The Prophet: Amos by Francine Rivers Page B

steps with two priests. Amos did not stand for them. They murmured to one another and then stood between him and the people.
    The taller priest spoke quietly. “You stirred the people yesterday with your prophecy against Damascus.”
    Some people edged closer, faces rapt and eager.
    Amos looked from them to the priests. He rested his staff across his knees. “These people are easily stirred.”
    “We would like to talk with you, Prophet, hear what you have to say.” The tall priest glanced pointedly toward the men and women closing in. “Perhaps you prefer somewhere more private.”
    “Ask what you will here and now, though I probably will not be able to answer.”
    “What is your name?”
    “Amos.” He had never given much thought to his name, but now he wondered if God had caused his parents to give it to him: “burden bearer.” His heart was truly burdened with the task God had given him, burdened even more by the visions he carried in his mind.
    “And your village?”
    “Tekoa.”
    People whispered, murmured.
    “You are Judean.”
    “Yes, and God has called me here to speak His Word.”
    “What else would God have you say to us?”
    “I speak in His time, not mine.”
    “Your prophecy against Damascus is well received. We all gave thanks to God yesterday. We would have invited you to speak again, but you disappeared. Where did you go?”
    “Out into the hills.”
    “You should have shelter.”
    “The Lord is my shelter.”
    “Come, Prophet. Join us inside the temple. We have room for you here. We will worship together.”
    Heat filled Amos’s face. He had no intention of being drawn inside that vile place. “I will come and sit here and wait upon the Lord.”
    Dark eyes glinted, smooth words were murmured. “As you wish.” They bowed in respect and went back up the steps. The man who had reported Amos’s arrival remained outside. He insinuated himself among the watchers. Two temple guards came down and took positions. Amos smiled faintly.
    The morning passed slowly. People drifted away. When Amos was thirsty, he lifted his skin of water to his lips. When he was hungry, he took grain and raisins from his scrip.
    The guards sought shade. Others came to take their place.
    Amos left as the sun was setting, but he returned the next day and the next, and the next after that. His tongue felt like a weight in his mouth. Day after day, he watched the people of Bethel live their lives, cheat one another, seek the solace of prostitutes, and give their offerings to idols. He waited and prayed. And people forgot about him.
    When he came one morning, Philistines stood in the gate. Backs straight, heads high, they spoke to the elders who deferred to them nervously.
    Fire flooded Amos’s blood, and the quickening of the Holy Spirit took hold.
    “This is what the Lord says.” He strode toward them. “The people of Gaza have sinned again and again, and I will not let them go unpunished! They sent whole villages into exile, selling them as slaves to Edom. So I will send down fire on the walls of Gaza, and all its fortresses will be destroyed.”
    Fury spread across the faces of the Philistines. Two drew swords.
    Amos blocked one with his club and used his staff to yank the other man around and pitch him to the ground. Swords clattered on the stones. When the fallen warrior tried to rise, Amos slammed his heel on his back. He sent the other crashing against a wall.
    “ This is what the Lord says!” His voice thundered in the gate. “I will slaughter the people of Ashdod and destroy the king of Ashkelon. Then I will turn to attack Ekron, and the few Philistines still left will be killed.” He lifted his foot and stepped back so the fallen man could scramble to his feet. “Go back!” He drove them from the gate. “Go and take the Word of the Lord with you to your king.”
    Pandemonium reigned. A crowd surrounded Amos. People pressed in upon him from all sides. Strangely, he felt no fear, no desire to run