Love’s Sacred Song (11 page)

The ambassador bowed, resting his forehead on the marble floor. “I am Bakari, humble servant and bearer of gifts from the high priest of Amun-Re, the god on earth, Pharaoh Psusennes.”

Solomon shuddered, waiting for a lightning bolt to split the roof of his palace. Would Jehovah allow a mortal to claim His divinity? Spectators had filed in but remained utterly still.

Extending his scepter, Solomon finally said, “You may rise, Bakari.”

The king was vaguely aware of others entering the throne hall amid the ambassador’s broken Hebrew. “Magnificent king, ruler of Israel, son of the mighty King David, our pharaoh Siamun gave his life in battle to secure the dowry city of Gezer for his daughter, Princess Sekhet.” He paused as if waiting for tribute. Solomon would give none. Instead the king glanced at the princess to measure her reaction. Her face was chiseled stone. Elegant but cold.

When Solomon’s gaze rested again on Bakari, the ambassador continued, “Pharaoh Psusennes’s last words before we parted at the gates of Gezer were these: ‘I will uphold the treaty agreement of Pharaoh Siamun with Israel as long as the son of David honors the mighty princess with the privileges of an Egyptian wife.’”

Solomon lifted an eyebrow, exchanging a glance with Benaiah, who had positioned his Pelethite and Cherethite guards between the Nubians and the throne. “And to what
privileges
specifically is your new pharaoh referring, Bakari?” He wanted to remind the pompous windbag that she would be an Israelite wife when she married him, but he resisted.

Bakari spread his hands and tilted his head as if explaining to a child. “Our divine pharaoh Psusennes simply asks that Princess Sekhet maintain her personal priestesses and altars for worship while living in Jerusalem. Her servants and priestesses will accommodate all her wishes. She will be no burden to the king.” He ended with an awkward smile that looked utterly foreign on his face.

Solomon’s heart raced as he wavered between indignation and triumph. Abba David had worked for years to cultivate friendly relations with Pharaoh Siamun. Now Psusennes dared to propose new terms? Yet a treaty with Egypt would expand Israel’s influence in world trade, providing access to horses, chariots, spices, ivory, gold. The possibilities were endless.

He glanced again at the fascinating princess in her golden cage and was suddenly distracted by two other womanly shapes. The Daughters of Jerusalem had entered amid the crowd and advanced to stand at the back corner of the princess’s conveyance. Gone were their well-fitted grieving robes and rough-woven veils. They were adorned in scarlet and purple robes tailored to reveal the perfect V at their throats. Solomon could hardly catch his breath.

“Shiphrah, Sherah. Come to me.” His command caused an excited flutter through the now crowded courtroom. The twin beauties bowed low until Solomon extended his scepter and then addressed the Egyptian ambassador. “Princess Sekhet will receive greater honor than any of my previous wives,” he said, motioning to the Daughters of Jerusalem, “for she will be attended by these lovely maidens, who will teach her the ways of Israelite women.” The ambassador’s smile disappeared, but Solomon continued, emphasizing his next words. “I will honor my new
wife
by allowing her priestesses to remain in her service, but she will also learn the ways of El Shaddai while she worships the gods of Egypt.” The crowd stirred, and Solomon noted the concerned glance Benaiah cast over his shoulder.

“The son of King David is wise,” the ambassador said, inclining his head but not conceding a full bow. “Pharaoh Psusennes has given me authority to bind our nations for the greater good of expanded trade and lasting dynasties. The divine pharaoh offers Princess Sekhet, her name meaning ‘she who is powerful,’ to unite our nations in a firm and unyielding friendship.”

Solomon returned the nod, and a deafening cheer rattled the cedar rafters of his courtroom. He sought Benaiah’s face and found his friend smiling, and the two shared a faint shrug. Egypt a friend? Only time would tell.

Quieting the crowd with an upraised scepter, Solomon said, “I accept Princess Sekhet as my wife. She is now Queen Sekhet, and I will treat her with the honor and privilege that Jehovah’s law requires. Furthermore, I invite our new Egyptian friends to join me at this time tomorrow, when I will stand before the ark of the Lord and sacrifice burnt offerings and fellowship offerings in numbers never before equaled.”

The ambassador’s sandy-brown complexion suddenly turned as white as goat’s milk.

“As you have asked—and I have agreed—to honor my new wife’s personal worship,” Solomon explained, barely containing his mischief, “so tomorrow begins my new queen’s lessons of praise to El Shaddai!”

Bakari’s face regained its color, now a vivid shade of crimson. His lips pressed into a thin line, the ambassador bowed and then issued heated commands. His Egyptian words were muddled, but their intent was clear. The Nubian guards hoisted the litter to their shoulders, the lioness within baring her teeth as if ready to strike. The Egyptians’ hurried departure was quite unlike their opening display.

Solomon raised his voice over the commotion and announced to the lingering Israelites outside the courtroom doors, “Spread the word throughout the city. I invite my whole household—those belonging to it by service or by birth—to celebrate a feast of God’s faithfulness after we sacrifice at the ark of God. Every family in Jerusalem will receive a loaf of bread from their king at tomorrow’s feast!”

Renewed cheers resounded from visiting nations and Israelites alike. Solomon thought Benaiah appeared to be chuckling, and Ahishar leaned down, again hiding their conversation behind his hand.

“Your first celebration as Israel’s king will certainly be popular with the crowd, but I daresay Elisheba, our palace cook, will be wringing her hands when she discovers she must bake bread for the whole tribe of Judah.”

Solomon’s stomach tightened at the mention of Judah as his household. Ahishar agreed with his decision, it was plain.
But can I really justify the tribe of Judah as my household—exempting them from the redistricting and the taxation of other tribes?
He would need to seek Jehovah’s wisdom on the matter. But for now, there were more treaties and more brides to consider.

“Call the next ambassador, Ahishar.”

•
 Exodus 12:1–3, 5–6 
•

The Lord said to Moses and Aaron in Egypt, “. . . The first month of your year . . . on the tenth day of this month each man is to take a lamb for his family . . . year-old males without defect. . . . Take care of them until the fourteenth day of the month . . . [and] slaughter them at twilight.”

T
hirty days after King David’s death, the outward signs of mourning ceased in northern Israel. Torn and dusty sackcloth robes were washed and used as rags. The men’s unkempt beards were combed and trimmed, and the village women no longer covered their faces. Shunem hummed with activity, and Jehoshaphat prepared for his second journey to Jerusalem since the death of his friend and king. David had not summoned Shunem’s judge often, but over the years their hearts had been knit together in friendship, sharing their devotion to El Shaddai and the heartbreak of wayward sons.

“Kemmuel!” Jehoshaphat caught sight of his elder son and rushed to meet him just outside the city gate. “Would you like to join me in Gibeon to celebrate Passover this year?” He planned to incorporate the sacred feast with his journey to Jerusalem for his business with the king. “Perhaps you or your brother would like to choose the lamb for our family’s sacrifice.” His voice sounded too eager, forced, but he couldn’t hold back. His heart yearned for a fresh start with his sons on this most sacred of celebrations.

But his hopes met a dead stare and familiar scorn. “No, my lord. I have no family,” Kemmuel said. “I am merely a hired hand in my master’s fields.” He turned, and Jehoshaphat watched him disappear into the light mist that loomed over Mount Moreh.

Reu had arrived just in time to hear the exchange. “Perhaps his heart will soften during your extended time away.”

Jehoshaphat’s fading smile found new life in Reu’s optimism. “Perhaps,” he said, clapping his hand on the boy’s shoulder. The two turned and began walking toward home. The young messenger had returned to Shunem after King David’s burial, invited by Jehoshaphat for an unofficial visit during the lull of palace business during the grieving period. “I’m glad you’re here, Reu,” Jehoshaphat said. “Your presence has given new joy to my household.”

Reu’s short legs shuffled twice as fast to keep pace with Jehoshaphat. “I have appreciated your hospitality, my lord. I never expected to ride into Shunem bearing news of King David’s death and then be invited to return as a guest in your home. Thank you, my lord, for your friendship. I’m honored.”

“We’ve learned how to laugh again.” Jehoshaphat kept his eyes forward, not daring to glance at the young man who had been like balm to an abba’s broken heart.

A gentle rain began to fall, and Reu held out his hands, catching raindrops. The simple childlike gesture inspired Jehoshaphat. “Reu, will you join me in Gibeon for the Passover Feast?”

Jehoshaphat sensed uneasiness in the silence. Though David had united the people of Israel to worship only Jehovah, their Passover Feast remained divided. Judeans celebrated in Jerusalem, before the ark of God, and northern tribesmen celebrated at Gibeon, where the Tent of Meeting stood. Discrimination against northerners at Jerusalem’s Passover was as common as women’s well gossip. It was the tribes’ way. It was tradition. It wasn’t the law of Moses, but it was engraved on the hearts of Israel.

“Thank you, my lord,” Reu finally said, “but I must get back to the palace. Now that the official grieving has ended, palace business will resume.”

Jehoshaphat pursed his lips, determined not to press.
Lord Jehovah
, he prayed,
give me wisdom to bridge the gap that divides our nation.

Rain fell in large droplets now, dripping from Jehoshaphat’s beard. “Well, Reu, if you can’t join me in the celebration, will you honor me by choosing the Passover lamb for our family, a year-old male without defect?”

Reu stopped, his expression awed. “I would be honored, Lord Jehoshaphat.” He glanced down at his sandals and created a small canal in the dirt for the raindrops to flow. He seemed to be gathering his thoughts, so Jehoshaphat waited. When the young man finally looked up, his eyes were raining as steadily as the clouds. “I never knew my abba, and I was fortunate to love and respect the man who helped raise me. But I’ve never met anyone like you.” Before Jehoshaphat could respond, Reu wiped his face and hurried toward the sheepfolds.

Arielah heard her abba stirring inside the house. She’d been waiting in the courtyard with the Passover lamb since before dawn. When Reu had chosen the lamb last night, he had brought it into the courtyard so the family could care for it as the law required.

Holding its little black nose in her hand, she whispered, “Abba will take good care of you on the journey to Gibeon.”

She remembered their family journeys of years past, when Kemmuel or Igal had been chosen to shepherd the lamb. They chose the unblemished male on the tenth day of the first new moon, feeding it, tending it, protecting it. And then on the fourteenth day, when they arrived in Gibeon, their family watched the priests slaughter their precious lamb at twilight. For almost five hundred years, Israelites had been remembering their flight from Egyptian slavery this way, commemorating the joy of their freedom and the passing over of the death angel that ultimately swayed Pharaoh’s heart to release the Israelites from servitude.

“Good morning, my lamb,” Jehoshaphat said, interrupting her thoughts. “The cock hasn’t even said good morning, and you’re already coddling the newest member of our family.”

“Yes, and he’s hungry. He’s been nibbling on my robe.” Arielah sat perched on an old olive tree stump with new sprouts shooting out its sides. The lamb was cuddled up next to her feet as she stroked its muzzle. “It’s a good thing Reu chose one of the tame lambs. I’d hate to think of you chasing a wild little beast all over the mountains by yourself.”

Her abba stood silent for a few moments. She couldn’t look at him or her tears would surely fall.

“You understand why you cannot journey with me this time, don’t you?”

He had guessed her disappointment, though she hadn’t spoken of it. Arielah stood, and the lamb bleated his protest at losing his soft pillow. “Yes, Abba, I understand,” she said, leading the way out the courtyard gate. “I’m not the same seven-year-old girl who begged to go to Jerusalem the first time. I know Jehovah must work without my interference, and I must wait on His timing.” She tried to sound brave. Could he hear her voice quiver?

Jehoshaphat smiled. “How is it you have learned that lesson at such a young age?”

“I’m learning, Abba.” She laced her arm through his. “I’m
learning
that lesson.”

He opened the courtyard gate and allowed her to precede him. She bowed like a princess and waited until Abba latched it closed. “Let’s go to the barn and gather some grain for our new friend,” she said, holding his arm again.

Jehoshaphat’s laughter split the morning air. “Oh, you are spoiling this little one, aren’t you?”

Arielah tried to stem the tears, but they were stubborn this morning and splashed onto her cheeks. “Considering how short the lamb’s life is going to be, I think a little grain is the least we can do.” Offering a weak smile, she let out a disgusted sigh and swiped at the tears that refused to end.

Jehoshaphat squeezed her arm to his side. “I’ll take some grain with me to feed our little lamb on the way to Gibeon.” The two walked in silence for a time, enjoying the sweet fellowship they’d always shared.

“Abba,” Arielah said, pausing their leisurely pace and turning to meet his gaze, “I wanted to tell you . . .” She stammered, uncharacteristically devoid of words. “Before you go, I just . . . I mean . . .” She looked away. How could she express all that was bursting from her heart? Her inexplicable love for Solomon. Her fear of Kemmuel and Igal when Abba left. Her desire to see Israel united.

He turned her chin with a single finger, his smile inviting her words.

“I love you, Abba.”

Jehoshaphat gathered her into his arms. “Yes, my lamb. King Solomon will know what a prize he gains in my beautiful treaty bride. And though your brothers have not yet repented of their rebellion, I still hold out hope.”

How was it possible that he read her heart as if she were a scroll and he a scribe? She snuggled into his embrace and voiced her only remaining concern. “When will you return, Abba?”

Resting his chin on top of her head, he recounted the days of his journey. “Three days to Gibeon, then a week’s celebration of Passover and the Feast of Unleavened Bread. After that, to Jerusalem. I don’t know what awaits me there. I have no idea how long I must wait to see the king, but Jehovah will make a way.”

A rooster crowed in the distance, breaking the intimate moment. She pulled away, sniffed, and dried her eyes with the corner of her mantle. Shunem was coming alive, and though the Shulammites acknowledged the special bond between abba and daughter, such public affection wouldn’t be appropriate. Resuming their step, they passed old Ruth, who was making her way to the well, and Dodo as he hobbled out to feed his pigeons.

Arielah whispered as they passed, “When I marry the king, this is what I’ll miss most.”

Jehoshaphat squeezed his eyes shut, and Arielah watched the pain leak from the corners of his eyes. She offered the corner of her veil to wipe his tear. “Why must things change, Abba? Why does Jehovah allow us to care so deeply and then later require us to sacrifice?”

“Oh, my precious lamb. Jehovah only asks that we sacrifice in order to prepare our hearts for the greater gifts He has to give.”

The Passover Feast was especially poignant for Jehoshaphat this year. He had made the journey south with a caravan of northern villagers, as usual, enjoying the camaraderie of the yearly trek. But this year was different. Israelites feared change, and as a leader among the northern tribes, he felt compelled to offer reassurance.

“Passover has always signified a new beginning,” Jehoshaphat said on the second night around the fire. “And this Passover promises not only a new year but also a new era in Israel’s history!”

“Poor Jehoshaphat,” one Shulammite said with a twinkle in his eye. “One of the lambs must have kicked him in the head.”

Those around the fire laughed, and Jehoshaphat willingly joined them. “All right, my friends,” he said, feigning a wounded ego. “Surely you think me too optimistic, but Passover gives us a chance to be born again.”

Solemn nods and a genial hush fell over the camp. Men from various northern tribes discussed their fears, and Jehoshaphat listened long and well. After he heard their concerns and offered counsel, his enthusiasm proved contagious, and soon everyone, no matter how pessimistic, held high hopes for their Passover celebration in Gibeon.

When they arrived at the sacred high place, a familiar old Levite greeted Jehoshaphat with news. “King Solomon’s grief birthed sacrifices, my friend.” The Levite’s face still glowed with wonder. “Burnt offerings and fellowship offerings to Jehovah—a quest beyond anything even the oldest of Jehovah’s servants could recall.” He described a strong king, an empowered son of David, now anointed with true devotion and God’s promised wisdom.

When Jehoshaphat stood at the altar at twilight on the fourteenth night of the first new moon, he offered his Passover lamb to the priest.
Lord Jehovah
, he prayed,
let the death angel pass over your people Israel once more. Let the blood of the lamb save us from ourselves.

The sobering night gave way to the seven-day Feast of Unleavened Bread, drawing families together from Dan to Beersheba. At the end of the celebration, faithful pilgrims loaded their beasts of burden and prepared for their journeys home.

But not Jehoshaphat. Waving good-bye to friends new and old, he loaded his small donkey and mounted a second mule he’d borrowed from one of the Shulammites. Though his heart longed for Shunem, his future waited in Jerusalem—a future for his nation and his daughter.