The Strength of His Hand (36 page)

“Yes, our God is a God of miracles—the slaying of Egypt’s firstborn, the parting of the Red Sea, the manna in the wilderness—God intervenes in the affairs of His people precisely when He’s needed. No other god does that.”

“I know. I’ve experienced Yahweh’s miracles in my own life, Rabbi. He saved me from Molech when I was a child, He healed me when I nearly died, and now He has saved Jerusalem from Assyria.”

Isaiah nodded. “The gods of the nations around us must be bribed to perform, with sacrifices and rituals and offerings. The people try to earn the attention of their gods through their own good works. They try to bend the gods’ wills to conform to theirs. But our God can’t be coerced by good works. We can’t earn His favor.”

Hezekiah thought back to when he first became king and how he had renewed Judah’s covenant with God in order to earn His blessing on his nation. “Is that what I’ve tried to do?” he asked.

Isaiah pierced him with his gaze. “You tried to earn peace and prosperity for your nation with your reforms, but you should have made those reforms out of love for God, not because of what He would give you in return.”

Hezekiah stared in surprise at the prophet’s frankness, but he knew he deserved the rebuke.

“You tried to earn an heir by following every letter of the Law,” Isaiah continued, “marrying only one wife; then you became angry with God when He didn’t reward your faithfulness.”

“But … I thought …”

“When you begged for your life, you reminded God of all your good works, as if you could bribe Him to change His mind.”

“Rabbi—”

“You’ve been trying to earn God’s favor and blessing all your life, Your Majesty, and you’ve used the Law and the sacrifices the same way your father used idols to get what he wanted. But you can never do enough or try hard enough to win God’s love. No one can keep the Law perfectly. We all fail. As Solomon has written, ‘There is not a righteous man on earth who does what is right and never sins.’ ”

“Then how—?”

“Yahweh’s forgiveness and blessings are free. You already have His love, and you always did. He saved you from Molech long before you did one good work for Him, because He loves you. Not because of anything you did to deserve it, but because you’re His child.”

“I know I’ve sinned, Rabbi—I know I have. I never should have put my trust in the alliance. I should have trusted God.”

“You made Yahweh your God a long time ago—now you must let Him be the sovereign Lord of your life.”

They finished the meal, and Isaiah’s wife quietly cleared away their plates. Then Isaiah bowed his head. “Let us say the blessing for our food. ‘Blessed be He of whose bounty we have eaten and through whose goodness we live. Amen.’ ” He filled their cups a third time and lifted his up. “This is the cup of redemption, God’s promise to redeem us with His outstretched arm. Just as He purchased Israel’s firstborn by the blood of the Passover lamb, even so will the Messiah buy us back, redeeming us from sin with His blood.”

Hezekiah drank the wine, aware of his sin and disobedience, aware that he was unworthy of such a sacrifice. As soon as he set his cup down, Isaiah filled it for the fourth time.

“The final cup is the cup of praise, for Yahweh has promised, ‘I will take you as my own people, and I will be your God.’ How, then, can we keep silent? How can we fail to praise Him for such amazing love as this?”

Isaiah began to sing the final Passover psalms of praise, and as Hezekiah joined him, the words seemed to tell the story of his own life, his own redemption, and he relived each memory as he sang:

Not to us, O Lord, not to us
but to your name be the glory,

because of your love and faithfulness
.

Hezekiah remembered how he had accepted the Babylonians’ praise for himself instead of rightfully praising God, and he felt ashamed.

Why do the nations say,
“Where is their God?”

Our God is in heaven;
he does whatever pleases him.

But their idols are silver and gold,
made by the hands of men
.

The psalm reminded Hezekiah of the Assyrian Rabshekah’s taunting words. But Yahweh was the only God, a God of miracles, a God of love.

O house of Israel, trust in the Lord—
he is their help and shield
.

Again, Hezekiah wondered why he had put his trust in other nations instead of in God. He vowed never to do it again.

The cords of death entangled me,
the anguish of the grave came upon me… .

Then I called on the name of the Lord:
“O Lord, save me!”

Three times Hezekiah had almost died, first in Molech’s flames, then by Uriah’s hand, and finally during his illness after the fire. But each time he had cried out to Yahweh, and God had given him back his life.

How can I repay the Lord
for all his goodness to me?

Hezekiah knew that if he lived for a hundred years, he could never repay God. As they began the final praise song, Hezekiah sang the words with heartfelt love for God. They were the words of his own testimony:

The Lord is with me; I will not be afraid.
What can man do to me? …

It is better to take refuge in the Lord
than to trust in man… .

All the nations surrounded me,
but in the name of the Lord I cut them off… .

I was pushed back and about to fall,
but the Lord helped me.

The Lord is my strength and my song;
he has become my salvation
.

Hezekiah saw Yahweh clearly for the first time in his life—a God of power and love, a God of salvation. And even though he’d lost everything he’d worked for these past fourteen years, he knew that he still had Yahweh’s love—and that was enough. If he needed to lose everything to finally see God face-to-face, then it had all been worth it.

“Now the Passover celebration is complete,” Isaiah recited, “even as our salvation and redemption are complete. Just as we were privileged to celebrate it this year, so may we be privileged to do so in the future.”

“Amen, Rabbi. In the future.” But Hezekiah knew that at this moment his nation’s future was very uncertain. “How did I stray so far from what was right?” he asked quietly. “When did I begin to sin?”

“Your sin began after you severed your relationship with Yahweh.”

“But how, Rabbi? How did I sever it?”

“You became separated from Him by unforgiveness.”

“But I made all the right sacrifices; I confessed my sin every day. Which sin wasn’t forgiven?”

“Not God’s unforgiveness, Your Majesty—yours. The unforgiveness in your own heart.”

“You mean Hephzibah?”

“Bitterness not only destroys you but it cuts you off from God. How can He forgive us if we can’t forgive one another?”

“But how can I forgive her for what she’s done to me?”

“What has she done?” Isaiah asked gently. “She put her faith in something other than God. Is that sin unforgivable, Hezekiah? Because if it is, then you have condemned yourself by your own confession. If she can’t be forgiven, then neither can you.”

Hezekiah leaned his elbows on the table and covered his face.

“Hephzibah isn’t evil, Your Majesty, only weak and human like all the rest of us. God couldn’t stop loving her because of her sin any more than you could.”

After a long time, Hezekiah looked up. He tried to speak, but a fierce tightness gripped his throat. “I should go,” he finally managed to say.

Isaiah stood and bowed slightly. “Thank you for sharing this Passover meal with us, Your Majesty.”

Hezekiah nodded as he rose to his feet. He embraced Isaiah briefly, then turned and left.

__________

When Hezekiah stepped outside, the cold, damp air hit him like a pitcher of water tossed in his face. For a moment he felt disoriented, unsure where he was or where he should go. He started walking, but instead of climbing the hill to the palace, his feet carried him down through the twisting streets, out of the old City of David and into the new section Eliakim had built. The streets were deserted, but he saw lamps and candles flickering behind the shuttered windows and heard the faint sound of praise songs as the people of Jerusalem celebrated the Passover feast.

This brief glimpse inside happy homes where families were gathered together made Hezekiah’s life seem as barren and desolate as the Judean wilderness. He felt the familiar weight on his shoulders, the burden of loneliness and grief he had carried for so long, but he understood it now: it was a burden of his own making. He had fashioned it himself and fastened it to his own shoulders, making himself a slave to bitterness and unforgiveness. Passover celebrated a time when God saw the burdens of His people and lifted them from their backs, setting them free to serve Him.

Hezekiah had never been to the villa he had built for his concubines, and it took him a while to find it. When he finally did, the front gate was closed and barred. He saw lamps burning in the gatekeeper’s cottage and listened for a moment to the mumble of voices reciting the Passover story. Then he drew a shuddering breath and knocked on the door. Shuffling footsteps approached.

“Who is it?” The gatekeeper’s gruff voice let Hezekiah know he wasn’t happy about having his meal disturbed.

“It’s King Hezekiah.”

“Yeah, right. And I’m the Queen of Sheba. Go away, you drunkard! Get out of here before I call the guards!” The footsteps retreated.

“Wait! I
am
King Hezekiah.” He pounded on the gate again. “Open the door and I’ll prove it.”

“Quit your pounding! I’m not opening the gate to every drunkard who comes along claiming to be—”

“Open the peephole.”

After a pause, Hezekiah heard the man fumbling with the latch to the viewing square near the top of the door and muttering “I don’t know who you think you are, disturbing a man’s peace in the middle of his meal… .”

It was too dark for the gatekeeper to see out, and Hezekiah had no torch, so as soon as the little trap door opened he held his hand up to it, displaying his royal signet ring.

“Look. I am the king.”

He heard the gatekeeper gasp, then more frantic fumbling as the man removed the bars and opened the locks with trembling hands. “Forgive me! Oh, forgive me, Your Majesty,” he stammered. “I didn’t know… . I … I couldn’t tell …”

“Of course you couldn’t—never mind,” Hezekiah said as the gate finally swung open. He rested his hand on the man’s trembling shoulder. “Listen, I’d like … I’d like to see Hephzibah, please.”

As the man led him down the walkway to the last door, Hezekiah was grateful that it was dark, grateful that the gatekeeper couldn’t see his face and read the emotions battling inside him.

“Here, my lord. This is her room.” The gatekeeper started to knock, but Hezekiah stopped him.

“Wait. I’ll do it. Go finish your dinner.” The man bowed repeatedly as he backed away.

Hezekiah stared at the closed door for a long time, remembering the last time he had walked into Hephzibah’s room at the palace. His chest heaved as he relived all the shock and pain he had felt when he found her bowing to a golden idol. But then he remembered his own sin—remembered the golden box from Babylon covered with pagan images, remembered the Babylonians bowing to him and honoring him as the favored one of the god Shamash. He closed his eyes and knocked.

“Come in.”

His heart twisted at the sound of Hephzibah’s soft, familiar voice. He lifted the latch and opened the door.

Hephzibah was sitting on her bed gazing down at her lyre on the bed beside her. She wasn’t playing it, but her fingers stroked the frame as if the feel of the smooth wood brought back cherished memories. When she looked up and saw Hezekiah, she cried out. Then she slid off the bed and fell to her knees to bow.

“No, Hephzibah! Don’t! Don’t bow down to me!” Hezekiah dove forward, catching her by the shoulders to stop her. “Please don’t, Hephzibah. I’m … I’m just a man, can’t you see? A sinful man—like any other.”

She covered her face and wept.

Hezekiah pulled her up and seated her on the bed again, then crouched in front of her. He could barely speak. He struggled to force out each word.

“I’ve come to ask your forgiveness, Hephzibah. I had no right to condemn you. I … I was so horrified when I saw the sin and idolatry in your heart. But now I see that the same sin is in my heart, too. I’m as capable of idolatry as you were … as my father was … as any other person is. I’m sorry, Hephzibah. I’m so sorry. Will you forgive me?”

Hezekiah buried his face in her lap and wept, remembering all that he had lost, realizing the terrible consequences of his sin and unforgiveness—the devastation of his land, the captivity of his people. Gradually he became aware of Hephzibah’s hands caressing his shoulders, of her tears falling into his hair as she bent over him.

“No, Hezekiah … no … I don’t deserve forgiveness.”

He lifted his head to look at her. “None of us do. But God doesn’t treat us as our sins deserve.” He took her hands in his. “I should have shown you that. I should have shown you my God instead of making you serve a God you didn’t know. I only showed you His rules and laws. But God doesn’t want us to worship Him out of fear. He’s our Father, and He wants us to learn to love Him with all our heart and all our soul and all our strength. I should have helped you know Him, Hephzibah. Then you would have loved Him. He’s a merciful God, a God of love and compassion and forgiveness. But I never told you that. I never helped you see Him. Can you ever forgive me?”

“But I’ve wronged you and deceived you. You have every right to be angry with me.”

“God will not harbor His anger forever. How can I? My anger and bitterness were killing me, just as surely as my illness was. They poisoned my relationship with God and separated me from His love, just as they separated me from yours. Will you give me another chance, Hephzibah? Will you let me show you this awesome God of forgiveness whom I worship?”

“I’ve already seen Him,” she whispered. “Tonight. You showed Him to me tonight when you came here. If you can forgive me after the terrible things I’ve done to you, then I can believe in God’s forgiveness, too.”