“You think you’re so clever, don’t you?” Ahaz said. “What do you want?”
“I have a word of advice for you.”
“Advice? I might have known. You’d like a position in my court now that I’ve lost my three top men.”
Isaiah shook his head. “No. I’ve renounced my kinship to the house of David because—”
“You were thrown out of the palace,” Ahaz interrupted. “And for good reason. My father didn’t want to listen to your radical opinions, and neither do I.”
Isaiah took a step closer. “How can I remain silent when my nation is rushing toward disaster? Unless Judah reforms—”
“Reforms? If we listened to you, we’d end up living in tents like Abraham.”
Isaiah held his head high, meeting Ahaz’s gaze without flinching. He repeated quietly, “Unless this nation repents—”
“That’s enough.” Ahaz held up his hands. “We don’t need a doomsayer, Isaiah. The people are already worried. You can’t get an audience in my court, so you force your views on the common people and call it prophecy. Well, I don’t want to listen to you, and neither do they.”
“I have a word for you, King Ahaz—from Yahweh.” Isaiah’s tone changed, and there was something in his manner, an unmistakable authority in his voice, that made Ahaz keep silent. “Be careful, keep calm, and don’t be afraid,” Isaiah told him. “Don’t lose heart because of these kings who have come against you.”
“What are you talking about?” Ahaz exploded. “Their armies are rapidly approaching Jerusalem!”
“Yes, but the Lord God says their plan will not succeed. You must stand firm in your faith in Yahweh—or you will not stand at all.”
“I don’t know where you get your bizarre ideas, and I don’t care. I’ve already made plans to deal with this crisis, and I’m not changing them now.”
Isaiah’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t believe that Yahweh can deliver you from the enemy, do you? You’d rather ask the king of Assyria for help than put your trust in the Lord.”
Ahaz glared at him, wondering how he had learned of the planned alliance so quickly. “The gods belong in the temples, not in the streets,” Ahaz said. “And certainly not in government.”
Isaiah took another step forward. “Ask Yahweh for a sign. Let Him prove that He will crush your enemies as He has said. Ask anything you like, in heaven or on earth.”
“No. I won’t put Yahweh to the test.” Isaiah’s confidence shook Ahaz. If his cousin somehow produced a miracle in front of all these people, Ahaz would have to abandon his plans and trust in the sign. He couldn’t afford to take that risk.
“Hear now, you house of David!” Isaiah said angrily. His quiet voice grew and surged as he spoke, like water rushing down a dry riverbed, until it seemed to thunder. “You’re not satisfied to exhaust my patience—you’ll exhaust the Lord’s patience, as well! Very well then, Yahweh himself will choose the sign—a virgin shall conceive and give birth to a child. And he shall be called Immanuel.”
“That’s ridiculous. How can a virgin bear a child?”
“The lands of the kings you dread so much will be laid waste,” Isaiah continued. “But Yahweh will bring a terrible curse on you and on your nation and on your family, too. The mighty King of Assyria will come with his great army. Yahweh will take these Assyrians you’ve hired to save you and use them to shave off everything you have: your head and the hair of your legs, and your beard also.”
Ahaz didn’t want to hear any more. He turned his back on Isaiah and strode toward the steep ramp that led up to the city, anxious to escape his cousin’s words. They were too horrible to consider. What if Isaiah was right? What if the Assyrians decided to invade him instead of rescuing him? He glanced over his shoulder to see if Isaiah had followed him and saw Hezekiah behind him, gazing up at him with accusing eyes. Ahaz quickly turned away.
He led his procession back to the palace as quickly as he could, refusing to acknowledge the gawking crowds who clamored for a glimpse of their king. Then he sent Hezekiah away with a servant and returned to his own bedchamber, deeply depressed. Outside his window the frantic preparations for the siege continued, but Ahaz no longer sought comfort in activity. The hole inside where fear gnawed at him felt even larger.
He didn’t want to be king anymore. He wished that someone else could rule instead of him. But his brother Maaseiah was dead and Ahaz was alone. There was no one else. He lay facedown on his bed and wept.
Uriah sat in the Temple council chamber and planned his strategy, ignoring the arguing priests and Levites. His head pounded from tension as the meeting dragged on and on. The overcrowded room, a smaller version of the king’s council chamber, felt charged with emotion.
He had asked his uncle Azariah, the retired high priest, to preside over the meeting from his place on the raised dais; the others sat in a semicircle around him. But after the announcement of King Ahaz’s decision to raise tribute for Assyria, the meeting had quickly reached a stalemate as the priests argued over which section of the Holy Place should be dismantled for its gold. Uriah closed his eyes and squeezed his throbbing temples with his fingertips.
“This is what I hate,” he mumbled to the priest seated beside him. “These fools can’t even reach a simple consensus. No wonder the people have deserted the worship of Yahweh.”
The priest yawned. “Do you suppose they’ll finish in time for the evening sacrifice?”
“Not at this rate. I don’t know how the Temple has managed to survive this long, but I can see how it will end.” Uriah sighed and tried to concentrate on the discussion again. He hadn’t mentioned his promotion yet, or Ahaz’s decision to offer another sacrifice to Molech. He would need to handle those subjects with great care. Let the men exhaust their energy arguing over the Assyrian tribute first.
After what seemed like hours, the priests finally reached an agreement. Like a proud noblewoman taken captive, the Temple would be stripped of her finery to pay for the tribute to Assyria. Azariah divided the work among the men and was about to dismiss the gathering when Uriah rose from his place.
“Just a moment, gentlemen. There is one more matter we need to discuss.” The men groaned with fatigue, but Uriah took his time, choosing every word, every gesture with care. He must win their support. There was no other option.
“At the emergency council meeting this morning, King Ahaz asked me to replace Prince Maaseiah as palace administrator. I have decided to accept the position.”
His words were met with stunned silence. He had expected applause or at least words of congratulations, but the room grew very still. He decided to lay everything before them at once, while they were still in shock, and get it over with quickly.
“One of my first duties as palace administrator is to organize a public sacrifice before the siege begins.”
“Here at the Temple?” Azariah asked.
“No. Ahaz plans to offer another sacrifice to Molech.”
Conaniah jumped to his feet as if he might strike Uriah. “Have you lost your mind? How can you possibly organize a sacrifice to idols? You’re the high priest of Yahweh!”
“He’s right,” Azariah said. “I don’t see how you can possibly serve as palace administrator to a king who worships Molech. It’s out of the question. You’ve gone too far, Uriah.”
Their protests opened the floodgate, and everyone began talking and shouting at once. Uriah’s head felt as if it would burst.
“Let me finish!” he finally shouted above the noise. “At least listen to me before you condemn me!”
Azariah began calling for silence and eventually restored the meeting to order. When everyone was seated, Uriah began to slowly circle the men, his voice calm and authoritative. As he spoke, he fixed his intimidating gaze on each priest and Levite in turn—a silent warning not to defy him. Most of the men would respect him enough to follow his lead if he could make his words persuasive enough—and if he could silence his opponents.
“We serv
e a dead institution,” he began. “Look around you. Even the building is crumbling down on us, and we don’t have the resources to repair it. It’s time we faced the truth: the men of Jerusalem are no longer willing to support this Temple or its priesthood with their tithes. Like the king, they go elsewhere for spiritual help, to the idols and shrines in the groves. Meanwhile, we barely take in enough offerings to keep our families alive. It’s time to make some changes.”
“How can you talk about change?” Azariah interrupted. “Yahweh never changes. He ordained all the laws and the sacrifices, even the pattern for the Temple itself. You don’t have the authority to change what the Almighty One has commanded.”
“I have not finished speaking!” Uriah shouted, forcing himself to take authority over his elderly uncle. “You’ll have a chance to speak when I’m through.” Azariah sat down but his face was white, his lips taut with anger. The tension in the room swelled as Uriah continued.
“Our Temple worship must change as the world changes or it will eventually die out altogether. We’re so bound to tradition that we no longer listen to the people. I’m not talking about changing Yahweh’s laws, I’m talking about examining our traditions. If the men of Judah are drawn to the religions of the nations around us, then we need to ask ourselves why. It’s time we consider changing our outmoded traditions to fit the times instead of blindly clinging to the old ways.”
Azariah could no longer restrain himself. “That’s outrageous!” he shouted. “Don’t listen to him!”
The room erupted into chaos. Uriah watched helplessly, wondering how he would ever restore order again. After several frustrating minutes he began to shout, “Quiet, all of you! Be quiet and listen to me! Are you going to think for yourselves or let a few closed-minded extremists think for you?”
Eventually, most of the men quieted. Uriah ignored the few scattered objections and continued speaking, his voice hoarse from the strain. “If this Temple is going to survive, it’s essential that we have the king’s support. The people follow his leadership in spiritual matters—you know that. Some of you can remember how it was when Uzziah was king. This Temple was the focal point of the nation because of him.” He turned to Zechariah. “Tell them how you won Uzziah’s confidence and were able to influence the entire nation.”
Zechariah made a shaky attempt to stand and speak, but Uriah quickly realized from his glazed eyes and swaying legs that he was drunk. Uriah hastily resumed his speech.
“My esteemed colleague has already assured me of his full support,” he said as he waved Zechariah away. “My point is that King Ahaz is very young and has no understanding of Yahweh’s law. It’s up to us to teach him and draw him back to the worship of Yahweh. Then we’ll be able to draw back the people, as well. King Ahaz trusts me. He has made me second in command of the nation. I’m merely using this sacrifice as a first step to revive the worship at this Temple.”
“By worshiping idols?” Conaniah shouted. “You want to revive the worship of Yahweh by sacrificing to Molech? That’s insane! The only way to revive Temple worship is through repentance. The men of Judah must give up their idolatry and turn their hearts back to God!”
Uriah swiftly crossed the room and stood before Conaniah, towering over him in an unspoken threat. “This Temple has been trying to operate under your narrow-minded, archaic views long enough. Repentance! Where has that gotten us? The whole purpose of this Temple is to serve the spiritual needs of the people. Obviously our traditions aren’t meeting those needs or the people would come back. First we must draw them back to worship. Later we can wean them from their idolatry.”
“No, you’re wrong!” Azariah said. “The purpose of this Temple is to serve Yahweh, not the people. We sin against Him if we lead the people into idolatry.”
“We’re not leading them into idolatry!” Uriah shot back. “They’re already worshiping idols! We can sit here and starve to death from lack of offerings, or we can change and reclaim some of our former power and strength in this nation. This is our chance! I have the king’s trust and support. If I don’t take a leading role in this sacrifice, then Molech’s priests will. Look, I’m simply making all the arrangements. Molech’s priests will perform the ritual. But the people must be convinced that our priesthood is supreme over all the others.”
“Absolutely not!” Azariah answered. “We’re priests of the one true God. We can’t give our consent to idolatry.”
“Our consent isn’t an issue!” Uriah shouted. “Ahaz is stripping the last of the Temple’s wealth—don’t you understand that? There’s nothing left! Are you going to sit here clinging to the past while the building crumbles down around you?” He slammed his fist against the wall with such force that bits of plaster and dust fell from the ceiling as if to prove his words. The room was silent for a moment.
“It’s getting very late,” Uriah said, his voice calm and controlled. “We’ve debated long enough. We have to carry out the king’s orders today. The tribute must be sent to Assyria before the siege begins. And the sacrifice must be held immediately. We can’t waste any more time arguing. It’s time to vote.”
He ignored the scattered murmurs of dissent and scooped up the container of pebbles used for voting. As he passed it around, each man took one black and one white stone.
“If you wish to support me as high priest and revive our Temple worship, put in the white stone,” he ordered. “If you wish to tie my hands with your antiquated traditions and wait for the Temple to fall down around you, put in the black stone.”
“Don’t listen to him!” Azariah pleaded. “He’s giving us no choice!”
“That’s because there is no choice—don’t you understand that? We’re the dying custodians of a dying institution. We need change. Now vote.”
“No!” Azariah hurled his stones at Uriah’s feet. “I refuse to accept your leadership. I refuse to have any part in a vote for idolatry. The very idea is an abomination to God himself!” He strode from the room. Conaniah and a few others followed.
Uriah held his breath, waiting to see how many more would leave. When enough men remained for their decision to be legally binding, he exhaled. He quickly passed the box for the vote, listening to the dull thud of the stones as they hit the bottom. When it came around to him, he tossed in his white stone, then turned the box over and dumped its contents in the middle of the circle.
“Count them,” he ordered.
He could tell by the mixture of black and white that the vote would be close. Uriah watched tensely as two scribes separated and counted the stones. If the vote went against him, he would have to resign as high priest. His authority over the priests and Levites and his power to make changes in the Temple would come to an end. But if he won, today would bring a new beginning.
“Twenty-three black,” the first scribe announced.
“And twenty-eight white,” the second one added. “The vote has gone in your favor, Uriah.”
They passed the container to collect the unused stones, and the men silently filed out, exhausted from the emotional strain of the meeting. When he was alone, Uriah sank onto his uncle’s seat on the dais, staring at the stones still piled in the center of the room.
He had won. He had a new position of power with the king, and now the priests and Levites supported his leadership, as well. His whole life had shifted in the past few hours and had finally come into focus.
Uriah knew he should be elated, but his victory left him with a hollow feeling inside that he was afraid to examine too closely. He would wait until the sacrifice to Molech was over, he told himself. Maybe then he would feel differently. Maybe then he could silence the nagging voice that haunted him.
4
His mother’s screams jolted him awake. Hezekiah opened his eyes and the nightmare returned. Like the rumble of an approaching storm, the soldiers poured down the hallway toward his room. They were coming again—for him.
The last time they came, Hezekiah hadn’t known the horror that awaited
Eliab. But this time he knew. He needed to run, he needed to hide, but there was no place to hide. His mother’s screams grew louder, closer.
Maybe this was just a dream. Maybe he would wake up. But when he saw his brother’s empty bed next to his, he remembered the stench and the roar of the flames, and he knew it wasn’t a dream.
The soldiers flung his door open and pulled him from his bed. Strong hands tried to force the tunic over his head. Hezekiah remembered Molech’s gaping mouth and how his brother had fallen, headlong into the flames, and he fought against the soldiers with all his strength. But they picked him up effortlessly, almost amused at his struggle, and carried him out of his room.
The hallway was shadowy and dim, but he saw dozens of soldiers in the flickering torchlight. The high priest was there, too—the tall, broad-shouldered man Hezekiah had seen in his father’s council room. Mama was on her knees, clinging to his feet, pleading with him.
“Uriah, please! I beg you! Please don’t take my son!” Her eyes were wild and frantic, her face chalky with fear.
“Mama, help me!” Hezekiah cried. “Help me!” He struggled to go to her, but the soldier held him tightly.
“Please, Uriah, please!” she begged.
“Abijah, don’t . . .” The high priest tried to take her arm and help her stand up, but she clung to his legs.
“They’ve already killed my Eliab. Isn’t that enough?” she asked. “Please don’t kill Hezekiah, too! I beg you! For my father’s sake! For my sake, have mercy on my son! He’s all I have left!”
“Take her out of here,” Uriah said quietly.
“No—Uriah, no! You have to help me!” A knot of soldiers surrounded her. She screamed helplessly as they pried her hands from Uriah’s feet. Hezekiah fought and kicked with all his strength, crying in terror as he struggled to go to his mother. But she disappeared from sight as the men dragged her away, her agonized screams fading in the distance.