Love In A Broken Vessel (3 page)

• H
OSEA
4:1, 3 •

Listen to the word of Yahweh, you Israelites. . . . “There is no faith, no love, and no knowledge of Elohim in the land. . . . That is why the land is drying up.”

G
omer sliced through the temple crowd with a skill borne of experience and purpose. The girls trailing behind her had maintained the pace admirably, and she’d noted their kohl-rimmed eyes followed her every move. “You, dance at the left of the king’s platform,” she instructed the youngest. Then, motioning to a tall, more experienced girl, Gomer added, “Stay near her until you see the customer pay an agreeable grain price.” Both girls nodded and hurried away, bronze bells jingling around their ankles with each step. Gomer assigned locations to the rest of Tamir’s girls—far enough from other harlots to avoid confrontation, close enough to the altar to attract eager worshipers.

Finally, having placed all the others, Gomer surveyed the temple sanctuary to find her favorite spot. The precise site varied with each event, but her guidelines were the same: the most discreet location near the highest-ranking officials. An elder or judge—even a priest—had no qualms about taking
a harlot to his bed. But an official could be ridiculed if he paid for pleasure too often. Or if the woman was ugly. Gomer knew she wasn’t ugly; some of the most powerful men in Samaria had told her so. Repeatedly. So discretion was vital if she hoped to lure those who could provide enough silver for her escape tonight with Merav.

The temple drums began a slow bass pounding, vibrating Gomer’s soul, setting her feet into motion. She began to dance and sway, moving with the beat toward a shaded area near the king’s platform. Jeroboam was seated on his temple throne with Israel’s newly appointed general at his side. Menahem was a ruthless soldier and an exacting leader. Like King Jeroboam, he demanded unquestioning loyalty from those he commanded. Gomer had felt the sting of the general’s whip two nights ago when she’d been slow to serve his wine. She’d never make that mistake again.

Seated at the king’s right was Amaziah, Bethel’s high priest during Gomer’s childhood. She’d seen him a hundred times since she’d arrived in Samaria, resenting his promotion to Israel’s high priest. But today she felt six years old again, and in her mind’s eye she saw Amaziah rage at the prophet Amos, who had come from Judah to prophecy against Israel—and Amos brought that fish prophet with him.

The fish prophet. He’s the one who took Hosea away.
A fresh memory of Hosea’s kind face squeezed her heart. She hadn’t thought of her childhood friend for years—until this morning. Why had he plagued her thoughts today?

Gomer covered her ears, shutting out the memory, concentrating on the flute and drum of the celebration to come. But she could feel Hosea’s arms around her. He was just a little boy, but he was like a big brother, strong and protective. When his abba Beeri declared he was taking Hosea to Judah—away from Israel’s pagan worship—Gomer remembered screaming, falling from the rafters. Her world went black. When she’d awakened, Hosea was gone—and soon her innocence was taken as well.

The drums in King Jeroboam’s temple kept beating, but Gomer stood like the blazing idol before her, staring at Amaziah. Somehow he was responsible for her life of pain. Deep, writhing hate rose within her as she watched the pompous fool clap off beat. She had been ten when her abba Diblaim sold her to Samaria’s priestess—the same day Amaziah was made Israel’s high priest. The same day Abba Diblaim became high priest at Bethel.

Some men’s careers were built on little girls’ beauty. The thought that she had been bartered for her abba’s political favor consumed her with alternating hate and despair. A shiver worked through her. Gomer shook her head, trying to clear the memories. She must be at her best if she hoped to earn enough silver to escape with Merav tonight. She closed her eyes, willing herself to enjoy the drums, to feel the vibration of the beat beneath her feet.

She resumed her dance toward the king’s platform, passing the new altar, an image of a man with a bull’s head, seated with legs crossed. Flames burned amber and white in its belly, the heat nearly singeing her. She gave the brazen beast a wide berth, marveling at its size and intensity. Twice as tall as a man, the image was wide enough for a camel to stand inside its fire chamber. She’d never seen anything like it in Samaria—or in Bethel, for that matter. The Canaanites had many gods, and Gomer felt cheated by her simple Israelite worship of El and Asherah, Baal and Anat.

Asherah was her patron goddess, blessing and cursing the fertility rites of men and women. Gomer had given Israel’s gods the respect they’d been due, but something about this brazen furnace drew her, aroused her. The drums beat faster, and she flung her arms wide. She tipped back her head, abandoning herself to laugh and dance. The bells around her waist, ankles, and wrists tinkled in time with the bass
thrum-pumming
of the drums, and she was lost in the thrill of all this new god might offer.

“Listen to the word of Yahweh, you Israelites.” A deep,
male voice scraped her nerves, resounded over the drums, and hushed the noisy crowd. “Yahweh brings these charges against you.”

Gomer’s spell was broken.
Yahweh?
She hadn’t heard of that god since Bethel, since Hosea . . .

“Who dares interrupt the king’s holy sacrifice?” Amaziah rose from his gilded couch and stood at the edge of the king’s dais, searching the sea of faces. The crowd writhed and stirred until one man stood alone—encircled by curious but cautious spectators.

“There is no faith, no love, and no knowledge of Elohim in this land,” the intruder continued, but Gomer couldn’t get close enough to see his face. “There is cursing, lying, murdering, stealing, and adultery.
That
is why the land is drying up, and everyone who lives in it is passing away—your animals, birds, and fish are dying too, are they not?”

“Don’t lay blame on Israel’s leaders when it’s the people who commit these heinous crimes.” The high priest’s volume rose, as did the small humps where his shoulders belonged. Gomer had always thought Amaziah’s physique was more serpent than man.

She weaved through the crowd.
One more fat Israelite to pass, and I’ll finally see the Yahweh prophet.

“It is Yahweh who says to
you
, Amaziah: My case is against you priests. I will destroy My people because they are ignorant. And because you have refused to learn and teach, I will refuse to let you be My priests. You have forgotten the teachings of your Elohim, so I will forget your children, Israel.”

Finally!
Gomer emerged from the crowd and found herself standing face-to-face with the prophet.
By Asherah’s bosoms—no!

“Hosea?” The word escaped in a whisper, and thank the gods, he didn’t hear her.

But it was him.

She’d always been the bold one on their childhood adventures.
Now look at him.
Her timid friend, now Yahweh’s fiery
prophet. Her heart pounding louder than the drums that set her feet dancing, she watched her long-ago friend. In many ways he was the same. Curly hair. Soft brown eyes—as round and innocent as they were twelve years ago.

Then he met Gomer’s gaze. And she saw his innocence shatter.

Hosea bent forward, clutching his gut as if he’d taken a blow. Murmurs rose from the crowd, and he knew he had to continue with God’s message, but how?
Maybe it’s not her.
He allowed his eyes to wander across the mosaic floor tiles to the henna-dyed feet of the prostitute before him. Slowly, almost painfully, his eyes traveled the length of her scantily clad form. Every bangle, veil, and bell had been expertly placed to accentuate the smooth skin and perfect curves of the little girl he’d known in Bethel.

She reached up awkwardly, covering the scar on her forehead from her fall out of the temple rafters. But she couldn’t hide the beauty mark beside her left nostril. She’d hated it as a child and tried to scrub it off with mashed cucumber and pine sap. It hadn’t worked, and now it distinguished her as a rare and exotic beauty.

Hosea felt a hand on his shoulder and jumped like a frightened little boy. The crowd laughed, then gasped, but before he turned, he saw hatred in Gomer’s eyes when she glimpsed the old prophet behind him.

Jonah had removed his hood, revealing his curdled skin and, subsequently, his identity. “My son, you must continue,” he whispered. “I realize you’ve become distracted—”

“You don’t understand, Jonah. She’s—”

“Yahweh understands, Hosea. Not even the smallest detail escapes His knowledge or plan.” He stepped back then, giving his student the freedom to choose. Ministry or distraction. He glanced again in Gomer’s direction, his heart breaking when she turned away.

And then his anger flared.

“Thus says Yahweh: the more priests there are, the more they sin against Me. So I will turn their glory into shame. They will eat, but they’ll never be full. They will have sex with prostitutes, but they’ll never have children.”

He saw Gomer’s head snap in his direction, a wicked stare warning him to stop. He could not—even for his beloved friend.

“Israel has abandoned Yahweh, and a spirit of prostitution leads them astray. They commit adultery by giving themselves to other gods.”

Amaziah began to laugh and said to Jeroboam and Menahem, “It appears this young man does not approve of our lovely Gomer.” The crowd joined the mocking, pawing and lunging at the young prostitutes sprinkled among them.

Hosea shoved the man who had taken Gomer into his arms. “Stay away from her!”

“No!
You
stay away from me!” she shouted and nestled into the man’s barreled chest. She glanced over her shoulder at Hosea, almost daring him to defend her again.

What had they done to her? Why would Gomer run into the arms of a man who would misuse her when Hosea could help her and restore their friendship? His chest ached at the pain of her betrayal.

“Yahweh understands,” Jonah had said moments ago, when he thought Hosea had simply been distracted by a harlot’s lovely form. Well, finally,
Hosea
understood. He grasped Yahweh’s indescribable pain of a nation who refused His attempts to woo them, choosing instead to worship other lovers. Indignation fueled his passion.

“My people offer sacrifices on mountaintops and burn incense on hills and under oaks and poplars. That is why your daughters become prostitutes and your daughters-in-law commit adultery.” His last words seemed to quiet the crowd. Evidently the mention of adulterous daughters-in-law strummed heartstrings that remained silent for lowly
prostitutes. “‘Yet I will not punish your daughters when they become prostitutes,’ says Yahweh, ‘or your daughters-in-law when they commit adultery. For it is the men who go to prostitutes and offer sacrifices with the temple prostitutes. And Israel herself acts like a prostitute!’ Lord God, let not Judah become guilty too!”

Barely had the word
Judah
escaped when King Jeroboam sprang from his throne. “Enough! I’ve heard enough from this seer. I recognize you, Jonah. You old conniver. How dare you hide behind a pink-cheeked boy to pronounce doom on a kingdom you helped build?”

Jonah stepped forward and bowed while soldiers marched closer. “You are right, King Jeroboam, it is I, Jonah. But you are wrong when you say I helped build your kingdom.” A serene smile stretched the old man’s mottled skin. “I delivered Yahweh’s message to you and your abba Jehoash. Elohim is the one who restored Israel’s boundaries from Hamath to the Dead Sea. Not King Jehoash. Not you. And certainly not me. Give Yahweh alone the glory—or prepare this nation to face His wrath.”

The guards arrived just then and grabbed Jonah’s arms roughly.

“He’s an old man,” Hosea said, shoving one soldier away. “You needn’t force him. We’ll leave.” He placed a protective arm around Jonah’s shoulders and walked toward the courtyard, shouting, “Israel is as stubborn as a bull. How can Yahweh feed you like lambs in open pasture? The people of Ephraim choose to worship idols, so we will leave you alone for now, but when you’re done drinking your wine and lying with your prostitutes, the wind will carry you all away. Your sacrifices will bring you shame!”

“Remove them from my sanctuary!” Jeroboam shouted. “Resume the drums!”

Hosea heard the pounding begin again and glanced at Jonah, worried that the guards might have harmed him. Instead, he was met with a satisfied grin and a nod of approval.

“Nooo!” A woman’s scream split the amiable moment.

Both prophets were shoved from the sanctuary while an old woman clawed and kicked at the soldiers leading her in. Blood streamed from her nose and a cut above her eye. She’d been beaten—probably by the massive soldier walking ahead of her. He held a squalling infant, swaddled and raised high above his head like an offering. Who was this woman? Too old to be the baby’s ima, was she the savta, protecting her daughter’s child?

Panic fueled Hosea’s strength, and he made a final attempt to escape his captors. One of the soldiers landed a blow across his cheek with the hilt of his sword, and Jonah grabbed Hosea’s forearm before he could fight back.