Among the Gods (33 page)

“We’ll take it one step at a time, Miriam. First we need to slip back into Jerusalem and survey the situation for ourselves, then—”

“I’m going with you.”

For the first time, his smile disappeared. “You know that’s impossible.”

“Why? You’re traveling by ship, aren’t you? Then by caravan? I can easily ride along. Besides, no one will suspect that you’re spies if you bring a crippled woman along.”

He rose from the table. “I’m not even going to discuss this, Miriam.”

She rose, as well, grabbing her crutches in case he walked away from her. “When you came back from the war you promised that you’d never leave me again, remember?”

“It’s only for a month or two. Besides, you won’t be alone. You’ll have Nathan’s wife and baby to fuss over.” He walked around the table to her as he talked, then wrapped her in his arms. “Look, would you feel better if Nathan didn’t come with me? If he stayed here with you?”

“I’m going with you,” she said firmly. The decision brought Miriam peace of mind for the first time since Joshua began making plans to go. “You can leave without me, Joshua, but you can’t stop me from boarding the very next ship and following you to Jerusalem. If you’re not around to pick me up when my crutches slip, I’m sure someone else will do it for me.”

“Miriam, you’re being stubborn—”

“Does that surprise you? Didn’t you once say it was one of the reasons you fell in love with me?”

Joshua’s arms dropped to his sides as he exhaled in frustration. His contented look had vanished completely. “And just what do you think you can do for me in Jerusalem?” he asked angrily.

“Probably the same things I do here—cook your meals, soothe your temper, save you when you get into trouble.”

“Look, I’m not the only one going on this trip. Joel and Amariah will never agree to let you come.”

She gave a short laugh. “They’ll agree to anything you say. You and Nathan are the only ones who can use a sword.”

“You’re not going!” he shouted. She knew he raised his voice only because he had run out of excuses. She turned her back to him and began clearing the table.

“I’m going to Jerusalem, Joshua. So you’d better start writing me into your plans.”

26

E
VERY DAY, BEGINNING AT DAWN
, Manasseh opened the door to his memories of the past and left his prison cell to journey to another place in a different time. He decided to start with his earliest memories of childhood and relive every moment he could recall of his life. He knew that many of those memories would be painful, but pain was good—it meant that he was alive and still clinging to his sanity.

The sound of his mother’s voice, singing to him, was his first memory. He hummed the tune that had been Hephzibah’s favorite over and over to himself and felt the warmth of her arms, smelled the flowery scent of her perfumed skin. He wandered the halls of the palace nursery and felt safe, secure, and utterly loved.

Before long, his brother toddled through the rooms behind him, shouting, “Wait, Ma’ssah … wait!” Manasseh remembered how Amariah would look up to him, his big eyes pathetically hopeful, longing for his friendship. But he had been cruel to Amariah as a child, shoving him roughly aside, and even more cruel to him as an adult, pressuring him to embrace all of Zerah’s changes.
“Amariah cries out in his sleep sometimes,”
Zerah had once told him. For the first time Manasseh understood that his actions had driven his only brother into exile.

Slowly, the memories became harder and harder for Manasseh to face as Joshua entered his life. For years they had been inseparable, doing everything together from the time the morning sacrifice began until the evening one ended. He smiled when he remembered how serious Joshua had always been, how he’d hung on to every word Rabbi Gershom had uttered in their Torah lessons, and how clumsy and inept he’d been with a sword. Joshua, his best friend, had grown up to become a traitor conspiring to usurp his throne—hadn’t he? In the silence of his prison cell, Manasseh closed his eyes and heard Joshua struggling for air, the painful wheezing of his breathing attack after Manasseh had left him stranded in the rain.
“You know I’m not your enemy, Manasseh…. We’re best friends, aren’t we?”
He wondered which of the lies he had believed were true and which truths had been lies.

As the long days passed and Manasseh’s journeys continued, he came at last to the memories he feared the most—the ones of his abba. He thought it strange that he should fear his father’s memory, because he had loved Abba deeply and had been so completely loved by him in return. He remembered how tall his father was, how he had to look up and up to see the familiar warmth in his eyes. He remembered the slight limp in his step from his scars, the scent of aloe balm and incense on his clothes. Manasseh could linger for hours over these memories, but when Abba opened his mouth to speak, Manasseh drew back in fear, knowing what his first words would be.

“Hear, O Israel. Yahweh is God—Yahweh alone. Love Yahweh your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength.”

The memory brought Manasseh back to his prison cell with a jolt, shaken out of his reverie by the force of his father’s voice. Think about something else, he told himself. Think about the mountains and valleys that surround Jerusalem. Think about all the things you learned in your studies: the history of Israel beginning with Abraham and Isaac; the stories of Joseph and Moses and the exodus from Egypt; recite all of the nation’s kings, starting with Saul and David and Solomon. As he recited, Manasseh realized he was part of that history. He had taken his place on Judah’s throne as his father had before him, fulfilling the prophecy spoken to King David that a descendant would always sit on his nation’s throne.

He closed his eyes and saw Abba, seated on his throne in splendor with Eliakim on his right, Shebna on his left. He saw the judgment hall filled with people, bowing before King Hezekiah, seeking his wisdom, his justice. But there was no pride or arrogance in his father’s posture as he reigned, only a quiet humility that somehow made him seem more powerful. He saw his father striding up the royal walkway to stand on the platform at the Temple, a sovereign king of authority and strength. But then his father, who had never bowed a knee to any Assyrian overlord, fell down on his knees—on his face—before God, humbling himself in obeisance to his King and Lord. He heard the passion and awe in his father’s voice:
Yahweh is God—Yahweh alone
.

Manasseh had to stop. The memory of his father’s unshakable faith caused him too much pain. He stared instead at his barren cell, at the flies swarming around his empty food bowl. As he toyed with the hook that pierced his nose, he tried to count how many flies there were. But even that was impossible. They moved too fast. And there were too many of them.

Hours later, when he was ready to journey again, Manasseh traveled back to the royal platform, only this time he was the king, striding up to the Temple with Zerah beside him.
“Sin is an illusion, Manasseh. Remember, you’re the sovereign ruler of Judah. You are accountable to no one.”

The Temple Mount looked very different than it had when his father had stood on the platform. Manasseh saw the carved image he had made standing in front of the sanctuary; the altars to the Baals and the starry hosts in both courtyards; the booths for male and female shrine prostitutes; the altar for divination; the Asherah pole.

Yahweh alone
.

Where had all those altars and images come from? Manasseh remembered placing them there, but he could scarcely remember why. His mother had worshiped Asherah—that was one reason. But why hadn’t she ever told him?
“‘Praise the Lord, O my soul …”’
she had sung.
“‘He does not treat us as our sins deserve.”’

His father had been deceived and manipulated by the priests, Zerah had said. Manasseh must return to pure worship—acknowledging the god in everyone and everything in creation. But had King David been deceived and manipulated, too? And Abraham? And Moses? Manasseh tried to recall when he had made all the changes at the Temple and decided that it was after he had discovered the conspiracy, after he’d learned how Isaiah and Eliakim had plotted against him. But now he wondered who he should believe—Zerah, who had died cursing and blaspheming his gods? Or Eliakim, who had looked Manasseh in the eye before he died and said,
“I want you to know that I forgive you.”

Manasseh groaned in confusion and despair. He was too weary to sort through all these thoughts. He simply wanted to journey back to happier times and be a child again. He closed his eyes and padded barefoot into his father’s chambers to say good-night to him. Abba sat in front of a small table, sorting through a pile of documents by lamplight. He put them down when Manasseh entered and drew him close to his side.

“Tell me what the rabbi taught you today, son.”

Manasseh shivered, afraid suddenly that he might forget something or mix something up. But Abba’s hand rested gently on his head, caressing his hair. His fears subsided.

“I’m learning the Ten Commandments, Abba.” His childish voice sounded innocent and sweet. “They begin, ‘I am the Lord your God, who brought you out of Egypt, out of the land of slavery. You shall have no other gods before me. You shall not make for yourself an idol in the form of anything in heaven above or on the earth beneath or in the waters below. You shall not bow down to them or worship them; for I, the Lord your God, am a jealous God, punishing …’”

Manasseh’s eyes flew open, and the barren gray walls of his prison cell confronted him.
Punishing
. He was in Babylon, in a prison cell, in chains, as Isaiah had warned. All the gods he had pleaded with—Baal, Asherah, Molech, Amon—hadn’t saved him. He had broken God’s commandment and worshiped idols, and now he was going to die here as punishment.

He looked down at his body and wept at what he’d become. At least six months had passed since the Assyrians had shackled him with hooks and chains, six months since he’d bathed or washed his hair or trimmed his beard. His skin was black with grime from his own sweat and filth, his fingernails were jagged claws, his clothes mere rags. One of his teeth had fallen out after he’d chewed a leathery piece of gristle, and the others were just as rotten. He was mere skin and bones, barely human, unable to bear his own stench.

Memories poured down on top of him, thousands of them, like garbage piled in a dump. He thought of the people he had murdered: Rabbi Isaiah, tortured to death; Eliakim, scourged and stoned; his infant son hurled into the flames. Those were only the first murders. How many hundreds had followed? He recalled all of the vile, disgusting things he had done while worshiping false gods, his uncontrolled lust and depravity, and he shrank from himself in shame. Manasseh didn’t blame God for punishing him, for abandoning him here. He could find no comfort, no consolation as he faced the naked ugliness of his sin and guilt; only deep self-loathing and horror. He was going to die here, and he deserved it.

He slowly uncurled his fist and stared at the blue tassel that had torn from his royal robes the day he was arrested. God had commanded the Israelites to sew tassels on their clothing to remind themselves of His laws.
“You will have these tassels to look at and so you will remember all the commands of the Lord, that you may obey them and not prostitute yourselves by going after the lusts of your own hearts and eyes.”

Manasseh sank deep into despair, his mind and his spirit exhausted from his memories. His crimes against other people were bad enough, but his worst sins had been committed against God. He had broken His laws, offended His holiness. When he saw himself as God did, Manasseh grieved, weeping uncontrollably, wishing for death. His soul was as filthy and loathsome as his flesh had become, the stench of his sin reaching to the heavens.

“I can’t take this anymore,” he wept. He could no longer confront his past and all the evil he had done. He couldn’t abide his present, confined like an animal in this stifling cell. He couldn’t face his future, existing day after day without hope. And he couldn’t face himself, knowing what a wretched creature he had become. Separated from other people, from God, and from himself, Manasseh knew he was already in hell.

As demons of madness danced around him, beckoning him to join them, Manasseh ran to the only refuge that remained. He closed his eyes and huddled in the safety of his mother’s arms, allowing her song to drown out insanity’s taunting cries.

“‘Praise the Lord, O my soul; all my inmost being, praise his holy name. Praise the Lord, O my soul, and forget not all his benefits—who forgives all your sins and heals all your diseases, who redeems your life from the pit and crowns you with love and compassion.’”

As Manasseh sang the beloved words, they slowly penetrated his tattered soul. The song described what Yahweh was like, what He had promised. Manasseh had lived with false idols, false ideas about God for so long that it was as if he had never heard these words before. They washed over him like drops of life-giving rain on his parched spirit.

“‘The Lord is compassionate and gracious, slow to anger, abounding in love. He will not always accuse, nor will he harbor his anger forever; he does not treat us as our sins deserve or repay us according to our iniquities. For as high as the heavens are above the earth, so great is his love for those who fear him; as far as the east is from the west, so far has he removed our transgressions from us. As a father has compassion on his children, so the Lord has compassion on those who fear him; for he knows how we are formed, he remembers that we are dust.’”

Manasseh fell prostrate before God as his father had done, bowing before God’s majesty, pleading for his mercy. “O Lord Almighty, God of my ancestors,” he prayed. “I know that you alone made heaven and earth, and that all things tremble before your power. Your glorious splendor can’t be contained, and your wrath toward sinners can’t be endured. Yet your promised mercy is immeasurable and unsearchable, for you, O Lord, are a God of great compassion. You are long-suffering and very merciful, and you have pity on human suffering.

“O Lord, according to your great goodness you promised forgiveness to those who sin against you. And in the multitude of your mercies you allow sinners to repent, so that they may be saved.

“You, O Lord, have not appointed repentance for the righteous, for Abraham and Isaac and Jacob, who did not sin against you, but you have appointed repentance for me, a sinner. For the sins I have committed are more in number than the sand of the sea. They are multiplied, O Lord, they are multiplied!

“I’m not worthy to look up and see the height of heaven because of the multitude of my sins. I am so weighed down with them that I can’t even lift my head because of them, and I have no relief. For I have provoked your wrath and have done evil in your sight, setting up abominations and multiplying offenses.

“But now I bend the knee of my heart, begging you for mercy. I have sinned, O Lord, I have sinned, and I admit my crimes before you. I earnestly beg you—forgive me, O Lord, forgive me! Don’t destroy me with my sins! Don’t be angry with me forever or repay me for all the evil I’ve done. Lord, please don’t condemn me to the depths of hell. For you, O Lord, are the God of those who repent, and in me you will show your goodness and mercy to all the earth. O Lord God, unworthy as I am, please save me by your great mercy and love….” Manasseh couldn’t finish. He lay with his forehead pressed to the stone floor, weeping.

Then, for the first time since Zerah died, Manasseh was suddenly no longer alone in his cell. He felt God’s hand of compassion reaching out to touch him, God’s arms of mercy surrounding him. His tears of love washed Manasseh clean.

As the power of God’s forgiveness slowly transformed him, Manasseh lifted his heart to heaven.

“‘Praise the Lord, O my soul; all my inmost being, praise his holy name.’”

Then he slept in God’s embrace, knowing true rest and peace for the first time in his life.