Free The Prophet: Amos by Francine Rivers Page A

center of the city where Jeroboam’s temple stood, housing the golden calf.
    The mount was an anthill of activity with pilgrims carrying their offerings up and into the temple. Neophyte priests dressed in fine linen ephods stood greeting them as they entered. Not one Levite stood among them, for Jeroboam I had abolished the rightful priesthood and established his own. All a man needed to become a priest was one young bull and seven rams! And who with the means would not pay it when all the benefits of priesthood could so enrich a man and his family? Power, wealth, and prestige came with the post, and the ability to strip the people of whatever they decided was a “proper offering” to stay in the good graces of Jeroboam’s false and capricious gods.
    Having driven even the faithful Levites from the northern cities, no one remained to teach people the truth.
    “Alms for the blind . . . ,” a man whined at the bottom of the steps, a small woven basket in his hand. He held it out at the sound of people passing. “Alms for the blind. Have pity on me.”
    Amos paused to look into his face. The man’s eyes were opaque, his face brown and lined from years in the sun. He was clothed in rags, and his gnarled hands revealed that blindness was not his only infirmity. Amos had brought only a few shekels with him. He took one from his pouch and leaned down. “May the Lord have compassion on you.” Amos placed the coin in the basket.
    The man’s fingers fumbled over the coin as he declared his thanks.
    As Amos went up the steps, he watched priests take gifts of money and tuck them into their personal purses. One put his hand out as Amos came level with him. Amos looked at him in contempt.
    The priest stiffened. “Those who do not give to god cannot expect blessing.”
    “I will not receive a blessing from your god.” Amos started to walk by.
    “Indeed not if you are so ungracious and ungrateful. You will have a curse on your head. . . .”
    Pausing, Amos turned and gazed deeply into the man’s eyes. “Woe to you, false priest. You already live under a curse of your own making.” Turning his back on him, Amos walked into the temple.
    He moved with the others, watchful, taking in everything. Were men so eager to be fleeced? Amos went as far as the inner corridor and stood aside. Leaning on his staff, he watched and listened to men and women murmuring incoherently as they moved forward, intent upon seeing the golden calf in which they placed their hope. Some carried small woven prayer rugs that they unrolled and knelt upon in comfort. They raised their hands and bowed in adoration before the horned altar. They sang songs of praise. Priests waved incense burners. The streaks of cloying gray smoke made a cloud over the worshipers held there by a fog of lies.
    And there stood their god in all its glory. Did these people really believe that bloodless empty statue could answer prayers?
    So it seemed.
    These Israelite brothers no longer knew the difference between righteousness and blasphemy. How was it possible to put such ardent faith in that great hunk of hollow gold, molded and shaped by a man? That calf couldn’t help itself, let alone do anything for them! Men without God put their trust in a spider’s web, not even knowing they had been captured and bound. Everything these people counted upon to keep them safe would fall, pulling them down with it.
    Musicians strummed lyres and kinnors. Priests chanted.
    A woman rushed tearfully to her husband, displaying a talisman sold to her by a priest. “He says we will have a child. . . .”
    A man, sallow and gaunt, had paid for a spell to be cast so that he would be healed of his troubles.
    Amos followed a father and son out of the temple. “I’ve already put in my request, Son. You will be well pleased with the one I have chosen. Since it is your birthday, you will go first, and I will wait my turn.”
    When they went into another building next door, Amos followed. As