse’s banners, the discussion halted. The courier removed a document from the folds of his cloak and passed it to Gedaliah.

“This is for you, my lord, from King Hezekiah.”

Gedaliah frowned. “Now what does he want?” He began reading the notice aloud in a voice that seemed to mock the king’s words. “ ‘From King Hezekiah to all the men of Judah. Return to the Lord, the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Israel, that He may return to you who are left. Do not be like your fathers and brothers, who were unfaithful to the Lord so that he made them an object of horror, as you see …’ And so on. Let’s get to the point… . Ah, here it is: ‘Come, let us celebrate the feast of Passover together on the fourteenth day of the second month in Jerusalem. For on this day Yahweh brought our people out of Egypt… . ’ And so on. That’s about it.”

“The king is going to celebrate Passover? In Jerusalem?” the darkhaired peasant asked in astonishment.

“That’s what it says.” Gedaliah handed the parchment back to the courier, who rolled it up and tucked it inside his cloak. He was eager to move on to the next village. If he could reach Arad and Beersheba within the next few days, he could then head toward home once again. He walked to his horse and prepared to mount.

Suddenly the peasant raised his arms to heaven and shouted, “Yahweh be praised!” His left arm didn’t go quite as high as his right, but twisted crookedly at an odd angle. “In the last days the mountain of the Lord’s temple will be established as chief among the mountains,” he shouted. “It will be raised above the hills, and all peoples will stream to it. Many nations will say, ‘Come, let us go up to the mountain of the Lord, to the house of the God of Jacob. He will teach us his ways, so that we may walk in his paths.’ They will beat their swords into plowshares and their spears into pruning hooks. Nation will not take up sword against nation, nor will they train for war anymore. All the nations may walk in the name of their gods; we will walk in the name of the Lord our God for ever and ever.”

The courier stood spellbound as the man spoke. He’d heard rumors that the prophets of Yahweh were active in Judah once again, but this was the first time he’d heard one speak. He was sorry when the prophecy ended, but the elders of Lachish seemed unimpressed. Governor Gedaliah turned on the prophet angrily.

“Now, you listen to me, Micah. We have our own high places and priests here in Lachish, and there’s no reason why we should have to travel all the way up to the Temple in Jerusalem.”

“It’s what Yahweh commanded,” Micah said. “He chose Jerusalem as the place for the whole nation to celebrate the feasts.”

“I don’t believe that,” Gedaliah said. “My brother is just using Passover as an excuse to take away our local power and autonomy. He wants to be in control.”

“You’re wrong! The king consults the word of God in everything he does—and so should you. Instead, you allow the people to worship at a temple to the sun god—right in the middle of your city!”

“The citizens of Lachish are free to worship whatever gods they choose,” Gedaliah said. “They’ve made peace with the gods of the land. Why should we change our ways and trek up to Jerusalem just to celebrate some ancient ritual?”

The king’s courier watched as the tension between Gedaliah and the prophet multiplied with every word they spoke. He mounted his horse.

“If you refuse to destroy your pagan temple and return to Yahweh, God’s judgment will fall on this city,” Micah warned. He spread his arms wide and began to prophesy again. “Quick! Use your swiftest chariots and flee, O people of Lachish, for you were the first of the cities of Judah to follow Israel in her sin of idol worship. Then all the cities of the south began to follow your example. Weep, weep for your little ones for they are snatched away, and you will never see them again. They’ve gone as slaves to distant lands. Shave your heads in sorrow—”

Gedaliah gave the prophet a shove that stopped him mid-sentence. “Get out! Go back to your farm in Moresheth. Our city is at peace, and you’re talking like a fool about exile. Go home! We don’t want you in Lachish.”

The courier turned his horse and rode off to the south, leaving the governor of Lachish to choke in the dust behind him.

Jerusha’s father, Jerimoth, knelt in the rocky soil of his vineyard and gently wove the new green shoots through the framework of the trellis. A few months ago it had seemed to him that these damaged stumps could never live again, but the new green stems and leaves that sprang from the blackened trunks flourished in spite of their brush with death. And now the vines spoke silently to Jerimoth, telling him that he must also go on living, planting and harvesting again, in spite of the destruction around him. All his life he had witnessed spring’s rebirth after the cold defeat of winter, and he clung to the hope of new life.

He slowly rose to his feet and looked at the row he had just tended, then groped over his shoulder for the flowing end of the keffiyeh he wore in a loose turban around his head, wiping the sweat from his face and neck. His tanned face was as deeply furrowed as his fields, scarred by years of plowing and planting, waiting and worrying.

Jerimoth looked up from his work, carefully studying the rutted road where it disappeared over the horizon, constantly alert for the ominous dust cloud, listening for the rumble of hooves that would signal the start of another Assyrian raid. But the road lay quiet and still, disturbed only by a gentle breeze that stirred up a funnel of dust and by the fluttering blackbirds as they scratched in the dirt for insects.

Jerimoth’s square stone house stood on the highest rise of his land, shaded by two date palm trees that had been there for as long as he could remember. He had been born in that house, beneath those trees, as his father had been before him. He watched his wife, Hodesh, descend the stairs from the flat rooftop, carrying a dried bundle of flax to the covered patio where she and their daughter worked. Little Maacah wrestled with the heavy loom, determined to master this new skill she had been forced to learn. Her arms and legs were as thin as the shuttle that she labored to pass back and forth between the threads of the loom. She should be playing with straw dolls, Jerimoth thought, combing the flax for their make-believe hair, yet now she’d been forced to grow up in order to take over Jerusha’s chores.

The thought of Jerusha brought a stab of pain to Jerimoth’s heart, reopening a wound that had never healed. He fingered the scar on his forehead and shuddered at the memory of her heart-rending screams. He would never be able to accept her loss or erase the agony from his heart. They had found the bodies of Saul’s daughters, Serah and Tirza. Jerimoth had helped his brother dig their graves in the soft brown earth, and as painful as the task had been, it had helped Saul accept their deaths and finally understand that he would never see his girls again. But Jerusha? Not knowing her fate—and imagining the worst—tormented Jerimoth. He would never know if her life had ended violently or if she still lived somewhere, suffering unspeakable horrors. Jerimoth shuddered and wiped his face again with the end of his keffiyeh.
Please don’t make her suffer,
he silently pleaded.
Please don’t
hurt my Jerusha—my happy little bird
.

He was about to return to his labors when he spotted a small puff of dust on the southern horizon, moving up the road from the village of Dabbasheth. “Hodesh! Maacah!” he shouted. “Get into the house!”

Hodesh dropped her bundle of flax and grabbed Maacah by the hand, pulling the startled child behind her as she raced across the patio and into the house. Jerimoth had prepared an empty cistern beneath the floor, hewn from the bedrock. He would hide his wife and daughter there the next time there was another Assyrian raid. They were all he had left now, and he was determined to protect them from this enemy that was ruthlessly consuming everything he had ever loved.

He sprinted up to the house, lifted the heavy stone lid, and helped them climb in. Then he fitted the lid into place where it blended with the other flagstones on the floor of his house. Once the woven rug was laid over the hiding place, Jerimoth went to the door and peered down the road again. He saw now that the dust cloud was too small to be a division of Assyrian soldiers, and he felt foolish when he realized that they would sweep down from the north when they came, not from the south. But he decided to keep his family hidden just the same. He busied himself in the sticky shade of his winepress as the dust cloud sped closer.

The horse’s hooves pounded on the hard-packed dirt road in rhythm with Jerimoth’s heart, and he shot a quick glance in that direction. The lone rider was a soldier but definitely not an Assyrian—and not from Jerimoth’s nation of Israel, either. The rider slowed as he approached the row of cedars that guarded the borders of Jerimoth’s land, then dismounted near his well. As Jerimoth walked cautiously toward him, the stranger greeted him in Hebrew.

“Shalom! May I refresh my horse at your well?” His face wore a mask of perspiration and dust, finely etched with lines of fatigue. His horse panted in the heat.

“You’re from Judah?” Jerimoth asked when he recognized the emblem of the King of Judah emblazoned on the horse’s banner.

“Yes, I’ve come from Jerusalem with a message from King Hezekiah. I just delivered it to the elders of Dabbasheth, and I’m on my way to the next town.”

Jerimoth wondered if the armies of Judah were coming to help his nation fight the Assyrians. He decided to probe for more information. “You’ve come all the way to Israel? With a message?”

“Yes, and I’ll be returning to Jerusalem through the tribal lands of Manasseh and Issachar. King Hezekiah’s invitation will be spread from Beersheba to Dan.”

Jerimoth lowered the rope into the well and hoisted a bucketful to the top. He emptied it into a stone watering trough, licked smooth by generations of animals, and allowed the lathered horse to quench its thirst before passing a drinking gourd to the stranger. The soldier drank his fill, then splashed water over his dusty face. When his thirst was relieved, the stranger looked around and gestured toward Jerimoth’s charred land.

“Did the Assyrians do this?”

Jerimoth nodded.

“That’s a shame. We’ve heard that they sometimes raid farms along the borders.”

“We’ve suffered terribly at their hands these past months,” Jerimoth said. “Sometimes I think Yahweh must have forgotten us to make us suffer so.”

The soldier grew attentive. “You believe in Yahweh?”

Jerimoth hesitated. It wasn’t wise to admit to a stranger which god you worshiped, but the words had already slipped out. “Yes, I believe in Him.”

“Then you’ll be interested in King Hezekiah’s message.” He pulled a scroll from the folds of his tunic and gave it to Jerimoth to read while his horse finished drinking.

People of Israel, return to the God of Abraham that he may return to you
who have escaped from the Assyrians. Do not be like your fathers and brothers,
who were unfaithful to the Lord, so that he made them an object of horror, as
you see. Come to the sanctuary, which God has consecrated forever. Serve the
Lord your God, so that his fierce anger will turn away from you. If you return
to the Lord, then your children will be shown compassion by their captors and
will come back to this land… .

There was more, but tears blurred Jerimoth’s vision and he couldn’t read it. The scroll trembled in his hand. During all the years that he had farmed his land, raising his crops and his children, he had never gone to Jerusalem to acknowledge Yahweh with offerings of thanksgiving. Jerimoth had forgotten God until his life had begun to crumble. Now, in anger and despair, he cried out to the silent heavens, wondering why Yahweh had forsaken him. He held the answer in his hands—and also hope.

“Do you think you’ll go, then?” the soldier asked.

Jerimoth looked up, lost in thought. “What did you say?”

“Will you be going to Jerusalem for Passover?”

Jerimoth wiped his eyes and finished reading the scroll.

For the Lord your God is gracious and compassionate. He will not turn
his face from you if you return to him. Come, let us celebrate the Feast of
Passover together on the fourteenth day of the second month in Jerusalem
.