“Not after you’ve had a taste of power and luxury,” Zechariah finished for him. Uriah stopped pacing and glared at him.
“That has nothing to do with it.”
“Doesn’t it? You can’t lie to me, Uriah. I know better than anyone else what temptations you’re facing. I’ve lived here, too—remember?”
Uriah looked away. “Yes, I remember.”
“And we’re very much alike, you know—the same drive, the same burning ambition to succeed. Yes, I understand you very well. You’ve worked long and hard to get where you are, and now that you’re at the top, you sometimes have to do things that compromise your faith. Believe me—I know. But you can’t go back. It’s a long way down to where you’ve crawled up from, isn’t it? A long way down. And when you hit the bottom again, you’re afraid you’ll shatter into a thousand pieces, like I did. So rather than fall, you’ll make a few concessions to your faith. A little here, a little there, and every time you compromise, something inside your spirit dies a little.”
“This is nonsense.” Uriah folded his arms across his broad chest, but he wouldn’t look at Zechariah.
“Is it? Can you honestly stand there and tell me you didn’t die inside when you watched those children burn to death? Because if you can, then it’s already too late. You’re already dead.”
Uriah turned away to stare out the window. When he spoke again, his voice was so soft Zechariah could barely hear him. “Go away and leave me alone.”
“Uriah, resign!” Zechariah begged. “Do it now, before it’s too late. Make them stop building this altar. Help me oppose Ahaz’s idolatry. Because that’s what I have every intention of doing from now on.”
Uriah swiftly turned to face him. “Are you forgetting that Ahaz is the king? If you oppose him he’ll have you executed.”
“Yahweh dealt with King Uzziah when he sinned, and He’ll deal with Ahaz, too. But you’ll face Yahweh’s judgment along with the king if you cooperate with him. Believe me, I know what I’m talking about.”
As Zechariah gazed at Uriah’s troubled features, he sensed the conflict raging in his heart. But even as he watched, Uriah’s face hardened again. His jaw locked as he thrust his chin forward, and he seemed immovable, as if carved from stone.
“I’m not going to turn into a religious fanatic, Zechariah. Not even for you. I can serve Yahweh much better if I stay here, in a position of authority. I know how to handle Ahaz. That’s where you went wrong. You didn’t know how to control King Uzziah.”
“If you have so much control over him, then put a stop to this altar.”
“I’ve already explained it to you,” he said coldly. “The altar will draw the people back to the Temple, back to Yahweh. I don’t see it as a threat. Why are you so resistant to change?”
It seemed to Zechariah that the high priest’s conscience had also turned to stone. He shook his head. “I thought I could reach you. I thought I could make you see the truth. But I guess it’s too late. All of this has blinded you,” he said, gesturing to the luxurious room. “Power is intoxicating, isn’t it? I’m not sure I would have listened to the truth, either.”
As they stared at each other for several moments, Zechariah knew Uriah would never give in. Zechariah turned to leave and saw Hezekiah standing outside the open door, listening—and his anger at Uriah returned. If he and King Ahaz continued to rebel against the God of their fathers, Hezekiah would have no future, no nation to reign over. Zechariah knew it was up to him to stop Ahaz—for his grandson’s sake. He reached for Hezekiah’s hand, then turned to point an accusing finger at the high priest.
“You’re serving the wrong king, Uriah.”
For a week after his confrontation with Uriah, Zechariah wrestled over what to do—how to stop the heretical changes that were taking place in Yahweh’s Temple. When he heard that King Ahaz had returned and that he would preside over a dedication ceremony on the new altar, Zechariah knew that the time had come for him to act. He must do the will of God regardless of the consequences to himself.
On the evening before the ceremony, he walked up the hill to his old quarters in the Temple and retrieved his Levitical robes. Before the shofar announced the sacrifice the next morning, he put them on for the first time in many months.
“Grandpa, why are you wearing that robe?” Hezekiah asked as he watched him dress.
“I’m going to assist the priests in the Temple this morning.”
“But you said we wouldn’t go to the Temple anymore until they got rid of the new altar.”
“I know I did. Come here, Hezekiah. We need to talk.” Zechariah crouched beside Hezekiah and put his arm around his shoulder. “The men who put that altar in Yahweh’s Temple have done a very evil thing. And I made a promise to Yahweh that I would speak out against such evil. It’s my job to teach men God’s laws, so that’s what I need to do. Do you understand?”
“I guess so.”
“Now that your father is home from Damascus, he’s planning a special sacrifice this morning on the new altar. What he’s about to do is wrong. So I must keep my promise to Yahweh and tell the king and all the other men of Judah that it’s wrong.”
“Can I come, too, Grandpa?”
“No, son—not this time.”
“Please? I’ll be real quiet. No one will even know I’m there.”
“No. You must promise me that you’ll stay here. Promise?”
“Okay,” he answered reluctantly. “I promise.”
“Good boy.”
“Grandpa? When you’re done telling them, will you come back here to teach me my lessons?”
Zechariah hesitated. “Well, your father is very unpredictable. I’m not sure how he’ll react.”
“Please, Grandpa?”
Zechariah hugged him tightly. “Yes, of course I’ll be back. I may be a little bit late, but I’ll be back.”
“I love you, Grandpa.”
Zechariah held him close a moment longer. “And I love you, too.” He slowly rose to his feet and caressed Hezekiah’s hair. “I must go now, or I’ll be late.”
The dew covering the pavement stones dampened the hem of Zechariah’s robes as he hurried up the hill and through the gates to the inner courtyard. The other Levites and priests bustled around, making sure everything was in order, while Uriah, dressed in the mitre and ephod of the high priest, supervised them. Zechariah was careful to avoid him, skirting around the perimeter of the courtyard to where the Levite choir had assembled on the Temple porch. They stared at him in surprise as he approached in his ceremonial robes.
“Zechariah—what are you doing here?”
“I’m taking part in the sacrifice today.”
“But aren’t you past the age of retirement?” his friend Shimei asked.
“Yes. But I’m going to sing anyway.” He offered no other explanation, and no one pressed him further.
The blast of trumpets signaled the approach of King Ahaz. He arrived by the processional route through the main gate, and a great crowd of people swarmed behind him, filling the courtyards. A hushed whisper crackled through the assembly like a grass fire as they caught their first glimpse of the magnificent new altar. Then the whisper died away as the Levites began to sing.
While Ahaz led the way to the Bronze Sea, Zechariah watched the ritual closely, waiting for the right moment. He continued to sing the litany as the priests slaughtered the sacrifices and the men assembled around the new heathen altar. At first Zechariah saw no major changes, aside from the fact that it was a pagan altar. Uriah conducted the ritual the same way he had on Yahweh’s altar.
But when the time came for the high priest to ascend the ramp with the sacrifice, King Ahaz stepped forward from the crowd and walked to the top of the altar, followed by Uriah and the priests.
“Yahweh, help us all!” someone beside Zechariah whispered. “Is the king going to make his own offering?”
Zechariah stopped singing. “No, he isn’t,” he told them calmly. “Because I’m goi
ng to stop him.”
Shimei grabbed his arm. “Have you lost your mind?”
“No, I made a promise to Yahweh.”
He shook free of Shimei’s grasp and pushed his way to the front of the Temple porch. Zechariah knew that he should have spoken out years ago. He should have stopped King Uzziah from entering the sanctuary. He should have stopped Ahaz from sacrificing his sons to Molech. The knowledge that God had forgiven him and had offered him a second chance fueled his courage.
“King Ahaz, stop!” The choir stopped singing as Zechariah’s voice carried across the courtyard with authority. “What you’re about to do is a grave sin. Only the anointed priests of Yahweh can come before Him to present sacrifices. They are the intermediaries between God and man. That’s why Yahweh brought judgment on your grandfather, King Uzziah. And He’ll bring judgment on you, too, if you commit this act.”
He saw King Ahaz’s face turn red with rage. “Get him out of here!” he told Uriah.
The high priest quickly descended the altar stairs, signaling to the Temple guards, but Zechariah continued to shout.
“Yahweh will not tolerate this blasphemous altar in His Holy Temple. His commandment says, ‘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. . . .’”
The guards seized Zechariah’s arms. He tried to fight them off as they dragged him down the steps of the porch. “What are you doing? Let go of me! You should be helping me!”
But before they were able to remove him from the courtyard, Isaiah suddenly pushed his way through the crowd and stood at the base of the altar.
“I will call on Uriah the priest and Zechariah the Levite as witnesses,” he shouted as he unrolled a large scroll. He held it aloft for everyone to see. On it were the words Quick to the Plunder—Swift to the Spoil.
“When my wife conceived and gave birth to a son,” Isaiah said, “the Lord told me, ‘Name him Quick to the Plunder—Swift to the Spoil. Before he can say papa or mama, the riches of Damascus and the plunder of Samaria will be taken away by the King of Assyria.’ These two witnesses—Uriah and Zechariah—can testify that they heard me speak this prophecy on the day I brought my son here to the Temple for his circumcision. My son is still just a baby, and you have seen with your own eyes, King Ahaz, the fulfillment of that prophecy.”
Ahaz didn’t move or speak. As Zechariah watched, the king seemed to melt with fear where he stood, like a piece of fat in the fire.
“Now Yahweh is speaking another prophecy to His people: Because these people have rejected His words, the Lord is about to bring against them the mighty floodwaters of the River—the king of Assyria with all his pomp. It will overflow all its channels, run over all its banks and sweep on into Judah, swirling over it, passing through it and reaching up to the neck.” Isaiah pointed his scroll at Assur’s image on the new altar and said, “Its outspread wings will cover the breadth of your land!”
The courtyard was silent except for the crackling of the altar fire as Isaiah rolled up the scroll again and strode away. Ahaz, who had stood stunned, suddenly shook himself, as if coming to his senses.
“Stop him! Somebody stop him!” he shouted as he quickly descended the altar steps. But Isaiah vanished into the crowd before any of the guards could move.
Zechariah was relieved to see that the disruption to the king’s ceremony was irreversible. The milling crowd began drifting out of the courtyard in stunned confusion, as if frightened away by Isaiah’s words. Ahaz drew his robes around himself like a protective shield and stormed across the courtyard, out of the Temple gates.
“Your Majesty, wait!” Uriah called. “We haven’t finished the sacrifice!” He raced after the king, shoving people out of his way.
“It’s all over now,” Zechariah told the two guards who still gripped his arms. “Let me go.” They released him, and he felt a sense of satisfaction and victory as he watched the people leave. He had done the right thing this time. Yes, Yahweh had won.
King Ahaz heard Uriah calling to him as he hurried down the royal walkway to his palace, but he didn’t stop. He didn’t want anyone to see that he was shaking uncontrollably. But when Uriah finally caught up to him outside his chambers, Ahaz turned on him angrily.
“The next time my sacrifices are interrupted, I’m holding you responsible. I never want to see Isaiah or hear his words again. Do you hear me? Never again!”
“I’m sorry—”
“And you’d better get your Levites under control, too, or I’ll be looking for a new high priest!”
“I’m sorry, Your Majesty. I don’t know why Zechariah—”
“Get rid of him!”
Ahaz shuddered as he recalled Zechariah’s warning. He had been a child when his grandfather, Uzziah, had been stricken with leprosy, but he remembered that day and his grandfather’s grief and anger very well. Ahaz had been afraid of Yahweh’s power ever since—and of men like Zechariah and Isaiah who claimed to speak for Him. It was one of the reasons why Ahaz had wanted Yahweh’s high priest on his side.
“Zechariah’s a dangerous fool,” Ahaz said, “and I never want to see him again.”
“But he’s your father-in-law—”
“I know who he is! And I know what he’s up to. He’s trying to regain the political power that he had with my grandfather—that’s what this is all about. It’s treason! Kill him!”
“Yes, Your Majesty. I’m sorry about what happened today. I’ll take care of everything, and we’ll hold another sacrifice tomorrow. I assure you that nothing will go wrong.”
But Ahaz was barely listening. Isaiah’s vivid description of the deluge of Assyrian soldiers had overwhelmed him, and he felt as if he were drowning. He had rejected Isaiah’s advice at the Gihon Spring and ignored his warnings before leaving for Damascus. Both times Isaiah’s prophecies had been fulfilled. What if he was right this time?
Fear paralyzed Ahaz. In a nightmare vision, he saw Jerusalem besieged by thousands of Assyrian troops, battering rams pounding the city walls, his nobles and advisors impaled on stakes in the Gihon Valley. And he saw himself being slowly tortured to death by the Assyrian emperor. Ahaz knew of only one way to escape from this vision. He fled to his chambers and ordered some wine, mixed the Assyrian way . . . to help him forget.
Abijah awoke that morning with cramps, and she wondered if her baby would be born today. Eliab’s birth had taken all day, Hezekiah’s half that time. The midwife had assured her that each successive birth would be quicker than the last, and Abijah was eager to get it over with.
“Maybe I’ll be holding my baby in my arms by nightfall,” she told her servant.
“Then you should stay in bed, my lady. I’ll send for the midwife.”
“No, Deborah. It could be nothing. I want to get up and get dressed.”
She struggled out of bed, and her servant helped her get dressed and fix her hair. When breakfast arrived, Abijah sat near the window to eat it, watching the worshipers climb the hill to the Temple Mount for the morning sacrifice. There seemed to be hundreds of them this morning—many more than usual—and she wondered why. Then she saw her father leave the palace and hurry up the hill; Hezekiah wasn’t with him. She understood that it wasn’t wise to take him to the Temple now that King Ahaz had returned from Damascus. But why was her father wearing his Levitical robes? Abijah suddenly felt afraid.
“Is something going on at the Temple this morning?” she asked Deborah.
“I don’t know, my lady. Would you like me to ask someone?”
Abijah hesitated, unsure whom she could trust. With her husband worshiping numerous gods, she didn’t want to draw attention to the fact that she had become a regular worshiper at the Temple—or that her father was living in the palace, teaching Hezekiah about Yahweh.
“No, it doesn’t matter,” she said. But she pushed her breakfast tray aside, no longer hungry.
A few minutes lat
er, Abijah’s anxiety increased when she saw King Ahaz leave the palace and ascend the royal walkway with a small procession. He rarely attended the daily sacrifices at the Temple. Why was he going this morning? She heard trumpets announce his arrival in the Temple courtyard, and when the wind blew just right, she could faintly hear the Levites’ choir singing the liturgy. Her cramps seemed stronger now, but she wasn’t sure if they signaled the beginning of her labor or her growing unease.
Abijah was still gazing out of the window, worrying, when she saw King Ahaz hurrying down the walkway from the Temple, alone. It was much too soon for the sacrifice to have ended, but he was returning to the palace, walking very fast. Now she was sure that something was wrong, and she needed to find out what it was.
Modesty had confined Abijah to the harem during the last months of her pregnancy, and the king hadn’t sent for her since his return from Damascus. But she threw caution and convention aside as she went downstairs to try to intercept Ahaz before he reached his chambers. As she neared the last corner, she heard voices—Ahaz and Uriah, arguing. She halted, unseen, to listen.
“Zechariah’s a dangerous fool,” she heard Ahaz say, “and I never want to see him again.”
“But he’s your father-in-law—”
“I know who he is! And I know what he’s up to. He’s trying to regain the political power that he had with my grandfather—that’s what this is all about. It’s treason! Kill him!”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
Abijah had to lean against the wall as her knees went weak with fear. What had her father done? And why would Uriah agree to kill him? Uriah respected Zechariah. He had once loved him like a father.
“I’m sorry about what happened today,” Uriah continued in a soothing voice. “I’ll take care of everything, and we’ll hold another sacrifice tomorrow. I assure you that nothing will go wrong.”