The Prophet: Amos by Francine Rivers Page A

in your hearts.”
    “Be careful what you say. You may find your head on a pole!”
    “Go back to Damascus!”
    The people moved away from Amos, staring, as he cried out, “Go and tell your king what the Lord God has said! Get out of here!”
    People whispered and then began talking. Some called out. Soon, the street was full as people surrounded Amos. Heart pounding, he shouted and raised his staff again. The people let him pass as he strode down the street. He was eager to get away from this place, away from them.
    They called out questions. He didn’t answer.
    “Who is he?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “He looks like a shepherd.”
    “But did you hear him speak!”
    “Just a madman talking.”
    “I’ve never heard a man speak with such authority. Have you?”
    The Lord’s judgment excited them. Hadn’t he felt the same? “Let it come, Lord! Let it come.”
    People shouted from all directions.
    “Did you hear what the prophet said?”
    “Damascus in ruins!”
    “That’s a sight I’d like to see.”
    When it had to do with judgment upon their enemies, why wouldn’t they celebrate? Why not cheer and shout? The Lord had given them words to savor, visions to delight. They listened to His Words.
    Would they keep listening?
    Amos ducked down a side street.
    “Where is he going?”
    “Prophet! Wait! Give us another prophecy.”
    Amos remembered other visions the Lord had shown him and ran. Now was not the time. He must wait upon the Lord. He must wait! Some gave chase. Turning down another street and then another, Amos left them behind. Out of breath, his body shook violently. Emotions warred within him—wrath that made him grind his teeth and groan, anguish that brought a torrent of tears. “Lord, Lord !”
    The wave of emotion crested and ebbed, leaving him drained. He sank against the wall, squatting on his heels. His staff clattered to the packed ground. Still panting, he rested his arms on his raised knees and bowed his head.
    A door opened, and a woman stood staring at him. When he met her gaze, she stepped inside and closed the door.
    Children played in the street.
    A bird chirped from a sprig of hyssop growing from a high wall.
    A man and woman argued across the way.
    Tensing at the sound of running feet, Amos stood. Shouts and curses. Excited laughter. Youths ran past. One spilled a few coins. Their sandals echoed as an angry man came tearing around the corner, pausing long enough to snatch up the dropped coins and take after them again.
    A lattice window opened above him. Amos looked up as a woman leaned out. Dressed in an expensive Babylonian robe, she sipped from a silver goblet. “What are you doing down there?” Not waiting for an answer, she disappeared and a servant appeared at the window and dumped a bowlful of something. Amos barely managed to evade being covered by household slops. The wealthy woman leaned out again and laughed at him.
    Amos found his way to the main gate. A man recognized him and whispered to the elders. He did not stay long enough for anyone to detain him.

    Amos found a small cave in the hills where he could spend the night. The next morning, he waited and prayed until God impelled him to return to Bethel where, as soon as he entered the gate, he heard the buzz of whispers.
    “He’s back! The prophet is back.”
    A young man pressed through the crowd and ran up the street. No one tried to stop Amos or ask questions when he passed through the gate and entered into the city. People followed him to the temple mount and then stood watching, talking behind their hands to one another, eyes eager. He sat on the lowest step of the temple and waited. Someone put a plate down in front of him, and people began putting coins into it. Angry, he kicked it away. With a collective gasp, they drew back and stared. Some quickly retrieved the coins they had offered.
    “The priests are coming. . . .”
    “The priests . . .”
    The young man who had run from the gate came down the