Elijah (31 page)

Elijah watched in amazement and listened again for God’s voice in the destruction. By evening the valley was black, the fires gone but smoke rising from bare black trunks that stood like violated sticks in the battleground of nature. Every tree and bush within his sight was burned. The valley walls around the clumps and clusters of now-destroyed growth were carbon black. The rubbish pile still smoldered, sending the acrid smell of its smoke, thicker now in the aftermath of the fire, to burn Elijah’s nostrils. There was not the slightest doubt in the prophet’s mind that somewhere in the destruction and power of the last three days Yahweh had a message.

He watched the smoldering pile below, pock-marked with boulders sent down by the quake. The destruction was terrible, he thought, but with the passage of time the dead roots would decay and the burned growth would come back greener than ever. The broken mountain would accept its scars, and later visitors would point with admiration at the awesome formations as surely as he himself had pointed to other ones before the storm and quake. Nothing really changed.

As he mused, the breeze began again, like the day before and the day before that. It was only a whisper, a gentle movement of air, so faint that he could hardly tell its direction. But soon the smoke-filled air freshened and the evening sky became clearer and the sun’s rays once again touched the bare mountain walls with copper and pink and gold.
In the end
, Elijah thought,
it is the gentle breeze that most inspires a man to give thanks to God.

A shudder passed through the prophet’s body, and a prickling sensation lingered in his chest and arms. He looked up and asked aloud, “Is that your message to me, Yahweh?”

The prophet’s eyes were wide with surprise. He began to pace toward his cave, then back toward the scene below. His mind raced back to Mount Carmel, to the miraculous display of power, to the sight of the fiery bolt streaking from the clear sky to ignite the sacrifice and altar, to the muffled cries of the astonished people, to the loud screams of partylike delight as they slaughtered the prophets of Baal, to the bloodstained Kishon River and the heaps of bodies that raped its waters.

The breeze began to speak. “My ways are not your ways. I work mysteriously in the hearts of men to win their love.” The breeze spoke softly, in a tone barely audible but that came from every direction, whispering from the sky, and from the valley, and from the mountain, surrounding the prophet with its truth.

“
Did I do wrong on Carmel?” Elijah asked out loud. He repeated the question more loudly, turning slowly to speak to the gentle voice that surrounded him. “Did I do wrong on Carmel?”

The voice responded in its quiet strength. “My ways are not your ways. I work gently in the hearts of men.”

Elijah fell to his knees, oblivious to the hard rocky shelf, his arms outstretched, his mind whirling. Mount Carmel did not work. The miraculous display of power did not bring the immediate change in Israel he had dreamed it would. But surely the strong methods of Jezebel called for such bold action. Surely strength should be met with strength.

“
My ways are not your ways,” the faint breeze repeated.

The prophet lowered his arms. He still was on his knees, but his body was straight, his faced turned upward. The breeze did not pass with the coming of dusk. It stayed and whispered its message again and again until it came into Elijah’s body and took up a rhythm with his heart. He could not speak. He felt that he stood at a moment of great revelation, yet he could find no response to Yahweh. In his silence, his months-old sense of despondency returned. How could he change his ministry? Did he have it in him to change? Where would he start? How does a hard prophet speak softly to the hearts of men?

Yahweh did not allow him too near the precipice of doubt. As Elijah’s unspoken questions spilled into his soul, God spoke again. He asked the question he had asked three days before, “What are you doing here, Elijah?”

Elijah looked beyond the rocky ridge to the uprising summit of Mount Horeb, but even as he looked out he felt the question from inside. He repeated his answer of three days ago. “I have been zealous for you, Yahweh, God of the hosts of heaven. Your people have ignored the covenant you made with them. They have destroyed your altars. They have slaughtered your prophets. I am the only one left, and now they seek my life.”

The breeze died away for a moment. Elijah rose to his feet, breathing heavily. He put his hands to his face. The breeze must not stop now, not on the verge of an answer. Then the breeze began again, gentle, as before, and he heard his name. “Elijah.” He lowered his hands and looked around. “Elijah,” the word came again, carried to his heart on the whisper of wind. “Go,” it said, “turn around and journey to the wilderness of Damascus. When you get there, anoint Hazael to be king of Syria. And anoint Jehu the son of Nimshi to be the king of Israel. And anoint Elisha the son of Shaphat of Abel-meholah to be your successor as prophet. And it shall happen that whoever escapes the sword of Hazael shall be slain by Jehu, and whoever escapes the sword of Jehu shall be slain by Elisha.” The breeze repeated his name then. “Elijah,” it said, and again, “Elijah.” He looked up and turned to survey the air above. “Elijah, you are not the only Israelite faithful to Yahweh. I still have seven thousand souls in Israel who have not bowed to Baal and have not kissed his idol. Go. Your work waits to be done.”

The breeze died away. Elijah listened for a moment long, then turned toward his cave.
Hazael is to be king of Syria. Jehu is to be king of Israel. Elisha is to be my successor.
Inside the cave, he pondered the message from Yahweh as he selected his evening meal from his stored provisions.
If Yahweh speaks gently to the hearts of men, how is it that Hazael and Elisha and Jehu will slaughter the enemies of God?

The prophet finished his meal and retired early to rest for the long trip he would begin in the morning. As he lay waiting for sleep to come, though, he could not erase the contradiction between Yahweh’s message to him and the predictions of violence. What kind of God was Yahweh? He speaks gently to woo the hearts of men, yet he punishes obstinate men who turn themselves loose to sin. He is a God of love and a God of judgment. In the twilight of sleep Elijah felt a voice speaking yet again. It came from inside his soul, and spoke from inside his mind. “My ways are not your ways. My ways are past finding out. Your task is to be faithful to what you know to do.”

Naboth rose from his knees, smiling with satisfaction. The shoots were growing well; the canes were tied properly to the trellis. The three years of drought had not dulled his sons’ knowledge of vinedressing.

He was a small man, slender, with a flat stomach and narrow chest. His two sons were larger, thankfully, like their mother. The early spring work of clearing out the fall prunings was exhausting; each harvest was more difficult with the heavy lifting of the rich clusters. But he enjoyed everything connected with the land, even the aching tiredness that stayed with him throughout the busier seasons. His vineyards were good. Each trunk was as familiar to him as each sheep is to a shepherd. He watched the vineyard carefully, supervised the pruning and tying and harvest. He walked up and down the rows during the hot summer to gauge the amount of heavy morning dew, guessing with the knowledge of generations behind him at the effect of the wetness and of the sun on his harvest.

Life hardly could be better, now that the drought was over. His family was healthy, his daughters married, his sons a credit to any father. He was the representative of an ancestral family that helped settle the city, an honored member of the council of Jezreel. Naboth looked up at the sun. The year had gone well so far. The crop should be a good one.

He was pulled from his reverie by Ahab’s voice. He looked toward the palace. The king made his way alone among the vines, waving as he approached.

The vinegrower returned the greeting and started toward Ahab, who waited patiently while Naboth went through the amenities of kneeling and entreating God’s blessing on the royal house.

“
Naboth,” the king said, “I have not seen you much lately. How have you been.”

“
Good, King Ahab. Very good since the drought ended.”

“
Your vines look good, as usual.”

“
Yes, they are coming along well.”

“
Naboth, I have come to make you an offer.” Ahab spoke carefully, but took pains to sound pleasant. Naboth watched him quizzically. “My friend, I have great need for a garden where I can grow herbs and food for my summer home. Your vineyard is next to the palace. There could be no better field for me.”

Naboth’s eyes narrowed. He looked out over the vineyard and then glanced up intently into Ahab’s eyes. “My king, this is my ancestral land. It would be wrong for me to give it up.”

“
I shall be more than fair with you, Naboth,” Ahab pressed. “I own other fields, some of them better and larger than yours. I will give you better land for your vineyard.” He laughed, seeking to ease Naboth’s growing tension. “Or if you fancy the life of a merchant, I will pay you well for the field.”

Naboth’s response was quick. “No, my king. I cannot sell, nor can I trade. The field has belonged to my family for many generations. No price can make up for that. My roots are here, as surely as the roots of my vines.”

“
Vines can grow as well in other fields. Transplanting is no problem, not with vines and not with people, so long as the vines are in good soil and the people are with their friends.”

“
I cannot give you the land.”

Ahab stared at Naboth sternly. “You are being unreasonable, Naboth. No other field will do for me. Your land adjoins mine. Surely there is a price that would be honorable for you and your sons.”

“
No, my king. I cannot sell.”

Ahab felt a stab of anger. He held himself in control, but he studied Naboth’s face indignantly. “You refuse even to negotiate?”

“
I am sorry, King Ahab. My loyalty to you is well-known, but this field is my life. It means more to me than anything in the world. By law, an Israelite is within his rights to keep his ancestral land. It is holy to him. I hope you understand. I cannot leave my field.”

The king did not respond. He turned toward the palace, then faced Naboth again. The vinegrower’s face was set. Ahab stalked away heavily. Naboth watched him cross the field. He had known Ahab for a long time. Often the king invited him as an honored guest for summer parties at the palace. They had talked together, even at times about policies of state.
I would do anything for him,
Naboth thought,
but I cannot leave my land
. Troubled, he turned toward his own house.

Ahab stormed into his summer palace without acknowledging the greetings of the door guards. His footsteps rang on the hard stone floor and he took the stairs two at a time. Jezebel stopped to watch him pass her without a word and slam the door to his bedroom chambers. She followed. Entering the room softly, she called to him. “Ahab?”

The king did not answer. His face was buried in his pillows, his back to her.

“Ahab, what’s wrong?”

He raised an arm and waved the queen violently from the room. Jezebel slipped out and closed the door quietly.

Ahab did not come to dinner that evening. Jezebel had seen him angry before, but never so sullen as now. She ate in silence. Well before the court finished their meals she left the banquet hall and went to Ahab’s bedroom.