Then the high priest turned to Hezekiah. He gripped Hezekiah’s shoulders in his huge hands and shook him. “Be quiet!”
The power of his thundering voice stunned Hezekiah into silence. He gazed up at Uriah, and the man seemed like a giant to him. Hezekiah pleaded wordlessly for his life, too terrified to speak, but Uriah turned away.
“Let’s get this over with,” he said.
The soldiers made Hezekiah join the other children, the sons of Ahaz’s concubines. Hezekiah and his half-brother Amariah were nearly the same height and only a few months apart in age. But he knew that he was older than Amariah. As the eldest son of King Ahaz, Hezekiah knew he was next in line on the royal throne of King David. He was also next in line to die in the fire.
He couldn’t walk. One of the soldiers bent to pick him up, and he fought desperately to break free. But the more he struggled the tighter the soldier gripped him. Hezekiah kicked and flailed, clawing at the arms that encircled him, crying out in terror as he was carried through the halls and down the darkened stairways. By the time he reached the courtyard and the waiting procession, Hezekiah felt bruised and numb, too exhausted to struggle anymore.
The early morning sun hurt his eyes when he emerged from the dimly lit palace corridors. But as his eyes adjusted, he could see that everything was nearly the same as the last time—the huge crowds of people, the waiting priests and nobles, the white-robed children. Only the endless rows of soldiers were missing. And in the middle of them all was his father, King Ahaz.
The procession started down the hill through the city streets to the Valley of Hinnom again. The soldier who was carrying Hezekiah set him down and ordered him to walk, but Hezekiah’s legs trembled so violently with fear that the soldiers had to support him on either side. The two men pushed and dragged him through the streets until they finally reached the southern gate.
Hezekiah froze when he saw the jagged cliffs that marked the entrance to the valley of death. Once again, a thin column of smoke snaked into the sky in the distance. He couldn’t move.
“No . . . no . . .” he whimpered. But the soldiers jerked him roughly by the arms and propelled him forward against his will, his feet dragging.
Some of the other children started to wail, and the priests began their chant to drown out the pitiful cries: “Molech . . . Molech . . . Molech . . .” The throbbing cadence echoed off the cliffs and city walls, swelling as the procession inched closer to the site of the sacrifice. Each beat of the priests’ drums felt like a fist in Hezekiah’s stomach. They were almost there. He couldn’t escape.
Suddenly the man Hezekiah remembered meeting at the Gihon Spring pushed his way through the crowd, stepping in front of King Ahaz to block his path. Isaiah’s eyes flashed with anger, and his whole body shook with rage until he seemed about to burst apart. He shouted above the pounding drums in a voice that penetrated to the soul.
“Hear, O heavens! Listen, O earth! For Yahweh has spoken: ‘I reared children and brought them up, but they have rebelled against me. The ox knows his master, the donkey his owner’s manger, but Israel does not know, my people do not understand.’”
“Get out of my way!” Ahaz said, shoving him aside. The king continued walking, his eyes fixed on the fire god ahead of him. But Isaiah stayed with him, walking backward to face him, shouting to be heard above the din.
“Ah, sinful nation, a people loaded with guilt, children given to corruption!” He spread his arms wide to include the entire crowd. “They have forsaken Yahweh. They have spurned the Holy One of Israel and turned their backs on him.”
Again, Isaiah tried to stand in Ahaz’s path, and Hezekiah felt a glimmer of hope for the first time since he’d been awakened that morning. But the king shoved him aside—harder than before. Isaiah stumbled and nearly fell.
“Oh, my people, haven’t you had enough punishment?” Isaiah cried, fighting to regain his balance. “Must you forever rebel? Your country lies in ruins, your cities are burned, foreigners are plundering everything they see while you stand here helpless and abandoned!”
Hezekiah saw Uriah elbowing his way to the head of the procession to stand beside the king. He towered over Isaiah, but the prophet showed no fear as he met the high priest’s gaze.
“Your hands are full of blood,” Isaiah accused. “Wash and make yourselves clean. Take your evil deeds out of God’s sight! Stop doing wrong; learn to do right!”
Uriah signaled to two of the soldiers. “Keep this man out of our way,” he told them. Then he turned, joining Ahaz and the priests of Molech as the procession moved, step by step, toward its destination.
Isaiah made no more attempts to follow the king as the two soldiers held him back. But he stood by the edge of the road and pleaded with the people as they filed past him. “‘Come now, let us reason together,’ says Yahweh. ‘Though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they are red as crimson, they shall be like wool. If you are willing and obedient, you will eat the best from the land; but if you resist and rebel, you will be devoured by the sword.’ For the mouth of the Lord has spoken.”
Isaiah’s efforts seemed futile. The chanting crowd followed the king’s example, ignoring Isaiah’s words, turning away from him. The last door of escape seemed to slam shut in Hezekiah’s face. All hope was gone. He was going to die.
But as the soldiers dragged Hezekiah forward, he turned to see Isaiah looking directly at him, staring straight into his eyes. His gaze seemed to penetrate deep inside Hezekiah, stripping him naked.
“Don’t be afraid,” Isaiah told him, “for Yahweh has ransomed you. He has called you by name. You belong to Yahweh. When you go through deep water, Yahweh will go with you. And when you ford mighty rivers, they won’t overwhelm you. When you pass through the fire, you won’t be burned. The flames will not hurt you. For Yahweh is your God. The Holy One of Israel is your Savior.”
The soldiers tightened their grip on Hezekiah’s arms, propelling him forward once again. He turned his head, trying to keep Isaiah in sight, waiting for Isaiah to rescue him from the soldiers’ grasp, but the prophet couldn’t move.
Over and over Isaiah’s words throbbed in Hezekiah’s ears to the pounding beat of the drums. “When you pass through the fire, you won’t be burned . . . for Yahweh is your God. . . .” Over and over he repeated the words to himself, as if they possessed the power to protect him from what lay ahead.
The mob formed a circle around Molech, as close as the billowing heat allowed. In front of Hezekiah, the priests and their attendants mounted the steps of the platform, carrying the children. Molech waited with outstretched arms, his brazen image glowing, his mouth open wide. Hezekiah’s legs buckled and he collapsed, paralyzed with fear. He tried to fight back as one of Molech’s priests scooped him up, but the priest pinned his arms to his sides as he carried him up the steep steps and set him down on the platform. Once again Hezekiah faced the fiery monster.
The high priest of Molech began to chant the ritual of sacrifice, but Hezekiah heard none of the words. He was only aware of the intense heat on his face and the outstretched arms reaching for him. Isaiah’s words still echoed over and over in his mind to the rhythm of the drums and the pounding of his heart. “When you pass through the fire . . . Yahweh is your God. . . .” The priest holding Hezekiah’s shoulders tightened his grip, as if sensing that his instincts screamed for him to flee.
Now the chanting crowd reached a frenzied, deafening pitch. The moment of sacrifice was near. Hezekiah could no longer hear his own screams above the noise of the crowd, the beating of the drums, and the roar of the flames. The words of Isaiah that he had repeated to himself began to blur, and in his terror he remembered only one word: Yahweh.
The monster’s huge brass eyes stared down at him, tongues of flame darted from his gaping mouth. Molech’s priest finished his prayer and turned toward Hezekiah.
“Yahweh!” Hezekiah screamed in terror, over and over again.
“Which one is the firstbor
n?” Molech’s priest asked.
Uriah looked down at Hezekiah. Their eyes met. But when he stretched out his hand, it rested on Amariah’s head. “This one.”
Molech’s priest reached past Hezekiah and grabbed Amariah. Hezekiah saw the wrong son being hurled into the fire god’s arms. He heard his half-brother scream as he rolled toward the open mouth. He watched Amariah die in the flames instead of himself.
As the roaring crowd continued its cry for more, Hezekiah felt dazed. Another child was thrown into the flames, and another and another until the nauseating stench filled the air, stinging his eyes, burning his throat, gagging him.
Then it was over.
Isaiah’s words resounded in Hezekiah’s mind once again: “When you pass through the fire, you won’t be burned . . . for Yahweh is your God.”
And Hezekiah fainted in a heap on the platform.
The throbbing cadence of drums faded and died with the last of Molech’s victims. The crowds returned to their homes in somber silence to finish preparing for the siege. As Uriah walked beside King Ahaz through the city gates and up the hill to the palace, he wondered how the king felt about what he had just done.
Uriah had been a priest all his life. He had sacrificed thousands of animals and was no stranger to bloodshed. But none of his sacrificial victims had ever looked at him the way Ahaz’s son had. No dumb beast had ever shown such terror.
Uriah had told himself it would be just an empty ritual—another sacrifice like all the many others he had presided over. But he had never witnessed human sacrifice before, and he was not prepared for the overwhelming revulsion he now felt.
For a brief moment, when Isaiah had blocked the king’s path, Uriah had found himself praying that Ahaz would listen to him, that he would stop the terrible slaughter before it began. But the king had ignored the prophet’s words and carried Uriah’s carefully laid plans to their deadly conclusion.
It was still early morning, but Uriah stumbled wearily through the city streets and up the hill as if he had worked a full day of heavy labor. He reached the palace numb and exhausted. As he accompanied Ahaz down the corridors to his chambers, he heard anguished cries of grief and mourning coming through the open windows of the king’s harem, and Uriah shuddered. What had he done? He had managed to save Abijah’s son, but what about the other child? He had condemned another mother’s son—another innocent child—to death.
“She’ll get over it,” Ahaz grumbled, as if reading Uriah’s mind. “As soon as the next one is born, she’ll forget.”
Uriah fought the urge to punch him. Ahaz talked about his concubine as if she were a cow that quickly forgot her weaned calf. But Uriah remembered how desperately Abijah had pleaded for her child’s life, and he knew she would never forget. Nor, he guessed, would Zechariah. Suddenly his teacher’s pathetic condition made sense. The first victim had been his grandchild.
When they reached the king’s private chambers, Uriah waited for Ahaz’s orders, struggling to keep his features unreadable, his emotions hidden from view.
“Well, it’s over,” Ahaz sighed. “I think everything went well, don’t you? And I was glad to see that more of the city elders have finally realized how serious our situation is and have offered up their sons, too.”
Uriah mumbled a vague reply, unable to meet Ahaz’s gaze.
“I believe Molech will hear us this time,” Ahaz said, as if trying to convince himself. “He’s a very powerful god, you know. He asks for a great sacrifice, and so his power must surely be very great in return.”
Uriah didn’t reply. His anger at the king’s superstitious ignorance came close to the flash point. He had little patience with the stupidity of idolatry and was eager to begin the monumental task of teaching Yahweh’s laws to Ahaz, beginning with the first commandment. But not today. Today Uriah was too physically and emotionally drained to do anything.
“I guess there’s nothing more we can do except wait for the invasion,” Ahaz said. His confidence in Molech seemed to abruptly vanish, and his fear became transparent in his trembling voice. “How long do we have, Uriah? How long before the siege begins?”
“A few days perhaps. Certainly no more than a week.” Uriah tried to sound calm, to instill a measure of confidence in the panicky king.
“Are we prepared? Can we withstand it?” Ahaz’s face wore the pathetic look of a beggar pleading for alms. Uriah battled his revulsion as he recognized the king for what he was—a coward. Only a coward would send his children to their deaths in order to save his own life.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” he replied. “Defensively, our city is well situated. The enemy will grow tired of the siege long before we will.”
But Ahaz didn’t look convinced. He paced the length of the sitting room, wringing his hands. Uriah longed to escape from him, to run as far from the palace as he could and never return. He would have to support Ahaz and be his strength through this crisis, and he wondered where he would find the energy. He already felt exhausted.
“Your Majesty, if I may be excused, I need to oversee the Assyrian tribute payment,” he said, grasping at any excuse.
“Yes, I suppose so,” Ahaz replied.
Uriah hurried away before the king changed his mind. He knew he really should supervise the Levites as they collected the gold, but he felt numb and sick, as if he had swallowed a heavy stone. He left the palace through the royal portico and headed up the hill to the Temple.
When he reached the outer courtyard, he stopped to catch his breath. The scene was a stark contrast to the narrow valley where Molech sat enthroned. The Temple courts felt open and spacious, the view of the surrounding mountains unhindered by jagged cliffs. Everything seemed peaceful, the silence welcome after the noise of Molech’s ritual, the air sweet after the stench of burning flesh.
Uriah paused at the gate to the inner courtyard to steady himself and gazed up at Yahweh’s sanctuary. It was as familiar to him as his own face. Yet for some reason, it seemed alien and remote, like a scene from a dream. A faint breeze rippled the water in the huge brass sea where the priests washed, and the water gleamed like molten silver in the sunlight. Isaiah’s words rippled through Uriah’s mind: “Wash and make yourselves clean. . . . Your hands are full of blood.”
Uriah gazed down at his hands. When he ministered in Yahweh’s Temple, they would become stained with the blood of the sacrifice. Today they had remained clean—yet they felt filthy. He looked up at the huge brass altar that dominated the center of the courtyard, its fires slowly burning as they consumed the lamb from the morning sacrifice. But as Uriah stared at it, the lamb seemed to take the form of a child in the shimmering heat.
He shuddered and shook his head to clear away the image. When he turned to leave, he nearly collided with Zechariah, who had staggered blindly into the courtyard. Zechariah lost his balance, and as Uriah grabbed him by the shoulders to steady him, he smelled wine on his breath.
“I have to stop him,” Zechariah murmured. He appeared frantic, his bloodshot eyes wild with fright.
“Stop who, Rabbi?” Uriah feared that Zechariah meant him—that he was coming, too late, to stop Molech’s sacrifice.
“King Uzziah . . . I must stop Uzziah!”
“King Uzziah is dead,” he said, shoving him away in disgust. “And you’re drunk.” Uriah’s anger and self-loathing boiled over, and he lashed out at Zechariah. “I admired you so much. I wanted to be just like you. You had the most brilliant legal mind the priesthood had seen in generations, and now you’re talking to a king who’s been dead for years. You’re a disgrace, Rabbi. How could you turn your back on everything you believed in?”
Zechariah didn’t answer. He stared into the distance, watching the birds fluttering around the roof of the Temple.
“I’m taking you back to your room,” Uriah said. “Stay there until you’re sober.” He spun Zechariah around and led him back to his chambers. Pity, guilt, and grief raged inside Uriah, but he carefully hid them behind his anger, the only em
otion he dared express without losing control and breaking down.
“Look at this place!” he cried when they reached Zechariah’s room. “This entire building is falling apart! I’m tired of begging for the tithes that are rightfully mine, tired of going hungry year after year, tired of scraping and pleading. I swear to God I’ll win back the power and recognition our priesthood deserves and restore this Temple to its former glory, no matter what it takes. I was counting on your help to do it, Zechariah, but if all you want to do is drink, then stay out of my way!”
He gave Zechariah a shove, and the older man stumbled, losing his balance and collapsing in a heap on the floor. Several moments passed as he lay without moving.
Finally Zechariah looked up. His eyes were no longer vacant but filled with despair, the weaker man looking to the stronger one for answers. “Uriah . . .” he moaned. “Can I ever find forgiveness for what I’ve done?”
A chill passed through Uriah’s veins as he remembered the sacrifice to Molech—as he remembered what he had done. Then the room seemed to grow colder and colder as Zechariah’s agonized cries filled the air.
“Yahweh, please let me die . . . let me die . . . let me die!”
5
Abijah wept when they brought Hezekiah to her and placed him in her arms. His hair and clothing reeked of smoke, but she held his sooty face between her hands and kissed him over and over, the grime mingling with her tears. Hezekiah clung to her, and she saw in his eyes all the horrors he had witnessed.
How had he been miraculously spared? She wondered if Uriah had intervened. Abijah had been stunned to see the high priest assembling the king’s sons for the sacrifice. She had hoped that, as Ahaz’s advisor, Uriah would oppose his idolatry, not help him. But if Uriah had heeded her pleas and saved Hezekiah, that was all that mattered.
“Yahweh,” Hezekiah whispered, his voice hoarse from screaming. “Yahweh!”
Abijah didn’t understand why he repeated the word again and again. Yahweh was the God that her father worshiped. How had her son heard His name at Molech’s sacrifice?