Jeremiah 1.1 The Story

The Prophet lived long enough to see his warnings become reality. He was able to wander the now empty streets,  to experience life in a leveled city, and to observe the ruined temple. The old man kicked at the dirt of a vacant Holy City and remember another time.

"We must go," a soldier growled, "Now."

The Prophet stared at the soldier. "The Lord told us to stay right here - in the Holy Land."

"Well," the soldier spat, "the Commander says we're all going South, so that's where we are going. Now, move it!"

The Prophet remembered a time when he was young, but old enough to know that things were not as they should have been. He had watched his father and grandfather perform the rituals and functions, but there were few who bothered to practice the faith or adhere to the Law. He remembered watching the nation turn its back on the old ways, and embrace the new.

As he became a man himself, he saw the people vacillate in their beliefs - following one cult and then another. In doing this, they were only following the example of a series of feckless kings. One day the King would be welcoming the Eastern Empire and insulting the Southern Kings, the next day it would be the opposite. The Holy City became filled with wild foreign influences and debauchery.

He remembered the Valley. The King would lead the people there in some the most hideous rituals imaginable. They had strayed so far that good was considered evil and evil, good.

He tried to tell them. He decried the faithless culture, the corrupt monarchs, and the people who had forgotten the Way. He reminded them of the need for the Law and the Sabbath. He pled with the city and the nation. He begged them to turn things around. But, nobody was listening. From kings to peasants, he was mocked and ridiculed by a stubbornly forgetful nation. He was imprisoned, castigated and even thrown down a well. But, nothing would shut him up.

The soldier leveled his spear.

The Prophet stared at the soldier.

The Scribe jumped between the soldier and the Prophet. "Nabi, please, let us be going."

The prophet allowed the Scribe to lead him to the long line of people gathered on the Southern road. They, like him, were pitiful to look upon. Dressed in rags and carrying what they could. A lost and broken people.

When the King had finally decided to listen, it was too late. The Emperor's army was upon them. Their doom had arrived.

Though unsurprised by the arrival of the Judgement, the violence of it was still a shock.

The blood...
The fire...
The bodies...
The chains...

They had all left. The city and nation was empty. But, some had tried to return. They had come out of hiding and some had even returned from Babylon. They tried to make it work. But, the corruption was still poisoning the people. Now, the governor had been assassinated. The Empire would soon hear of it. The scheming, plotting Commanders had ordered everybody south - the City would be abandoned.

Walking with the ramshackle procession, he looked at his feet and the ground beneath. The Promised Land would finally have its Sabbath, its rest.

He looked over his shoulder to the ruins of the temple.

He glanced at his faithful Scribe.

They were now exiles. An exiled people with an exiled faith.

The Prophet knew that nothing would ever be the same. But, he also knew that this pathetic shuffling lot, who were looking for refuge in a foreign land, would actually find rescue. The rescue would not come from an Southern King, nor would it be found in the Emperor to the East. They would find a new future in the faith of their grandfathers and grandmothers.

Though mourning the past, their future would bring an incredible miracle. The sovereign God of Heaven, their ancestors, the God of the Law, he had directed this. But, it would not last forever. He would not forget his people.

Nothing could dissuade him. This was an act of judgement and the Lord of Hosts was still in command. And if the Lord of Hosts was in command, then he would be there with them - a god in exile.

"Now we shall see what awaits us," the Scribe said encouragingly.

The Prophet looked at the road ahead, beyond the sad shuffling refugees. "Exile, Baruch. Exile  awaits."

The Prophet smiled as he walked away from the Holy City.