N
UMBERS
9:9–11
Then the L
ORD
said to Moses, “Tell the Israelites: ‘When any of you or your descendants are unclean because of a dead body or are away on a journey, they are still to celebrate the L
ORD
’s Passover, but they are to do it on the fourteenth day of the second month at twilight.’”
J
ehoiada parted with Obadiah and the royals at the King’s Gate of the Temple, overwhelmed by the death and destruction plaguing Yahweh’s city. The Sabbath moon shone into his small chamber, imprinting on his memory the disheveled furnishings exactly as they’d left them. The small kitchen in disarray from Obadiah’s hurried packing. Amariah’s chamber door ajar. Why hadn’t he sent the high priest to the quarry and guarded the Ark himself?
Would
I
have
been
strong
enough
to
ward
off
the
heathen
raiders
?
Obadiah had said the Philistines wouldn’t want the Ark of the Covenant. He’d been correct, but the Arabs arrived at the Holy of Holies first. The Carite guards fought valiantly, losing their lives as the Arabs advanced toward the Most Holy Place, where Yahweh’s presence dwelt. Amariah warned them, but they silenced him with their swords, keeping the young Temple guard alive to educate them on the contents of the spectacular
golden Ark. The moment they touched the sacred box, Yahweh struck them dead, and the Temple guard dragged their corpses to the porch, proclaiming Yahweh’s judgment on others who dared enter.
“My lord?” A heavy hand fell on Jehoiada’s shoulder, startling him. The young guard stood behind him, eyes red-rimmed and swollen. “I offer my resignation. Again.” He inhaled an unsteady breath, looking to the ceiling, fighting back emotions that seemed to be drowning him. “I’m not worthy to serve Yahweh. I failed Him. I failed Amariah. I’ve failed my family. Everyone.”
He turned to flee, but Jehoiada captured his arm and pulled him into a fierce embrace. “You have failed no one.” Choking on his own emotions, Jehoiada let silence minister to their broken hearts. When both men regained a measure of control, Jehoiada patted the guard’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, but I don’t even know your name.”
“I’m Zabad.”
“Well, Zabad, your resignation is not accepted.” Jehoiada noted his Kohathite leather breastpiece. “What clan of Kohathites is your family?”
“My abba’s name is Seth, but no one remembers him. It’s my ima’s name by which I’m known.” His gaze dropped to his sandals, his neck and ears instantly crimson. “I’m the son of Shimeath, an Ammonite woman, and you know the old saying: ‘Abbas eat sour grapes and the children’s teeth are set on edge.’”
“Look at me, Zabad.” Jehoiada’s commanding tone brought the young guard’s head to attention. “I don’t know your abba, but you have nothing of which to be ashamed. Your bravery while protecting the high priest shows leadership. And the way you rallied the remaining priests and Levites to clear the carnage from Temple grounds and prepare our dead brothers for burial . . . We need strong leaders, commanders of hundreds, to replace the men we’ve lost. I was told almost half of the priests and Levites serving that night were slain. I suppose it was a blessing we had so few report for duty.”
“But I let the invaders kill the high priest.” Zabad spoke as if in a daze, seeming immune to encouragement or reason.
Jehoiada grabbed his shoulders, steadying him. “You displayed the dead bodies of the raiders struck down by Yahweh. When word of it spread through the Philistine and Arab troops, they took their treasure and fled. You’re a hero, Zabad, not a failure.”
“I don’t feel like a hero. I keep seeing Amariah’s face when that sword pierced his heart, and I want to know—why? Why does Yahweh allow good men to die violent, senseless deaths?”
Jehoiada swallowed the lump in his throat. Would it shake the guard’s faith to know that the high priest’s second was plagued by the same questions? “We cannot know the mind of God,” he said instead. “For now, we must wait on the Lord to reveal His next step.”
Immediately he recalled Amariah’s similar counsel on the night they’d quarreled about Jehoram. His old friend and high priest had patted the sacred breastpiece, confident that the Urim and Thummim would give them direction—if they would wait. But some decisions couldn’t wait. They must decide tonight if priests could mourn Amariah for the traditional thirty days and still provide priests to maintain Temple sacrifices. Should Jehoiada broach the subjects of choosing the new high priest or Jehoram’s marriage request on the same night they discussed grieving?
Yahweh, give me wisdom.
With a deep sigh, he wrapped his arm around Zabad’s shoulders, directing him out the door and down the hall toward the rear gallery. “On almost every Sabbath of my life, I’ve gathered with brother priests to seek Yahweh’s will through the Urim and Thummim. Tonight is no different.”
Zabad looked somewhat daunted but followed Jehoiada across the inner court, into the separate place, and past the bronze lavers. They slowed as they approached the gallery, unable to pass through the crowd.
“What’s going on?” Jehoiada asked one of the Levites waiting outside. “Why aren’t you going in?”
“There’s no room.” The Levite motioned toward the door several chambers ahead. “It seems every son of Aaron has turned out to see who of Zadok’s clan will be chosen as high priest.”
Jehoiada fought a testy reply.
Where were all the sons of Aaron
when it was time for weekly service?
He remained silent, however, realizing how very different tonight was.
After shouldering through the crowd, Jehoiada reached the central table, where a priest’s assistant waited for the event to begin. The rumbling of priests stilled, and Jehoiada motioned toward the breastpiece of decision lying on the table. “I’ve come tonight to seek Yahweh’s guidance on weighty matters—the first of which is the length of our high priest’s grieving period.”
“Brother Jehoiada.” One of the older priests stepped forward. “How can we observe the traditional mourning customs when so many of our number have been killed and Passover is barely two Sabbaths hence? If we as Yahweh’s priests are to maintain an unbroken pathway between Him and His people, we must ordain a new high priest and young priests to replace those who have fallen.”
Widespread agreement filtered through the gathering, and Jehoiada waited until a natural lull stilled them. “Are you ready for me to ask for Yahweh’s will through the Urim and Thummim? The white Thummim will signify Yahweh’s approval to choose a new high priest and ordain young priests immediately. The black Urim signifies we mourn the traditional thirty days and delay Passover according to the law of defilement.”
Again, the consensus of the priests was overwhelmingly positive, so Jehoiada turned to the center table where the breastpiece of decision waited. Within the high priest’s breastpiece was a pocket containing the sacred Urim and Thummim—the instruments of God’s judgment and decision.
Reaching inside, he removed the white Thummim and held it high above his head. A reverent stillness rested over them. “Yahweh has spoken. We will move forward with the selection of a new high priest tonight, and we’ll ordain all of Aaron’s male descendants thirty years or older as soon as a census can be taken.” Jehoiada’s heart began to pound as the import of the moment settled on him. “Those of you who have touched a dead body, please step to the left and register your seventh day, when you’ll become clean again, with one of the assistants.
To all of you, whether you helped prepare bodies for burial or remained clean to continue the sacrifices, thank you. But now we must remain clean at all costs in order to serve Yahweh in both ordaining new priests and celebrating the Passover Feast.”
A holy reverence filled the gallery as Jehoiada returned his attention to the center table and noticed two baskets. “Good work, Elan.” The priest’s assistant bowed humbly. He’d prepared well for the possibility of the high priest’s choosing.
The first basket contained distinctly marked lots for each of the families within the clan of Zadok. Jehoiada, as second priest, would draw one lot from the first basket, giving the firstborns from that family the chance to mark a blank white stone from the second basket with their individual names. Jehoiada would then draw the name of the chosen firstborn from the second basket—the lot for high priest.
But the final decision would be Yahweh’s. Jehoiada reverently traced his finger over the bloodstained breastpiece worn over Amariah’s heart the night he died. Fighting back tears, he tried to tamp down the already rising resentment. How could anyone take Amariah’s place? Squeezing his eyes shut, he reminded himself that Yahweh had spoken through these two stones for generations. The Thummim sealed Yahweh’s approval. The Urim meant they removed the chosen name from the basket and began the process again.
With a determined sigh, he opened his eyes, ready to hear Yahweh speak. He lifted his hands, stifling the low hum of conversation. “Are there any questions before we begin?”
An old priest from Beersheba stepped forward and met Jehoiada’s gaze, speaking to the group with disarming personal warmth. “Brother Jehoiada, we know Amariah was more than your high priest. He was your dear friend. We’re sorry for your personal loss, and we’ll do whatever we can to help.”
Overcome by the unexpected sympathy, Jehoiada cleared his throat, trying to maintain his dignity. “You can help most by serving Yahweh with all your hearts. It’s what would have pleased Amariah, and it’s what will save Judah.” With their hearts united, Jehoiada felt encouraged to continue. “We will choose the high
priest tonight, and tomorrow we’ll gather the family heads of Aaron’s descendants, gaining an accurate count of all males over age thirty. We’ll begin the seven-day ordination ceremony as soon as our unclean priests have met their requirements and all the new candidates arrive on Temple grounds.” He scanned the expectant faces before him. “Does this sound agreeable?”
Nods spread among the crowd, and Jehoiada felt an intense brotherhood—a bond strong enough for him to trust them with the matter heaviest on his heart. “Before we begin, I must bring to your attention a matter from King Jehoram. The king received a mysterious letter from Elijah the night before the raid, predicting he’d lose his wives, sons, and earthly treasure, as well as foretelling the wasting illness that has attacked his bowels.” Wonder rippled through the priests, and Jehoiada inhaled a strengthening breath for the most difficult part of his speech. “King Jehoram has asked to give his daughter Jehosheba in marriage to the new high priest as a sort of treaty agreement with Yahweh in hopes of forestalling further judgment.”
Silence.
The uproarious protest he’d expected came instead as a timidly raised hand of a young priest. “Do you think it will help?”
Startled by the seeming ignorance, Jehoiada was first inclined to ask if the boy slept through his classes on the Law. Instead, he forced patience into his tone. “A marriage relationship is a sacred covenant between a man and a woman, established by God to represent His unyielding love for His people. A marriage cannot establish a treaty between God and man. Yahweh’s covenants have already been made with Noah, Abraham, Moses, and David—some on condition of obedience, some through the Lord’s mercy alone. But none of Yahweh’s covenants have been made with a pagan king seeking to manipulate God’s favor.”
The timid priest hung his head, but another priest spoke up. “Perhaps this marriage would open the king’s heart to Yahweh. Shouldn’t we at least employ the Urim and Thummim to ask Yahweh’s opinion on the matter?” The crowd began to nod in consensus. “It’s a yes or no question that can be determined by the breastpiece of decision, Jehoiada.”
“Wait, wait.” Jehoiada raised his hands to quiet them. “What if the new high priest is already married?”
More shouting and debate erupted, creating division and disunity in a gathering that moments ago had enjoyed complete harmony. One man’s voice rose above the din. “Let’s choose the high priest, and if he’s not married, we put the question directly to Yahweh.”
Jehoiada scanned the room and saw general agreement, encouraging him to begin the process of choosing their high priest. The assistant Elan lifted the first basket, and Jehoiada closed his eyes in silent prayer.
Yahweh, guide my
hand.
Lifting out the first stone, he recognized the family symbol as devout men from Beersheba. “Remiel. All firstborns of Remiel’s family, step forward and make your personal mark on a smooth stone in the second basket.”
Nervous chatter filled the room as fifteen men made their way to the table, each marking a stone with his unique symbol. Jehoiada guessed three generations in Remiel’s clan: the patriarch Remiel, his firstborn, and the firstborns of all other males in his clan. After all the men had cast their lots, silence fell over the crowd, and the assistant held the second basket above Jehoiada’s head.
“Nathanael,” Jehoiada nearly shouted, announcing with joy one of Remiel’s grandsons. He didn’t know young Nathanael personally, but Remiel’s was a prominent family of strong character and faithful service.
Oohs and aahs rippled among them as Nathanael’s family jostled him with congratulatory hugs and shoves. The man’s face turned as white as the stone when Jehoiada approached. “Are you married, Nathanael?”
“No.” He swallowed hard. “I’m not.”
Jehoiada tried to hide a grin. Perhaps Yahweh would sanction this marriage after all. Nathanael was young, handsome, strong, and healthy. Perhaps he could lead Jehoram’s daughter—and maybe the whole royal household—back to Yahweh.
“I’ll proceed to the breastpiece of decision to hear Yahweh’s final word on Nathanael as high priest.” Jehoiada stepped
toward the breastpiece, and once again the room became reverently still.
He reached into the pocket and drew out the black Urim. Jehoiada’s heart plummeted, and the whole room exhaled a disappointed “Oh no.” Nathanael laid his stone on the table, removing it from the baskets, and the whole family of Remiel melted back into the sons of Aaron.