The Mastermind, the Southpaw, and the Big Boy

God never has liked bullies. He's opposed to all forms of evil, to be sure, but he seems to find the abuse of power, especially insufferable. Perhaps it's the way he manages his own might, if he, the omnipotent one, can exude unceasing mercy and grace, surely you ought to be able to manage whatever tiny scrap of power you end up with in your hands. This is a story about oppression, about the oppressed, about the oppressor, and about the God who is not blind to the mistreatment of the powerless. It's a story about that God turning the tables on a nasty bully, making it clear that cruelty will not go unpunished forever. I'm Justin Gerhardt, welcome to Holy Ghost Stories. As the sun emerges from behind the eastern hills, the road between Gilgau and Jericho bustles with merchants and travelers, most of them headed with their figs or their furs, their sandals, or their cinnamon, their tin or their copper, to Jericho. The city of Palms, everyone calls it, and Jericho does not disappoint in this regard. Its famous palm trees line the streets like sentinels, their strong trunks and long, arching fronds washed in golden morning light. Certain Palms are known to live for a hundred years. That's long enough for a handful of these trees to have witnessed that fateful day, about a century ago when Yahweh brought down the walls and gave the city to a new people. Meanwhile, outside of Jericho, closer to Gilgau, that same golden light is broken by the long shadows cast across the road by the sacred stones. A series of sculpted limestone monuments devoted to the pagan deities of the people to the east of the Jordan. These now, heartbreakingly, worshiped by so many formerly monotheistic Israelites. That long standing and flagrant disobedience has made things difficult for the people of Israel, Yahweh has made sure of that. Many of the Hebrews have grown up not knowing anything other than subjugation, military and economic subservience orchestrated by God as punishment for His people's evil and faithlessness. A whole generation has grown up this way, in fact. A generation that includes our protagonist, an Israelite man named Eehud. Ever since Eehud was a boy, his Jewish countrymen have been ruled by the people to the east, the Moabites. 18 years ago, when Eehud was too young to fight, King Eglon of Moab marched on Jericho with his Moabite forces aided by an axis of evil, the Ammonites and Amalakites. And the unthinkable had happened, Jericho, the city God had given Israel generations before under Joshua, was taken back by Yahweh when he allowed Eglon to conquer it and its people. Perhaps little Eehud watched from his mother's hip, Eglon's soldiers killing his uncle or his father or his brothers or abusing his sister, and then greedily dividing the possessions of the Israelites under the shade of the palm trees that stood watch. Perhaps it was then that the seeds of Eehud's discontent were sown. 18 years under the hand of Eglon, at first the conquered Israelites were heartbroken. Even with the passing of time, their situation became normal to them, grief faded into surrender as they grew numb to their misery. 6,570 days of prayer after prayer to the pagan gods, unanswered. And yet the Hebrews' wayward devotion unaltered. All this time, the Hebrews have seemed to accept their fate, except for one clan in particular, the tribe of Benjamin. Their stubborn hope has been betrayed by something their tribe has been doing religiously for some time now, training their boys to be warriors. Of course, Eglon and the Moabites would never allow their subjects to train soldiers, no king wants an uprising, but apparently those rules don't stop the subversive Benjaminites from doing whatever they can to prepare for whatever Yahweh might want to do should the nation turn back to him. What might Yahweh want to do? How many times had he been ushered out far beyond the borders of the city to meet up with other boys from his tribe in some hidden spot for secret training? How many drills had he been led through by his Benjaminite mentors as they passed on the storied battle techniques of their tribe, catch this ball, throw this spear, thrust this sword hour after hour of unceasing repetition first with the right hand, his left hand tied behind his back, and then because they were Benjaminites and Benjaminites went to battle as fully ambidextrous fighters with the left hand, his right hand tied behind his back. What daydreams does a boy entertain during all those hours? What hope of coming vindication at the hand of a forgotten God? What thirst for future freedom had those mentor warriors instilled in the hearts of those boys as they convinced them to sneak out of bed once again to train? How many times as young Ehad had practiced did he hope pray to Yahweh even that it wasn't in vain that he was preparing for a war that would one day finally come? Perhaps it will come? Because these days, Ehad has noticed things are changing. There's talk of a return to Yahweh, a wave of prayers for deliverance is mounting as more and more people are crying out for the God of heaven and earth, asking him to change the times. They don't know it yet, but Yahweh has plans to do just that, and those plans center on Ehad. Ehad has been chosen to head up the delivery of Israel's seasonal tribute to Eglon, a fat tax levied by the King that's to be hand delivered by his subjects. And so Ehad gathers a team of attendants and prepares the offering, packing a cart full of so many of the few valuables they possess. Lifting pound after pound of his people's resources and produce one sack with his left hand, the next with his right, the next with his left, the next with his right, and again with his left. Barley and wheat and almonds and dates and dried meat and olives and pomegranates, the product of months of work, fuelled, tilled by his neighbors, irrigation ditches dug from the banks of the Jordan by his uncle, perhaps, seeds planted by his six-year-old nephew, maybe, who got to help with the work for the first time this year and was so proud to see the wheat grow tall and then bend, heavy with grain. Maybe his daughter, if Ehad has a daughter, helped prune the very tree that pomegranate came from. Maybe she laughed with her father about how delicious it would be when they finally got to eat the seeds and drink its sweet tart juice, but she won't get to. None of his people will, because every ounce of this stuff is going to Eglon, offered up as an absurd sacrifice. Surely, as he redies the tribute, Ehad reverses the plan. Every will always wonder who made the plan or how many people knew about it. Whoever was involved, though, there seems to have been a single mastermind moving the chess pieces around. The same one who had moved Eglon into position almost two decades ago was now ready to move him out. Ehad and his attendants set out on the road to Eglon's palace in Moab, past the sacred stones near Gilgalad, across the Ford at the Jordan River. They stepped through the water at the same place where Joshua, all those years ago, crossed on miraculous dry ground with his relights, God about to give them the land he'd promised. As the journey, sweat, begins to collect on Ehad's right thigh, and interestingly enough, this sweat, or the cause of it, is the reason we know Ehad's name. A length of his skin, maybe 18 inches, is smothered by a double-edged dagger. A dagger crafted by Ehad himself. Days before he melted down tin and copper, pouring them together into the clay mold, he'd fashioned drops of his sweat, falling from his forehead and sizzling as they hit the fresh bronze. He was proud of his work, despite realizing, after the metal cooled, that he'd forgotten to mold a crosscard, the part that runs perpendicular to the blade to ensure that it only travels so far into a target. No matter, anyway, less metal means less to hide, and elegant concealment will be the name of the game in the moments to come. When Ehad and his attendants arrive at the palace, they glance around with the understandable curiosity of those who haven't spent much time inside of palaces. There's a lot to take in, and the strange pagan culture of the Moabites is on full display. Ehad, though, seems especially interested in the architecture. So much space, built on the backs of his people, so many corridors and doorways, why, where do they even lead? They're ushered along with the sizeable tribute into the receiving hall, at the end of which a top of flight of stairs, sits the enormous figure of King Eglon. Ehad has heard about the King's obesity. Eglon in Israel has, his name means cow for heaven's sake, but the vastness of Eglon's belly and calves and neck, well, seeing it in person is something else. It's like Eglon has taken not just Israel's meat and produce, but all of her freedom, her hopes and her dreams, and consumed them. Ehad presents the tribute and bows, while Eglon smiles at his latest prize. What a sweet moment this is every season when the pathetic Israelites carry their precious goods into his palace when he gets to see their faces and be reminded that he conquered the once mighty Hebrews. Eglon takes a quick visual inventory, his whistling, labored breath, audible in the stillness of the hall, his attendance craning their neck like vultures, wondering what they might get to enjoy from the offering. Meanwhile, Ehad seems distracted. You'd think he'd be intently focused on this enemy king or the harvest he'll be leaving behind in a moment, but he's glancing around the hall, his sharp eyes darting from one feature to another, is he counting? And just like that, it's over, dismissed Ehad and his countrymen leave the palace and journey home. Strangely, it's now that Ehad's pulse begins to quicken. And as the other attendants travel with him, do they know there's more planned? Are they confused as to why something else didn't happen while they were at the palace? Do they wonder if Ehad lost his nerve? Or is this, and what's about to happen, part of Ehad's plan? An effort to take the king off guard and provide Ehad's countrymen with plausible deniability? Or is it something else? Whatever the answer, here's what happens next. Ehad gets as far as the sacred stones on the outskirts of Gilgal, and he turns around, senses men on home, and heads back toward Eglond's palace, alone. When he arrives, Ehad heads straight for the receiving hall. The king's guards check him, of course, for weapons, just as they did before, following their training and searching for anything that might be concealed on a person's left thigh for quick access with the right hand. Ehad, of course, has nothing on his left thigh. Your majesty, he calls to the rotund Eglond. I have a secret message for you. Well, technically, the Hebrew word he uses for message could also mean object or experience. But why would he say that? A message, the king is excited. Perhaps it's a bit of military intelligence, perhaps a word of good fortune from the Israelites strange, sleeping God. Ehad may mention that he's just come from the sacred stones, a place Eglond would immediately connect with an oracle. Leave us, he bellows at his attendance. Once they're alone, Ehad climbs the stairs to the king's throne room. He walks closer, closer, his voice low, and certain. I have a message from God for you. Eglond now heaves his great frame out of his throne, sweating with the effort, lifting himself to stand so that he can lean in and listen. That's when Ehad reaches in an instant with his left hand to his right thigh and draws back to plunge the blade into Eglond's bulbous stomach. Every drill, every training exercise, every repetitive move culminating now in finely tuned muscle memory. Ehad drives his weapon with so much force that the blade slides into the king's well-stretched flesh further, further there's no crossguard at the hill to stop it. And so, as Ehad withdraws his hand, he finds himself pulling his fingers not only away from Eglond's body, but out of it, leaving the dagger inside the fat folding back into place as if trying and vained close the wound. Of course, there is no closing it. The blade has ruptured Eglond's intestines and they and all of their contents spill wildly from the breach. The King of Moab, a presser of Israel, falls to the ground, writhing as the chewed remnants of Israelite produce ooze slowly from his belly. The miasma of feces fills the air as Eglond, the fat bull lies slain. His blood pooling on the floor, spattered across his throne the way the Jewish priests would sprinkle the blood of a sacrifice on the altar. What does it feel like to kill a man while making eye contact with him? To come face to face with the price, the finality, the mystery of death. Whatever emotions are swirling around inside of him, Ehad has no time to contemplate them. He must now turn his attention to getting out and buying some time. And this, perhaps, is where we learn the reason Ehad didn't kill Eglond on his first visit. While taking note of the layout of the palace earlier, Ehad must have noticed one key feature of the King's private chamber, not the throne, well, not that throne, the toilet. Apparently, Eglond could not be bothered to descend the stairs when nature called, and had a toilet installed for himself right up there in his throne room. Without plumbing, of course, a toilet is just a hole above a pit. A pit that in this case must, according to Ehad's calculations, connect to a tucked away part of the receiving hall by way of one of those many doors. Now, generations will tell this story again and again, but if the exact root of Ehad's escape is part of the telling early on, somehow, it's eventually lost to history. Or perhaps it went something like this. Ehad closes and locks the doors, separating the throne room from the stairs, steps across Eglond's carcass and piers down into the toilet, a sizable opening built for a sizable monarch. The smell might overpower him if not for the stench of the disemboweled corpse at his feet, instead, it's just more of the same. At eight or ten feet down, he can see the reservoir, but off to the side, he can see cracks of light seeping in from the edges of the doorway. That must be where they get into empty the waste. Ehad holds his breath and climbs down into the toilet, hangs onto the edge, swings his body ever so slightly, and drops, landing just beside the container of Eglond's manure. He opens the door, slides out, and closes it behind him. However he makes it out, he then walks swiftly to the porch outside and makes his way nonchalantly past the guards and attendants waiting there at the king's command. Meanwhile, those attendants wait for the king to call them back into the receiving hall, and wait, and wait, and finally venture into the hall and up the stairs toward the throne room, finding the doors locked, they're immediately struck by the foul smell of excrement. They conclude that the king is relieving himself, and wait until he's finished. But he doesn't finish, and they wait, and wait, and finally, despite their embarrassment, they fetch the key and let themselves in, only to find their lord fall into the floor in a puddle of blood and feces. During all of this, of course, Ehad has long since made his escape. Once he reaches home, Ehad will blow a ramsorn to summon Israel's fighters, who will stream down from the hill country, rallied as Ehad cries, "Follow me for Yahweh has given Moab your enemy into your hands." The Israelites will take possession of the river crossings, and under their new commander will route the Moabite forces, and a joy piece for 80 years. But Ehad hasn't reached home yet. Most, he must wade through the Jordan, and wash his hands of their blood stains. He stands in the water, crimson, curling away from his skin and wisps, then disappearing, washed away in the river. In almost the same place, many years from now, Yahweh will look on with joy as Jesus of Nazareth is baptized, inaugurating his campaign to secure the forever freedom of Israelites. And Moabites, and Iraqis, and Afghans, and Americans. The whole world delivered from subjugation to the powers of sin and death. No more tributes to all-consuming tyrants, no more oppression, no more bullies. Ehad walks on, his toes and fingers dripping with the muddy water of the Jordan, the sun now resting in the west, the road to Jericho, golden, unbroken by the shadows of the sacred stones. That's it for today. [Music]