Gods And Kings (14 page)

“Give thanks to the Lord for He is good,” the priest chanted, and Abijah murmured the response out loud: “His love endures forever.”

“Give thanks to Him who struck down the firstborn of Egypt and freed us from our enemies.”

“His love endures forever.” This morning Abijah felt God’s love shining down on her as warmly as the sun, blessing her and her son.

The priest ascended the ramp and placed the sacrifice on the altar. The aroma of roasting meat reached Abijah a few moments later, and she recalled yet another reason to give thanks to God: She was going to have another baby. The child could never take Eliab’s place, but he would be someone for Abijah to hold and love, offering her a new reason to hope.

“Thank you, Lord, for this new life,” she whispered as the priest lifted his hands in prayer. “May all of my children live to serve you.”

7

Z
ECHARIAH PULLED THE HEAVY
curtains into place over the window of Hezekiah’s bedchamber and lit the oil lamp. It sputtered to life, casting flickering light in the darkened room. He watched Hezekiah settle into bed and pull up the covers.

“Grandpa, will you sing for me?” he asked sleepily. Hezekiah gazed up at him with solemn brown eyes, and Zechariah felt his heart constrict. How he had grown to love this child in the past few months!

At first they had clung to each other, each one needy in his own way. But in time, with the siege over and the threat of Molech a mere memory, bonds of love had replaced the cords of need. Zechariah bent to smooth the covers into place around him.

“Yes, of course. Close your eyes now, and I’ll sing until you fall asleep.”

“Okay,” Hezekiah yawned.

Zechariah sat on the edge of the bed and closed his eyes. He hummed softly for a moment, his body swaying slightly in rhythm, then he began to sing the slow, haunting melody.

“‘I love you, O Lord, my strength. The Lord is my rock, my fortress and my deliverer; my God is my rock, in whom I take refuge—”’ “Grandpa?”

Zechariah stopped short when Hezekiah interrupted. “What is it, son?”

“Can Yahweh close His mouth?”

“What? Why do you ask about Yahweh’s mouth, child?”

Hezekiah sat up in bed, peering intently at Zechariah. “Because Molech never closes
his
mouth. I think he must get tired of holding it open all the time.” Hezekiah spread his mouth wide and made a menacing face in an imitation of the fire god. “Is Yahweh’s mouth like that, too? Can Yahweh close His mouth?”

Zechariah couldn’t help smiling. His delight in his grandson and his deep love for him welled up inside until it burst forth in laughter.

Zechariah’s life had been arid for so long that he couldn’t recall the last time he had laughed. He only knew that it felt good, like the first cup of cold water from the Gihon Spring after the long siege had ended.

“No, son,” Zechariah replied at last, “Yahweh’s mouth isn’t open all the time like Molech’s.”

“Well, what does Yahweh look like? Can you show me His statue sometime?”

Zechariah stroked Hezekiah’s curly hair. It felt thick and silky beneath his hand. “There is no statue, son. One of Yahweh’s commandments is that we must never try to make an image of Him.”

“Why not?”

“Well, because Yahweh is so … so …” He gestured helplessly as he searched for the right words to describe God. “We could never put all of Yahweh’s greatness into a mere statue. Besides, no one has seen God. No one knows what He looks like. We only know that we are made in His image.”

Hezekiah fidgeted, as if struggling to comprehend. “But, Grandpa, how do you know that Yahweh is real if you can’t see Him?”

The simple question struck Zechariah like a hammer blow. He was speechless. The joy he had felt a moment ago vanished, replaced by fear. He was a Levite. He had once instructed priests and counseled the king. Now he couldn’t even answer a child’s simple question. He was terrified to try.

“Hezekiah,” he said softly, “you need to go to sleep now. You would like to keep me up all night with your questions, wouldn’t you?”

Hezekiah tugged on Zechariah’s sleeve. “But, Grandpa—” “No, son. Go to sleep, and I promise … I promise we’ll talk about Yahweh in the morning.” He motioned for Hezekiah to lie down, then smoothed the covers into place around him again. Zechariah turned away to avoid his grandson’s probing eyes, ashamed of his cowardice. “Good night,” he mumbled.

“Good night, Grandpa.”

Zechariah cleared his throat to continue singing, but suddenly Yahweh seemed very far away again, the gulf between them unbridgeable. His voice trembled slightly as he began.

“‘Yahweh is my shield and the horn of my salvation, my … my—”’ He stumbled over the words, momentarily confused. Hezekiah’s question still haunted him. How could he prove the existence of a God he couldn’t see? “‘My stronghold. I call to the Lord, who is worthy of praise, and I am saved from my enemies.’”

He continued singing in the darkness, his body rocking gently in rhythm with the verse. Because it was a nightly ritual he knew the words, but they were empty words to him. He no longer knew the answers. His inadequacy and failure shamed him.

Before long he became aware that the pattern of Hezekiah’s breathing had changed as he’d fallen asleep.

“‘In my distress I called to the Lord; I cried to my God for help… .”’ Zechariah sang.
O Yahweh, I’m calling to you for help now,
Zechariah prayed silently.

Hezekiah asks how I know you are there. What shall I tell him? O Yahweh, help me!

“‘… From his temple he heard my voice; my cry came before him, into his ears …”’

God? Do you really hear my cry? Please help me,
he prayed.

In the fading lamplight, Hezekiah’s dark hair had a coppery cast.As Zechariah tenderly brushed a curl away from his face, he felt his love for Hezekiah like a deep ache in his heart. The boy’s soul had been healed, his nightmares forgotten. But he had never asked questions about Yahweh before.

As he sat in the silent darkness, Zechariah’s love for Hezekiah twisted into a knot of pain inside him, and he fell on his face to the floor in desperation.

“Almighty God, have mercy on this small boy. Send someone to teach him about you. Please don’t let him walk in the ways of Ahaz.Don’t punish him for the sins of his father—and grandfather. Mold him into your servant, Lord. Hear me, I pray.”

The stars moved silently across the heavens as the city slept. A breeze rustled past the curtain, and the oil lamp sputtered, then died.Zechariah never noticed. With his forehead pressed to the floor, he cried out to God throughout the night, praying as he hadn’t prayed for many years.

“Please send someone to teach him, Lord. I can’t do it. You had mercy on me before and answered my prayer. I asked for forgiveness, and you gave it to me. Now I ask for your help again, even though I’m not worthy to call on you. Please, please, teach him your laws.Let him grow up to serve you, I pray.”

At dawn, as the sun inched from behind the Mount of Olives in the east, Zechariah lay exhausted and still. He had no words left to pray. The knotted burden in his heart had been unbound. In the darkened room he could barely see Hezekiah’s bed a few feet in front of him, but he heard him breathing softly.

Then in the silence, from somewhere deep inside Zechariah’s soul, Yahweh spoke.

“You will teach him, Zechariah.”

“No, I can’t, Lord, I can’t! I failed with Uzziah, and I don’t want to fail again. Not with Hezekiah. Not with him. I love him, God. I love him, and I can’t … I can’t.”

But the voice of Yahweh spoke in his heart once again to still his protests.

“Sing the rest of the psalm.”

That was all.

Zechariah began to tremble. His heart raced as he struggled to recall which psalm he had sung to Hezekiah earlier that night.

“‘My God turns my darkness into light,’” he whispered, remembering. “‘With your help I can advance against a troop; with my God I can scale a wall… . It is Godwho armsme with strength and makes my way perfect.’”

Tears slipped down Zechariah’s cheeks. Yahweh had spoken to him again! Zechariah tried to remember the last time he had heard that powerful, tender voice speaking to his heart. It seemed like a lifetime ago. He, like Uriah, had been newly appointed to be palace administrator. Zechariah’s first love had been the Law—God’s holy, precious Torah. But through the years another mistress slowly took its place: his pride—pride in his own achievements and in the recognition he received before the entire nation.

Suddenly he understood why he had failed with King Uzziah. He had relied on his own knowledge, his own strength, and it hadn’t been enough. He had stopped seeking God’s strength and wisdom. Zechariah covered his face in shame.

“Forgive me, Yahweh. Forgive my foolish pride.”

The sun rose steadily to the top of the Mount of Olives and crept over the ridge, flooding around the edges of the curtains. Hezekiah stirred slightly and sighed in his sleep. Zechariah rose to his feet and gazed down at his grandson.

He resembled his mother so much, with Abijah’s dark hair and eyes. Ahaz was ruddy and fair, like the house of David, but Hezekiah wasn’t like him. Zechariah closed his eyes again in prayer. “Make him different in spirit, too. Help me to teach him about you. Help me, give me wisdom!”

Fear began to knot his stomach again, but Yahweh’s wisdom spoke louder than Zechariah’s fear as he recalled the words of the Proverbs:
“Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways acknowledge Him, and he will make your paths straight.”

“Thank you,” Zechariah prayed softly. “We will teach Hezekiah.

You and I, Lord—we will teach him.”

When Hezekiah awoke, blinding sunlight was streaming into his room. He sat up, rubbing his eyes, and saw that his grandfather had thrown open the curtains that covered his window.

“‘The heavens declare the glory of the Lord!’” Zechariah shouted. He gestured toward the sun and sky, the green and brown hills outside the window. “‘The skies proclaim the work of his hands!’” He folded his arms across his chest as if nothing more needed to be said. Hezekiah stared at his grandfather in surprise, too sleepy to comprehend.

“Listen, son, last night you asked how we know that Yahweh is really there. All we need to do is open our eyes and see all the marvelous things He has created. The
heavens
declare His glory!” Zechariah crossed the room and gently urged Hezekiah out of bed, dressing him in his robe and sandals as he talked.

“The sun, the moon, the stars, the rolling hills and valleys around us—they all speak to us of God’s glory. Yet the greatest miracle of all is that we are made in His image. Come on, son. Today I will teach you about Yahweh, our God.”

Hezekiah remembered how his grandfather had seemed unwilling to talk about Yahweh last night—almost as if he was afraid. But this morning Zechariah’s face glowed with excitement. Hezekiah couldn’t imagine what had brought about such a change in him, but he sensed that they were about to start on a great adventure, and he ran to open the door, eager to begin.

He skipped ahead of Zechariah, running down the stairs and through the palace hallways, wishing his grandfather would walk faster. But he stopped to wait for him by the main doors, and as he watched him striding forward, he decided that Yahweh must look like his grandfather—tall and strong, with a flowing beard. Yahweh’s eyes must be just as wise and kind, his face noble and dignified like Zechariah’s. As his grandfather walked toward him he smiled and reached to take Hezekiah’s hand.

“Where are we going, Grandpa?”

“I want to take a walk outside the city where we can see Yahweh’s creation.”

“Okay.” Hezekiah would follow his grandfather wherever he led him. He felt safe and happy when they were together.

The city had just awakened from sleep as they left the palace hand in hand and walked down the hill through the streets. The air was smoky with the first fires of the day and filled with the sounds of grinding hand mills and crowing roosters. In the marketplace a merchant shouted threats at his servant as they hastily piled goods for their first customers. Zechariah stopped at a market stand and bought two barley buns and a handful of dates. Hezekiah ate them while they walked, spitting out the pits.

As they approached the Valley Gate, Zechariah pointed to a little shrine that had been set up along one of the streets. It was a statue of a fierce-looking man holding a lightning bolt. Offerings of food and flowers lay spread at his feet.

“See that?” he asked Hezekiah. “People make altars like these to worship their idols. But idols aren’t gods at all—they’re only statues made by human hands and human imaginations. There is only
one
God, Hezekiah. You know Him by the name of Yahweh, the God of salvation.”

The little image was half as tall as Hezekiah and looked harmless enough. But he shuddered at the thought of facing Molech’s blazing image again and gripped Zechariah’s hand a little tighter.

When they reached the Valley Gate, they left the walled city, following the course of the aqueduct up the Gihon Valley to the spring.Hezekiah recognized it as the route he had taken with his father the first time they had met the prophet Isaiah. Terraced olive groves and vineyards swirled down the rocky slopes of the mountains to the east, the tree branches drooping under the weight of ripening fruit. A herd of goats clambered over the rocks beneath the city walls, scrambling to find the sparse clumps of grass that grew among the stones. When Zechariah reached the spring, he stopped.