This is part two in a series on Elijah the Prophet; it explores the nature of God (among other things) as displayed in the book of Kings. If you missed Part I, you can find it here. In today’s installment we’re catching up with Ahab and Jezebel as they tour Israel at a relevant time in its history. We’ll also explore the intricate patterning of the Hebrew Scriptures and how the timing of the events here reveals something important about the larger story God is telling.
From 1 Kings 16:30-32
In Ahab’s chariot the princess rode like a stone though they drove like a whirlwind on many unwrinkled roads.
There was a short road and a long road to Samaria; this was the long road.
Sometimes a king had to show the flag.
And yet so far nothing seemed to impress the princess.
When they passed gangs of captive Arameans laboring in the fields, she made no sound. When they rattled by citadels gazing upon the road from behind ramparts, she said no words of praise. Ahab eyed the princess with doubt. Had she seen roads or citadels such as had the House of Omri? He thought not. So what if the stones showed the marks of their chiseling? Not every wall was built centuries ago.
At last Ahab spoke. “This,” he barked, indicating the cropland beside the road, “Is the House of Issachar. A place for donkeys to rest, they said.” Ahab showed his teeth. “What would they say now?” In the fields, old friends hailed him. “That,” he continued, speaking so his accent would not show, “is the House of Joseph.” He pointed at the woods and hills further south. “At one time you could not walk these roads for fear of the Ephraimites.” Ahab glared at the travelers scattering off the road. “Not now,” he declared.
Still nothing from the Sidonian. They reached the Via Maris and turned. With Omri’s help Ahab had drained the low places and elevated the highway. Now three chariots could drive it abreast, even with their servants running beside them, and thus come suddenly to Damascus. Of course, there were roadblocks that way now, and many divisions employed.
Only that way, in the East, had Israel fallen into waste. Constant pressure from Aram, Ahab’s belligerent neighbor, turned the old residents into refugees and kept Ahab’s army busy. Settlers from Gilead lived there now, standoffish and strange. Ahab clicked his teeth. No matter. A small war zone in a prosperous kingdom was no great thing.
Again, Ahab turned. Jezebel did not speak. Only her head moved, roving slowly side to side. They passed chattels and soldiers and toll stations and outposts; they swept under signal towers that could count the ships in Philistia and transmit the number to Ramoth-Gilead. What did Jezebel think of these?
Again, Ahab tried. “That,” he said, indicating pale hills far off, “is Shiloh. Not long ago the ark was there. It held the tablets from Sinai.”
At this the princess hissed. She turned her veil on the king.
Ahab waited.
No more came.
Shrugging, he faced the road.
The hill was near. Already they could see smoke rising in a thousand lines to stain the sky. In a moment, the fortifications appeared above the foothills. There were towers and parapets and great engines and beneath them gates and moats and dykes and causeways for horses. Within the walls stood many garrisons and new palaces and cheap quarters for slaves. From everywhere there came the sound of hammers and chisels and oxen bellowing. Up from Judah, traders came on the road. Ahab smirked. Well, Judah: Who ruled who?
And yet none of this pleased Ahab’s new queen.
But as they circled round and beheld Samaria from the south, the new temple suddenly appeared: not complete, but already tall, and marvelously smooth. At this, the woman sighed.
“Ah,” she said. “Yes.”
…
Easy to see, isn’t it?
Ahab’s old money, by ancient standards. But his House (Issachar, most likely) was distinctly pastoral. They’d never exercised national much less regional power. Then, with the right leader, at the right place, at the right time, they made a violent bid and took over the place. Ahab cut his teeth as a military commander. Now he was a king with a real shot at becoming an emperor. Men like that often have a chip on their shoulder—think of Philip II of Macedon, or Daimyo Nobunaga. And they tend to be ferociously, almost ecstatically, violent (a saying, attributed to Nobunaga, runs thus: “If the cuckoo does not sing, kill it”).
In one generation the Omrides (Ahab’s dynasty, named for his dad) transformed Israel; in another, they’d plunge it into the grave. In fact, by the end of our story, Ahab will have grown (or descended) into an anti-Adam, paired with an anti-Eve, ruling an empire from an anti-Eden.
There’s a reason why this story climaxes in a vineyard, after all.
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