Previously on the Chosen People.

You don't understand, Jezebel.

I wanted it.

Oh.

I offered him a better vineyard.

I offered him money.

I was generous.

But neighbors won't sell.

He said it was his family's inheritance.

Ugh, some nonsense about your way's law.

And don't ask him.

Just take it.

Who's to stop you?

And at the center of the elders was Naboth, the owner of the vineyard.

Ahab so desperately coveted the elders had called him there to stand trial.

What Noah, No, this is false.

I've done nothing of the sort.

The first stone was thrown, and it struck Naboth's shoulder, knocking him off balance.

The second hit his ribs, knocking the wind from his lungs.

Then came the third, than the fourth.

Then came the dogs.

They lapped at the blood, indifferent to the weight of the moment, indifferent to the crime that had been committed.

First murder.

Then what's next?

They will you steal a cripple's clutch, snatch it, widow's last coin, maybe grand second orphanage while you're at it, enough, Thus says the Lord, God of Heaven and Earth, the god of the nation you claim to rule in the very spot where the dogs licked up Nebo's blood, they will lap up your yes yours.

Every lie in the throne room was a thread pulling AHB closer to his grave.

Shall out my friends from here in the holy land of Israel.

I'm you l X with the International Fellowship of Christians and Jews, and welcome to the Chosen People.

What happens to a soul when the truth becomes intolerable?

Today?

In First Kings chapter twenty two, we entered the last strangled chapter of King AB's long descent.

We followed him through vineyards stained with blood and palaces stained with idolatry, and now we find him sitting beneath the mountain of voices, none of them honest, none of them safe.

There's something awful about a man who wants prophecy only if it flatters him.

And yet couldn't that be said for each of us?

Sometimes?

This Bible story isn't one of clean cut heroes and clear cut victories.

It's about when humans confuse their own desires with those of God.

And above all, it's a warning about the price of silencing the truth.

Aabs still heard the dogs.

The prophecy had been years ago, spoken in that ragged voice, Elijah's voice, a voice that never seemed to be in a hurry, and yet it ran like a thread through Ahab's nightmares, in between the wine soaked feasts and the hours he spent staring at the walls of his palace, half drunk and half praying to a god he didn't really believe in, the.

God of the nation.

Your play in the.

Yes, yours sleep.

Sometimes in the dark hours of the night, Ahab thought he could hear them, just faintly, a slithering sound, a slow, wet lapping somewhere in the corridors, somewhere behind the walls.

He'd had a servant beaten to death once for bringing dogs into the palace.

There had been no dogs, but the sound had still not gone away.

But there were distractions for the King of Israel.

The Great Hall was an offense to subtlety.

A hundred gold laden sycophants, wrapped in robes the color of crushed pomegranates and saffron, swayed and applauded as the prophets.

Ahab's prophets performed their revelations.

It was a spectacle, a theater of divinity staged for a god who wasn't there.

Jehoshaphat, king of Judah, sat among the velvet and the grandeur, his posture stiff.

Jehoshaphat was a man of war.

He was a descendant of David.

After all, the men in Ahab's halls had never seen such a specimen.

Across the room, Zedekiah, the self proclaimed chief of the prophets, lifted a pair of iron goat horns over his head.

His wild voice filled the hall with a guttural roar.

Thus says, yalway we these.

You shall got your liniens until they are utterly destroyed.

Victory is yours, o king.

The gods have declared it.

King Jehosha fat exhaled through his nose, resisting the urge to rub his temples.

He had tolerated much from Ahab, his theatrics, his excess, his endless parade of boot licking prophets.

But this, this was embarrassing, a court full of sickophants, hollering nonsense, waving iron horns like madmen.

It was a farce, and thanks to his son's marriage to Ahab's daughter, he was technically chained to this disaster of a king by family, a decision he regretted with every passing moment.

He straightened in his seat, voice cutting through the noise like a blade slipped between ribs.

Are these truly the Lord's prophets?

Is it not one more a prophet who shows perhaps a bit more devotion to the God of Israel?

Ugh, there is one man, Makaiah, son of Imla, But I hate.

Him, hate him.

He never prophesies good concerning me, only evil.

You know, aheb.

My father once told me, a king who only listens to yes men will soon hear nothing but war drums and wailing widows.

Fie bring him.

Merciah was exactly where one would excit expect a prophet of God to be in Ahab's kingdom prison.

The messenger arrived in a rush, the cell door swinging open, dust swirling in the dim light.

Macaiah, please listen to me.

This should be good.

All the other prophets have spoken favorably to the king.

You should do the same.

No should I?

Do you want to die in this cell?

Do you want to make this harder than it has to bee?

Whatever the Lord says, I will.

Speak the messenger exhaled, sharply, muttered a curse under his breath, and gestured for Maciah to follow.

The whole was a painting gold, silk, wine, dark reds, and prophets swaying in divine ecstasy.

Maciah stepped inside, still dust covered from captivity, his presence like a crack in the grand illusion.

He took his time looking around.

His gaze landed on Zaidakiah and the iron horn still perched atop his head.

Macia snorted, ay have draped in gold and shadow watched him from his throne, a goblet in hand, his knuckles tight around the stem.

Well, well, well, if it isn't my dear friend, Makiah, the light of my life, the joy of my court, truly my day would be incomplete without your delightful presence.

Tell me, Prophet, shall we go to war at ramoff Gilead?

Or shall we refrain?

What a difficult question, my king?

What could possibly be the right answer?

Oh?

I'm getting a prophetic word.

Go up in triumphal king, Yahweh will absolutely deliver you into your head, guaranteed, nothing to worry about.

I just take my reputation on it.

Shut you idiots, he's obviously mocking us.

Unless you want to rot in that self forever.

You tell me what our God actually says.

There it was the moment Makaiah had been waiting for.

There was a peculiar kind of joy in watching Ahab, a man so committed to his own delusions, demand honesty.

It was like watching a drunk beg for water, but away the moment it touched his lips, Makaiah offered him a slow, knowing smile, the kind that suggested he had been planning this exact moment for years.

Oh the truth you wound me, Oh keith, here I thought you preferred the comfort of well rehearsed lies.

He made a grand, exaggerated gesture, as if parting the very veil between heaven and earth.

Very well.

Hear ye, hear ye.

I saw all israels scattered on the mountains like sheep with no shepherd, and lo Yahweh himself did speak, saying, these have no master, Let them return to their homes in peace.

A breathless pause, the weight of it settled into the room, thick and suffocating.

The words sank into Ahab's gut like stones thrown into deep water.

Ah what did I tell you to host of that his proclamations are never good, always evil.

Yes, Ahab, what a terrible injustice, the prophet of your way refusing to lie to you.

How do you bear such suffering?

I saw the Lord seated upon his throne in all the hosts of heaven.

The spiritual beings stood before him, one to his right, one to his luck.

And the Lord said, who will entice Ahab?

That he might go up and fall at raymuth Gilead.

He let the words linger, glancing at Ahab, who now gripped his goblet so tightly it threatened to shatter.

Oh, but don't worry, my king.

There was some discussion, a few ideas thoss around.

One suggested this, another suggested that.

But then a spirit came forward.

Hold, and this particular spirit said, I will entice him, my Lord.

So Yahweh asked by what means?

And the spirit, Oh, my dear King, This spirit smiled and said, I will go and be a lying spirit in the mouths of all a house prophets.

And Yahweh said, very good, you will succeed in enticing him.

Go and do it.

So.

Now behold, look around you, think, Ahab, there's a reason.

All these fools only tell you what you want to hear.

The Lord has put a lying spirit in the bouths of all these prophets of yours.

Yahweh has decreed your ruin.

The silence that followed was the kind that settled in the bones, the kind that wrapped around the life ungs and squeezed.

Ahab's face twitched, but before he could speak, Zedekiah stormed forward, his ornate robes billowing like a child playing dress up in a king's closet.

His fury was immediate, personal, a man who had just realized he was the punchline of a joke he hadn't understood.

His hand cracked across Mackiah's cheek, the slap reverberating through the chamber like a gavel striking doom.

Insulends, whelp tell me which way did the spirit of Yahweh go when he left me to speak to you?

The prophets gasped, The courtiers flinched, the guards stiffened.

Machia smiled a slow, knowing, infuriating smile.

He turned his head back to Zedekiah, rubbing his jaw as though trying to decide whether the slap was worth responding to.

Oh, you'll find out one day, soup when you're hiding in your chambers like a soiled little child, weep for your mother.

For a fraction of a second, Zedekiah stood frozen, as if the very breath in his lungs had turned to lead.

His face twisted rage, fear, denial, all warring behind his eyes.

He wanted to laugh, to strike Makaia again, to prove this was nonsense, but the words hung there, a rotten thing in the air.

Suddenly Ahab was on his feet, screaming orders, clinging to control like a man drowning in his own power.

Gods, seize him, take him back to the rots in his cell, feed him nothing but bread.

And water until I return in victory.

Makaiah tilted his head, gaze flickering toward the throne as if considering something, and then, softly, with the patience of a man who already knew how this story would end, he said.

If you return in victory, God has not spoken through me, mark my words.

The only one who will be victorious in this story is Yahweh, not you.

Ahab's left eye twitched as if something inside him was about to break.

He did not speak.

He simply pointed to the door with a trembling finger.

The guards grabbed Macaia's arms, violently, hauling him toward the door.

But the prophet did not resist.

He did not struggle, He did not beg or plead.

He just turned his head back toward Ahab and smiled.

Ahab wanted to scream, he wanted to vomit, but he just stared eyes and somewhere, beneath the guard's footsteps, beneath the incense, beneath the wine and the gold and the desperation, Ahab could hear it again, the slow, wet sound of dogs lapping at the ground.

The battlefield stretched wide and barren under the weight of a brutal sun.

The air was thick with heat, the kind that made armor unbearable, made every breath feel like sucking in dust and copper into your lungs.

In the distance, the war horns blared low and guttural, the kind of sound that sent something primal crawling up the spine.

Soldiers shifted uneasily, sweat trickling down the backs of their necks, waiting for the moment when waiting would end and dying would begin.

Ahab stood at the center of it, all, wrapped in the heavies, sickly stench of fate closing in.

He was not stupid.

He knew.

He had known since the moment Makaiah had spoken, maybe even before that.

The words of Elijah had never left him, always somewhere in the back of his mind, gnawing, whispering, in the.

Very smart with the dogs licked up their boss.

They were lad he had tried to forget.

He had drowned them in wine, in power, in the bodies of women who would never be Jezebel.

But no amount of conquest or cruelty had changed the truth.

God was against him.

The ground beneath his feet was already a grave.

But Ahab was not the kind of man to go quietly.

He was the son of the great Omri, king of Israel.

He would not be made a spectacle.

He would not be an easy prophecy.

He turned to Jehoshaphat, who satisfried his horse in his royal robes, draped in the colors of Judah, looking every bit the king Ahab had failed to be.

You should wear your robes into battle, let them see their king.

And what will you wear?

Something less conspicuous.

Jehoshaphat did not like this.

He did not like much about today, about the way Ahab moved, like a man trying to cheat death.

But what could he say.

He knew Ahab was a dead man, whether he wore his crown or not.

The battle began swiftly, the armies clashed.

It was confusion and steel, cries of agony, and the wet sounds of men breaking open.

For the soldiers, the world shrank down to what was right in front of you, What was trying to kill you, what you had to kill first.

There was no thinking, no strategy, just the law violence of the moment.

They have moved through the carnage like a man with something to prove.

He fought harder than he had in years, maybe harder than he ever had.

Maybe he thought, if he could make it through this battle, if he could turn the tide, if he could be the hero, just this once.

Maybe the weight of everything, the ruin of his reign, the mockery of his marriage, the weakness of his legacy, could be rewritten in Bloody.

It was almost convincing until the arrow.

It was not an act of skill, It was not the hand of a great warrior, some noble assassin taking fate into his own hands.

No, it was some nameless Aramian soldier pulling back his loosing an arrow into the sky, without aim, without reason, without expectation.

The arrow arked high, silent and swift, an instrument of judgment, an afterthought in the chaos, and then, almost impossibly, it found its home right between the plates of Ahab's armor.

For a moment, Ahab did not move, he did not even register it.

Then a slow creeping fire spread through his chest, and he knew, he knew before he even looked down.

No, his breath caught, his hand trembled as he reached for the shaft protruding from his ribs.

It was deep, too deep.

He could feel the warmth or red, the blood spilling out, filling his armor like a cup being poured out.

No, no, no no.

The chariot rocked as he sagged against its frame.

His servant turned horror, creeping into his eyes.

Marking, we must get you out, BlimE, we must hold BlimE.

The battle raged on, and Ahab, the dead man, still standing, stayed in his chariot.

The arrow lodged in his body like a final act of defiance.

The pain became everything.

It hollowed him out, It took his vision and turned the edges black.

But he gripped the side of his chariot, forcing himself upright.

He would not fall, not yet.

Hour by hour, the blood pulled at his feet, thick and warm, sloshing with every movement of the chariot.

He could smell it, taste it.

His men fought, His kingdom bled and Ahab.

Ahab sat in the ruin of himself, staring at the sky, feeling the slow pull of the end.

At sunset, the weight was too much.

His fingers slipped from the frame, his body crumbling forward.

It will belong now before the dogs come.

His servant did not answer, he could not bear to.

And as the chariot rolled through the battlefield, the blood of King Ahab dripped down into the earth.

The battlefield had no use for kings.

It consumed men without preference.

The wind whispered through the broken bodies, lifting the dust, carrying the scent of old blood and new decay.

Ahab's body was just another among them.

Now he had spent his life clothed in gold.

But now there was no throne, no kingdom, no Jezebel to whisper in his ear.

There was only the cold weight of his corpse, sagging where it lay.

The soldiers worked in silence, their hands moving with the detached precision of men accustomed to handling the dead.

The captain, a man who had followed Ahab into every war since he was a boy, knelt beside the body, fingers grimy with dust and dried blood, as he unfastened the last buckle of the king's armor.

It was a cursed thing, now tainted by prophecy and failure.

A cadet, younger, less hardened, hesitated as they lifted the lifeless weight.

They heaved his body into the cart, limbs loose, his fingers stained dark with the blood he had choked on.

He was still warm when they started the journey back to Samaria.

The cart creaked as it rolled through the entrance of the palace, the wheels rattling over uneven stone.

The soldiers avoided eye contact with the courtiers who had come to watch.

They did not carry a king home.

They carried a warning.

The chariot stood near the washing pool, streaked with the blood that had poured from his wounds, sticky and congealed in the heat.

A servant, young and new to the palace, swallowed hard and stepped forward, carrying a bucket of water.

His hands trembled as he lifted it, tilting it over the chariot's side, letting the water slosh and swirl over the wood, turning the dust to mud, sending thick red streams trailing toward the gutters.

The blood found the cracks in the stone and flowed outward, curling in rivulets, until it reached the open ground where the wild dogs waited.

There had always been dogs in some area.

They lived on the scraps of the city, scavengers, picking at whatever had been left behind.

Tonight they found something fresh.

The servant looked away as the first one lowered its head, its mouth pressing into the blood, lapping it up.

The sound wet and slow.

More came slipping from the alleyways, creeping closer, tongues flicking against the stone.

It was just as Elijah had said.

From a high window.

Jezebel watched.

She had not wept, She had not torn her robes or covered her Elfin's sadcloth.

She had not even left her chambers when the news came.

She had known before the first horse rode through the city gates.

Ahab had always been easy to predict.

That was the greatest of his many flaws.

He was not like her.

He wanted too much, needed too much.

Now he was dead.

Her fingers traced the carved stone of the balcony, railing, her nails clicking softly as she leaned forward, gazing down at the spectacle.

A servant, young and stupid, hesitated behind her, wringing his hands, eyes flicking between the window and the queen's face.

My late e, do you grieve?

Jezebel turned her head slowly, her lips curled, but it was not a smile.

I suppose I mourn him as one would a last sandal less, sorrowful, more perturbed than now.

I have to find a new one.

The servant flinched.

Jezebel turned back to the window, watching as the last of the blood washed away, as the dogs finished their meal, and as the city swallowed its dead king without ceremony.

Ahab was never made for war, or for ruling.

Or for me.

The wind tugged at her hair, dark strands slipping across her cheek.

She breathed in, tasting the air heavy with the scent of dust and prophecy, of filth and judgment.

My lady will, what shall we do?

Jezebel exhaled, slow and measured.

We shall wait for what.

Jezebel let her fingers rest against the railing one life time before stepping away.

Below the dogs licked their muscles clean, and somewhere unseen but undeniable, the words of Elijah still echoed, The dogs will feast.

Let me ask you something, Why do we fear profits more than enemies?

Seriously?

Why does Ahab tremble before Mikaia but not for the Armyan army?

Why is the voice of God more terrifying than the sword?

Here's what I think is because prophecy strips us, not just of illusions, but of our defenses.

Doesn't care for titles or wealth.

It cuts deep, it humbles, it refuses to flatter.

And that's exactly what happens right here.

Mikaia's vision of heaven is odd, isn't it?

God inviting his spiritual court and tyson king to destruction.

It should make you uncomfortable, because it's supposed to do.

Let's take a closer look.

The Hebrew verb used for entice in verse twenty is pitin This isn't just about trickery.

It's the same root used in Judge's fourteen when Samson is enticed by Dlaiah.

It implies seduction, yes, but also consent willingness, a kind of tragic attraction to one's own room.

Ahab isn't duped, he's drawn, and that's the horror.

He wants the lie, and God, in his sovereignty, allows him to chase it.

Because sometimes justice isn't a thunderclap.

Rather, it's the silence that follows your very own choice.

This is the same pattern that we see in Isaiah six, when the prophet is told to make the heart of this people calloused, not because God delights in their death fitness, but because they've demanded it for so long he lets them have it.

Truth rejected becomes truth withdrawn.

And here's the sobering reality.

The people cheered louder for Zendekiah's iron horns than for Mekaiah's warning, and by then their king bled out his chariot.

While the dogs fulfilled every word the prophet has spoken.

God's word doesn't flinch, it doesn't soften anything.

It tells the truth, even when the truth is unwelcome.

There's another lesson in today's story that I want to look at.

When King Yehosha Fat of Southern Kingdom of Judah comes to visit, ahab Aha proposes a joint military campaign against Aram, and Yohosha Fat accepts.

This seems strange because initially, at least Yohosha Fat is considered to be a righteous king.

It's also strange that ab would have proposed such a campaign because in our previous chapter the prophet predicted that he would die in battle.

But although Ahab had repented, apparently his repentance wasn't complete.

But our sages criticized Yohosha Fat's acceptance of an alliance with a king with such a checkered background.

They make this famous statement, woe is to the wicked person, and woe is to his neighbor.

Now that is every bit as true today as it was in the days of the Bible, isn't it, Because if a good person consorts with an evil one, something evil is bound rub off.

We'll see later in the Book of Second Kings that in fact, the righteous Yehosha Fat lost some of his righteousness, maybe because of his association with evil Ahab, who also happened to be his brother in law.

But the lesson here is that we all need to choose our acquaintances very carefully, whether it's on a personal level or on a community or a national level, because, as Jewish tradition teaches, the opposite also works.

If someone befriends a good and decent person or nation allies with the nation built on good values, then that goodness and righteousness rubs off the very same way as evil would.

There's something that I've learned living here in the holy land of my ancestors.

God's justice may wait, but it never sleeps.

This story isn't just a tale of doom.

It's about the stubborn mercy of truth.

The truth that stands out even when mocked, The truth that loves even when hated, The truth that will outlive every throne that's built on lies.

As we've studied the Bible together, I've often mentioned tshuva, this concept of repentance, not as a performance, but as a return coming home.

And what this story reminds me is that even when it's too late for Ahab, it's not too late for us.

We still have the chance to listen.

We still have the chance to change, to stop surrounding ourselves with voices that flatter, and start seeking the one that saves.

Maybe you're feeling like Ahab, trapped, overwhelmed, unsure of how to listen to God without being crushed by what he might say.

Or maybe you're like Mikaia, telling the truth in a world that only wants stagecraft and showmen.

Wherever you find yourself today, let this story push you towards courage, ask the hard questions, turn down the volume of the crowd, get quiet enough to hear the voice of God again, and when you do, don't flinch.

Even if it wounds, God's word heals, and even when it corrects.

It loves.

You can listen to The Chosen People with the Isle e Stein ad free by downloading and subscribing to the Prey app today.

This Prey Dog comproduction is only made possible by our dedicated team of creative talents.

Steve Katina, Max Bard, Zach Shellabarger and Ben Gammon are the executive producers of the Chosen People with Yaiel Eckstein, edited by Alberto Avilla, narrated by Paul Coltofianu.

Characters are voiced by Jonathan Cotton, Aaron Salvado, Sarah Seltz, Mike Reagan, Stephen Ringwold, Sylvia Zaradoc, Thomas Copeland Junior, Rosanna Pilcher, and Mitch Leshinsky.

And the opening prayer is voiced by John Moore, music by Andrew Morgan Smith, written by Aaron Salvato, bre Rosalie and Chris Baig.

Special thanks to Bishop Paul Lanier, Robin van Ettin, kaylab Burrows, Jocelyn Fuller, Rabbi Edward Abramson, and the team at International Fellowship of Christians and Jews.

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