by Mesu Andrews
A defeated sigh escaped. She must go back to the workshop. Perhaps Aya and Amoz would be gone by now. The sun kissed the mountains in the west. If she hurried, she could get the clay cup, visit with Yuval, and arrive home before dark.
She quickened her pace and arrived at the pottery shop, surprised to find it dark and empty. She peeked inside and listened for lingering workers. All was quiet—except for a slight glow and a soft humming in the loft.
She tiptoed to the stairs and held her breath, listening.
I know that sound, but it can’t be.
She climbed the steps slowly, silently, and reached the top. Creak!
Amoz stopped chanting, startled from his crudely built altar to Asherah. “Gomer! What are you—why did you come back?” He bolted from his knees to stand in front of his idols, fear etched on his face.
She pointed at Jezzy’s lonesome clay cup. “I needed to get . . .” But her words faded into silence. “Does anyone know?”
He set his jaw. “Are you going to tell?”
“I won’t tell anyone, Amoz.” She watched his boldness fade.
“Why? You’re a prophet’s wife.”
Gomer sat on the top step, feeling her knees become as wobbly as her emotions. Dare she confide in this man—any man—that she, too, worshiped Asherah? Surely he had as much to lose as she.
She saw Amoz studying her. “You worship the mother of abundance too, don’t you?” The realization filled his face with wonder. She’d never seen him so happy.
Unable to restrain a little giggle, she said, “Yes, Amoz. How long have you kept your secret?” Wonder, curiosity, amazement—she had so many questions for a pagan man who had lived among Yahweh’s prophets for almost twenty years.
“Uzziah knows, but we have vowed to keep the secret. When they killed my brother—Uzziah’s abba—because he was an idolater, I threatened to leave Judah and take Isaiah with me. Uzziah wouldn’t hear of it. He moved Isaiah and me to the prophets’ camp.” His eyes grew damp. “I’ve had little to say to Uzziah since. I have little to say about anything.”
“Does Isaiah know—”
“No! And don’t you dare tell him!”
The venom in his voice surprised her. “I wouldn’t, Amoz. I won’t.”
He dropped his gaze. Silence descended.
“Why didn’t you run?” Her voice sounded like a trumpet. “Why not take Isaiah to Egypt or Damascus? Your talent could have provided a profitable living.”
He gave a mirthless laugh. “Where can a man escape Yahweh? I may not worship Him as a god, but I cannot deny that Yahweh is powerful. When you and Hosea took me to Uzziah’s rented house, I was reminded what happens to those who displease Judah’s god.”
Gomer swallowed the lump forming in her throat. “Amoz, I want to leave the prophets’ camp, and I want to take Jezreel with me.”
The fear she’d seen when he’d first glimpsed her returned. “I cannot involve myself in any conspiracy against Yahweh. I have vowed to leave Him alone, and so far He has left me and my son unharmed.”
“But what about Aya? What about their children? Don’t you want your grandchildren to know the mother goddess?”
His jaw clenched, and he extended his hand to help Gomer to her feet. “I will keep my vow to stay silent. But if your husband drags Isaiah into the altar fires with this prophecy nonsense . . .” His last words were mumbled, and Gomer heard only, “Foolishness . . . utter foolishness.” He returned to his altar, nestling the goddess into her hiding place.
Gomer knew their conversation was over. What about her plans to escape with Jezreel? Were they crushed like the pile of shards in which Amoz hid his worship? She descended the stairs, glancing back at the one person in the camp who shared her faith in Asherah. A man too afraid of Yahweh to speak to his own son.
Who was this god of Hosea’s? And why did He torment her so?
22
• 2 KINGS 15:8–9 •
Jeroboam’s son Zechariah was king of Israel in Samaria for six months. He did what Yahweh considered evil, as his ancestors had done.
Isaiah nudged a crate full of chickens off a slipshod-stacked wagon, causing a terrible ruckus at Tirzah’s city gate. Hosea slipped behind a cart full of tapestries, and Isaiah crouched low beside him. Both prophets passed by two distracted sentries unnoticed. They’d been deep in the heart of Israel for more than seven moon cycles and become extremely unpopular with Jeroboam’s troops and city officials.
After witnessing repeated abominations, Isaiah had asked one night by the fire, “Why hasn’t Yahweh already brought Israel to its knees?”
Hosea had no answer. He proclaimed Yahweh’s message—the judgment of Jezreel—and saw his son’s face with each declaration of the name. He declared it in Gibeon, then Mizpah and Timnah. “The Lord told me to name my son Jezreel and has promised to punish Jehu’s descendants for the people they slaughtered in that valley. Yahweh will put an end to the kingdom of Israel. On that day He will break Israel’s bows and arrows in the valley of Jezreel.”
But in every town and village, people laughed, they scoffed. Some even threw stones and rotten food at him. Isaiah’s fiery temper had nearly gotten them arrested in two villages.
Why, Lord? Why must we continue to warn these ungrateful people? His baby’s newborn cry haunted his dreams. Gomer’s empty expression plagued his waking thoughts. Would she be in Tekoa when he returned? Surely Yuval would have convinced her to stay.
“Make way for Israel’s general!” A herald stood at Tirzah’s well, his voice carrying over the midday market noise. “General Menahem comes to deliver news from King Jeroboam in Samaria!”
Isaiah nodded in the direction of an abandoned wagon where they could hide but still hear and see the general. With a deep sigh, Hosea followed his friend to their hiding place. He’d heard Menahem had been stationed in Tirzah as military governor for the northern region. Perhaps the rumblings of rebellion from the southern hill country of Ephraim had forced King Jeroboam to spread his military power across all of northern Israel.
He and Isaiah crouched behind the overturned wagon, using their bulky collars to hide their faces. It had been over a year since Hosea had seen Menahem at Gomer’s trial in Samaria, but they’d come too far to let Menahem arrest them now. A growing number of soldiers surrounded the audience, and Hosea realized they were trapped—no way of escape after proclaiming Yahweh’s judgment.
You will remain silent.
Hosea glanced at Isaiah, startled by Yahweh’s clear message. “Did you hear it?”
Isaiah was consumed by the commotion at the center of town. “Hear what?” he asked without taking his eyes from Israel’s hulking general. “Look at Menahem. He seems different somehow. Older. Weary.”
Hosea was still trying to reason why Yahweh would bring them to Tirzah if he wasn’t supposed to prophesy when he followed Isaiah’s gaze—and saw Eitan, Menahem’s second-in-command. Gomer had pointed him out as the man who had beaten her, and seeing the mountainous man standing in his full leather armor made Hosea’s heart race with pent-up fury. How could any man beat a woman and still call himself a man, a soldier even?
Eitan raised his sword above his head, whistling above the crowd noise, and everyone fell silent. With a full bow, he paid homage to Menahem, and Hosea realized Isaiah’s observation was correct. Israel’s general looked haggard.
Menahem stepped up on the well curb slowly, almost painfully. The battle scars on his face seemed deeper, his brows severely furrowed. “I bring you sad news, people of Israel.” He paused, tilting his head heavenward. Was he fighting emotion? “King Jeroboam is dead.”
The crowd gasped, shock and confusion rippling like a wave on the sea.
Isaiah gripped Hosea’s arm. “The Lord’s judgment has begun,” he whispered.
Hosea nodded and squeezed his eyes shut. Thank You, Yahweh, for bringing us to Tirzah to hear it from Menahem himself.
“How did he die?” someone in the crowd shouted.
Menahem dragged his large paw down the length of his face. “The king died peacefully in his bed.”
Peacefully? Hosea’s anger stirred. Yahweh’s prophecy foretold Jehu’s family would be punished, not die peacefully in their beds! He turned a puzzled glance to Isaiah, whose expression mirrored his own confusion.
Eitan lifted his sword again, quieting the people’s chatter.
Menahem cleared his throat, his deep voice rumbling. “The king’s son Zechariah will succeed his abba and rule Israel with wisdom and power from the gods. As commander of Israel’s hosts and as King Jeroboam’s friend, let me assure you . . .” He climbed atop the well and unsheathed his sword. Eitan mirrored the warrior’s stance and created a wide berth as Menahem shouted his decree. “The line of Jeroboam’s descendants will remain unbroken. King Zechariah rules Israel in Samaria!” A deafening cheer arose, and Menahem’s arrogance appeared reborn with his sweeping appraisal of those before him. Whatever grief the general felt seemed to fuel his ferocity, and his ferocity seemed to fuel the crowd’s depravity.
A timbrel and flute started to play. The shock of moments ago was overwhelmed by festive music, hopeful celebration, and dancing women. Hosea felt warm arms descend over his shoulders, follow the contours of his chest, and a woman’s body press against his back. “Shall we mourn Jeroboam together?” came a whisper with the acrid scent of perfume.
Hosea leapt to his feet, ready to berate her, intending to shove her away. But he froze at the child before him. Twelve, maybe thirteen years old. Like Gomer had been. Hosea stumbled backward, catching himself on the wagon. Yahweh’s Spirit began to stir, and Hosea’s heart was troubled.
“Come on,” Isaiah whispered, tugging his arm, weaving through the crowd toward the gates of Tirzah.
Hosea allowed his friend to lead them, hearing Yahweh’s voice in a gentle whisper as they continued on the road south toward Judah. Since the time of Adam, they have rejected My promises. They have been unfaithful.
The last word resounded in his spirit again and again. Unfaithful. They’ve been unfaithful.
Isaiah begged him to stop at Tiphsah, but Hosea refused. Delirious with anger and fear, he repeated the last few words of the message. “Unfaithful, Isaiah. We must hurry home. They’ve been unfaithful.”
They pressed on through the night, denying themselves sleep, stopping only to fill their water skins at springs along the way. Their food ran out before they reached Ramah, but the two men leaned on each other. Did Isaiah feel it too? Did he realize they must hurry home?
Unfaithful . . . been unfaithful.
Hosea and Isaiah crested a rocky rise and peered down at the small town of Netophah. Then, glancing farther south, Hosea pointed at Tekoa nestled in the second valley. “Almost home.”
Lord, give us strength. He was certain Isaiah was praying the same thing after three days with little food or water and virtually no sleep. They should be home before sunset, before Sabbath began. Yahweh, please let Gomer be there waiting for me.
Isaiah led them on a narrow stretch of rocky terrain. He stopped abruptly, and Hosea wondered if a viper had darted into their path, but he stilled when Isaiah placed a quieting finger against his lips. “Listen.”
Echoes of pagan chanting emerged from a copse of trees ahead. They’d grown accustomed to the sounds while traveling through Israel, but to hear the rhythmic clanging of sistrums and bells in Judah still sounded foreign to Hosea’s ears. Drawn like moths to a flame, Hosea and Isaiah left the path, forcing wobbly legs toward the sounds of revelry in a sycamore grove north of Netophah.
The music grew louder, and the sound of laughter and celebration seeped through the thick brush. They pressed to the edge of a circular clearing and crouched beside a boulder, remaining hidden to watch twenty Judean souls betray Yahweh. A high priestess stood beside the seductively carved Asherah pole, receiving treasures from the faithful unfaithful. Beside the pole lay an altar heaped with burning grain and animal portions. A bald priest added sacrifices to the fire.
In the center of the clearing, young priestesses played instruments while worshipers danced, waiting to be called to the tents aligned on the eastern rim of the clearing. Each tent was guarded by two large soldiers. Someone emerged from the third tent—a man, adjusting his belt and robe, smiling. A soldier motioned to one of the men dancing. His dancing stopped, and he eagerly approached the tent to worship Asherah with the waiting priestess.
One word resounded in Hosea’s head. Unfaithful. Unfaithful. Unfaithful. How would he feel if Gomer waited inside that tent to “accept the worship” of Asherah’s male patrons? Not all the women in those tents were priestesses. Some were women fulfilling a vow, girls proving their first act of loyalty to the goddess, or wives paying their husbands’ debts to the priests. Judah had become unfaithful to her God as surely as Israel had played the harlot.
Driven by righteous fury, Hosea burst through the thick brush, entering the clearing with a shout. “Nooo!” Isaiah followed close behind, silent but a formidable rear guard.
All music and dancing stopped, every eye fastened on the two intruders.
“You are unfaithful to Yahweh, every one of you!” Hosea ran to the Asherah pole. “This is not your god, Judah!” He glimpsed an alabaster goddess in the hand of a priestess and snatched it from her.
“Wait!” she cried, but Isaiah blocked her path as Hosea crushed the idol between two stones. “No!” The priestess crumpled to the ground, weeping over the dust that remained.
The guards seemed frozen, hands on their swords but unable or unwilling to challenge Yahweh’s fiery prophet. Others in the grove slipped away, averting their eyes.
“Return to Yahweh,” Hosea pleaded with them as they left. “Return to His temple in Jerusalem. Present sin offerings, and return to your Elohim.”
The weeping priestess raised herself slowly, her face as pale as the alabaster dust now blown by the wind. “What have you done? Surely you’ve called down a curse on us all.”
“What have I done? It is you, and those like you, who call down Yahweh’s wrath on the nation of Judah.” Tears welled in his eyes. The scantily dressed cult prostitutes emerged from their tents, so similar to what Gomer had been not so long ago. These Judean maidens broke God’s heart as surely as the girls in Israel had been grieving Him for generations.
Would Judah be lost too?
Suddenly overwhelmed by his fatigue, he stumbled backward into Isaiah’s arms. “We must find the strength to deliver one more message, my friend.”
Isaiah slid his arm around Hosea’s waist, and they leaned on each other. “I know. We must talk to Uzziah—tonight.”
Hosea leaned on his friend’s shoulder, and they descended the hill into the king’s encampment, finding the priests preparing the Sabbath meal. They rounded the corner of King Uzziah’s house, and Hosea watched his eyes light up at the sight of Isaiah. His smile died as they trudged closer.
“Unclean! Unclean!” came the familiar refrain, and royal attendants paused their preparations in search of the visitors the announcement proclaimed. “Welcome home, wandering prophet. What news do you bring from our faithless brothers in the north?” Hosea heard the strain in his voice. He’d grown noticeably weaker during their absence.
Hosea waved to acknowledge the king’s greeting but remained silent, saving his strength to deliver Yahweh’s message.
As they drew nearer, Isaiah helped Hosea to the audience tapestry and began speaking before the prophet had a chance. “We bring news from Israel, Cousin, but it pales when compared to what we’ve just witnessed on Judah’s soil.”
Hosea was startled when Commander Hananiah emerged from the king’s house.
Uzziah must have noticed his surprise. “Your return is quite timely. Hananiah has come with news from Jerusalem.” Judah’s top soldier cleared his throat and issued a warning glance to his king. Uzziah, undaunted by the commander’s not-so-subtle suggestion, continued his explanation. “We’re planning a coalition of nations—n
ineteen nations total—so Judah can stand against Assyria’s aggression.”
“Judah will be destroyed—with or without a coalition—if the people continue to worship on every hill and high place, my lord,” Hosea said flatly.
A storm gathered on Commander Hananiah’s face, but Uzziah remained calm. “Isaiah said you witnessed something as you journeyed home. What has stirred your passion, Prophet?”
Sitting so close to home, Hosea felt the full weight of his exhaustion. “I ask that you let me speak without interruption, for we are at the end of a long journey and in need of food and rest.”
The king nodded. “As you wish, my friend.”
“First, I bring news of King Jeroboam’s death—”
Uzziah gasped.
“When? How?” Hananiah’s deep voice echoed off the surrounding hills.
“Please, as I said, let me speak, and I’ll give more details later.”
Uzziah hesitated, brows furrowed, but nodded for Hosea to continue. The commander looked as if his head might burst.
“Thank you. I will tell you that we were present in Tirzah when General Menahem announced the king’s death, and Zechariah, Jeroboam’s son, has assumed Israel’s throne.”
Uzziah exchanged a glance with Hananiah, but true to his word, his lips remained tightly sealed.
“We have come from Netophah, where we happened on a secret grove with an altar to Asherah.”
Uzziah’s expression clouded.
“I smashed an idol and dispersed the worshipers, but unless the high places are destroyed, they’ll continue their idolatry, and Judah will fall under the same judgment as Israel.”
With icy calm, Uzziah cast an accusing glance at his commander. “Why is there a sacred grove in Netophah?”
