CHAPTER 4

Terror from the North

Dark rumors tingled Jewish ears as terrified Egyptian soldiers streamed southward by the disorganized thousands—fleeing from Babylon. Jehoiakim had rebelled the year before and allied himself with Egypt. So Pharaoh Necho marched his army north to Carchemish in order to protect Judah, and attempt to save the remnant of the Assyrians who had holed up in that city. He faced crown prince Nebuchadnezzar who, though only 18 years old, already commanded his father's central army.

Carchemish had importance far beyond its size, for the Euphrates River flowed so shallow at this point that soldiers could march across on foot. Control of this ford allowed easy access to either Mesopotamia, or Palestine and Egypt—depending on which side held it.

Massive armies lashed each other throughout the searing day, and tens of thousands fell dead and dying on both sides. Pharaoh's advantage disappeared, and his retreat became a rout when Nebuchadnezzar's cavalry and battle chariots pursued him. The road to Egypt became littered with the fallen warriors of the Nile.

Fears ran high that Babylon would conquer Egypt, and Nebuchadnezzar intended to do just that. But he felt he should recapture Syria and Palestine on the way. So, sending a sizable force to pester the fleeing Egyptians, he tarried behind with his main army, besieging every city that refused to surrender, and sending thousands of their citizens to Babylon in chains.

Jehoiakim chose resistance. "The Babylonians could never capture Jerusalem," he boasted to his counselors. But when the enemy hordes surrounded the city like ants around a pool of honey, the king's spine turned to jelly. "They'll crush us!" he cried, as he imagined his own capture and execution by merciless hands.

So Nebuchadnezzar had besieged the holy city for less than a week when a messenger handed him Jehoiakim's surrender note: "Spare our lives," it read. "We will be your slaves."

"Good!" laughed the Babylonian crown prince. "They'll pay more taxes alive than dead. Scribe!" he called. "Prepare a message for Jehoiakim."

"Yes Sir." The bowing scribe advanced with his metal stylus and a broken piece of pottery that he would use as a slate board.

"I accept your surrender," dictated Nebuchadnezzar. "No one will die unless you resist me when I enter your city, but I will take Jewish hostages with me to Babylon to guarantee your loyalty."

While the scribe finished forming the cuneiform letters by scratching the corner of his square metal stylus on the hard clay surface, a royal courier from Babylon rushed in and fell at the prince's feet. "Your highness, Sir," he panted. "The great king, King Nabopolassar of Babylon, has died, and your brothers are arguing over who should take the crown!"

"My brothers?!" stormed Nebuchadnezzar. "Those rascals! They know that I have been chosen to be the next king." He turned to gaze at Jerusalem, tears filling his eyes as he remembered his father. "He's dead," he mumbled. More than personal grief touched his emotions, for in the Babylonian religion, the king was also worshiped as a god.

But all signs of mourning vanished in an instant. "Commander!" he shouted. His chief general bowed himself into Nebuchadnezzar's presence. "I must hurry to Babylon to secure my throne. You take over here. Jehoiakim has already surrendered, and I have promised to spare his people, unless they continue to resist."

"How many hostages will you want, Sir?" The general straightened up.

"Oh . . . 10,000 ought to do it. Take the best of the city, the princes, craftsmen, statesmen, scribes. Don't drain the city, of course, but bring me the best." Nebuchadnezzar paused as he stared down at Jerusalem from his command center atop the Mount of Olives. "Treat the hostages well, for they will be of service to me in Babylon."

"When will you leave, Sir?"

"Within the hour." The prince turned, but then stopped. "Call the men back from Egypt, and when you finish here, better bring the army to Babylon. If my pesky brothers give me any trouble I may need you. If not, well, the troops could use a holiday."

"May the gods favor you, your majesty," returned the general as he turned to leave.

The news of Jehoiakim's surrender penetrated Jerusalem with the speed of gossip, filling every abdomen with the nausea of terror. People by the thousands stampeded into Hezekiah's tunnel, climbed down into half-empty cisterns, crawled into subterranean caves below their homes—any place that appeared to offer a place of refuge from the lustful eyes and blood-thirsty swords of the Babylonians.

The guards at East Gate opened their giant doors, and ran for their lives. When the enemy entered, they found the streets deserted, save for a few stray animals.

But soon the cobblestone avenues filled with hostages, for the enemy knew all the likely places where people would hide. They injured no one save those who resisted them, but led first one, then another, then dozens of Jews to the city square inside the East Gate in preparation for their march to Babylon.

Jeremiah watched the sad affair from atop the northeast corner of the temple walls, overlooking the gathering area. He knew that many of these captives were the most promising young men of the city. He saw that some were able to take their wives with them, but most would travel alone. The enemy selected an occasional beautiful woman to become a concubine of the king or some nobleman, and sent her off to Babylon in a plush, horse-drawn cart.

Among the captives, Jeremiah spotted his beloved friend Daniel, the prince. Daniel's unusual intelligence, his striking good looks, and his fearless devotion to his creator would have made him a valued advisor to the Jewish throne. What a blessing he could have been to Judah! But now, it seemed, he would languish in a Babylonian dungeon, or slave away his life in some sweatshop.

Jeremiah wept at the injustice. "Why, Yahweh?" he cried. "Why did you allow them to take Daniel? Most of those hostages are pagans. But Daniel . . . ."

He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and glanced at an unusual movement in the temple court below him. The sight of Babylonian soldiers striding arrogantly into the temple caused his scalp to tingle as though each hair stood at attention. A priest stepped forward to stop them, but they rudely elbowed him to one side, and marched defiantly into the sacred building. Moments later they emerged, their arms loaded with sacred gold and silver bowls.

Within hours Jeremiah saw the enemy and his precious hostages march out of sight toward the north. He would never again see his friends or the sacred temple vessels.

Jeremiah descended the steps into the court of the Gentiles, and halted a priest who happened by. "I want to see all the chief priests and the old men in the valley of Hinnom, outside the Dung Gate. Immediately!"

"Yes Sir." The priest frowned. He hated that meddling prophet, but obeyed his order anyway.

The priests and old men reluctantly went to the edge of the valley of Hinnom as Jeremiah had commanded. For centuries this valley had been used as a pagan shrine, but King Josiah had transformed it into a disposal sight for rubbish and dead animals.

"Why did Jeremiah want to meet us here?" grumbled Pashur. "It's hardly a place for great men to hold an important meeting." He pinched his nose with his fingers, trying momentarily to block out the stench rising from the countless rotting carcasses strewn down the slope below him.

"I don't know what he wants," complained another priest, "but the more I hear him, the less I like him. He upsets our traditions by calling the people to follow the laws of Moses. Imagine the chaos if they followed his advice."

"It would be disastrous to our purses," pouted Pashur.

After Jeremiah left the temple he stopped at a shop in the ceramic quarter, chose a clay vessel, paid for it, walked to the Dung Gate on the southwest side of the city, and out onto the ridge overlooking the valley of Hinnom.

The priests and elders shivered as Jeremiah began talking before he reached them. "You saw what happened today," he scolded. "The Babylonians enslaved our best people, and even stole the sacred temple vessels. Why?" He paused, looking into each face with a scrutiny that made all of them uneasy. But no one dared answer his question.

"I'll tell you why," he continued. "Judah has committed spiritual adultery against Yahweh by worshiping idols." An angry murmur rumbled through the group, but Jeremiah ignored it. "You claim to be Yahweh's priests, but you don't worship Him either. You worship the temple building itself. Instead of serving your Creator, you pay homage to His house and perform the sacred services as though they were magical ceremonies that will bring you good luck." Jeremiah's eyes smarted as he spoke. "Your hearts have lost the grace of human kindness, and you think of those precious human beings who were herded toward Babylon today as so many bodies. Their world has come to an end, but you feel no loss. They were your sons and daughters, your brothers and sisters. But you don't care . . . nobody cares.

"Your ancestors burned their babies to Milcom in the Molech fire pits here in this valley. Josiah degraded this place, but you still burn your children in other fire pits. You worship the queen of heaven and all the other gods of the heathen nations around you. Will these gods spare you from the judgment of Yahweh? No! They will have no pity on you.

"You breathe easily now that the Babylonians have gone. But beware: they will return. Nebuchadnezzar is Yahweh's servant whom He has commanded to destroy this city. Today's disaster is only the beginning. Mothers will eat their children, and fathers will hate their infant sons. Thousands of people will die, and when there are no more tombs in which to bury them, their lifeless bodies will be tossed into this valley like the carcasses of the dead animals you see here today.

"Thus says Yahweh," Jeremiah raised his arm, holding the clay pot over his head. "'I made you, like the potter formed this vessel, so you would serve Me. But you deserted Me. Therefore . . .'" he hurled the vessel through space . . . "'I will break you . . .'" the pot crashed against a rock, its myriad pieces tinkling over the hard ground . . . "'as one breaks a potters vessel, that cannot be made whole again.'"

CHAPTER 5