By now Balaam realized that God wanted to bless Israel. So he didn’t work in any sorcery as he had done earlier. He turned and looked out over the wilderness. As Balaam looked, he saw Israel camped tribe by tribe. The Spirit of God came on him, and he spoke his oracle-message: Decree of Balaam son of Beor, yes, decree of a man with 20/20 vision; Decree of a man who hears God speak, who sees what The Strong God shows him, Who falls on his face in worship, who sees what’s really going on. What beautiful tents, Jacob, oh, your homes, Israel! Like valleys stretching out in the distance, like gardens planted by rivers, Like sweet herbs planted by the gardener God, like red cedars by pools and springs, Their buckets will brim with water, their seed will spread life everywhere. Their king will tower over Agag and his ilk, their kingdom surpassingly majestic. God brought them out of Egypt, rampaging like a wild ox, Gulping enemies like morsels of meat, crushing their bones, snapping their arrows. Israel crouches like a lion and naps, king-of-the-beasts—who dares disturb him? Whoever blesses you is blessed, whoever curses you is cursed.

Do to them what you did to Midian, to Sisera and Jabin at Kishon Brook; They came to a bad end at Endor, nothing but dung for the garden. Cut down their leaders as you did Oreb and Zeeb, their princes to nothings like Zebah and Zalmunna, With their empty brags, “We’re grabbing it all, grabbing God’s gardens for ourselves.”

I Never Said No to Myself

Oh, I did great things: built houses, planted vineyards, designed gardens and parks and planted a variety of fruit trees in them, made pools of water to irrigate the groves of trees. I bought slaves, male and female, who had children, giving me even more slaves; then I acquired large herds and flocks, larger than any before me in Jerusalem. I piled up silver and gold, loot from kings and kingdoms. I gathered a chorus of singers to entertain me with song, and—most exquisite of all pleasures— voluptuous maidens for my bed.

Oh, lady of the gardens, my friends are with me listening. Let me hear your voice!

This Decree, therefore, of the Master, God-of-the-Angel-Armies, the Strong One of Israel: “This is it! I’ll get my oppressors off my back. I’ll get back at my enemies. I’ll give you the back of my hand, purge the junk from your life, clean you up. I’ll set honest judges and wise counselors among you just like it was back in the beginning. Then you’ll be renamed City-That-Treats-People-Right, the True-Blue City.” God’s right ways will put Zion right again. God’s right actions will restore her prodigals. But it’s curtains for rebels and God-traitors, a dead end for those who walk out on God. “Your dalliances in those oak grove shrines will leave you looking mighty foolish, All that fooling around in god and goddess gardens that you thought was the latest thing. You’ll end up like an oak tree with all its leaves falling off, Like an unwatered garden, withered and brown. ‘The Strong Man’ will turn out to be dead bark and twigs, and his ‘work,’ the spark that starts the fire That exposes man and work both as nothing but cinders and smoke.”

But that’s not the end of it. This country that used to be covered with fine vineyards—thousands of them, worth millions!—will revert to a weed patch. Weeds and thornbushes everywhere! Good for nothing except, perhaps, hunting rabbits. Cattle and sheep will forage as best they can in the fields of weeds—but there won’t be a trace of all those fertile and well-tended gardens and fields. * * *

Does an ax take over from the one who swings it? Does a saw act more important than the sawyer? As if a shovel did its shoveling by using a ditch digger! As if a hammer used the carpenter to pound nails! Therefore the Master, God-of-the-Angel-Armies, will send a debilitating disease on his robust Assyrian fighters. Under the canopy of God’s bright glory a fierce fire will break out. Israel’s Light will burst into a conflagration. The Holy will explode into a firestorm, And in one day burn to cinders every last Assyrian thornbush. God will destroy the splendid trees and lush gardens. The Assyrian body and soul will waste away to nothing like a disease-ridden invalid. A child could count what’s left of the trees on the fingers of his two hands. * * *

And then before you know it, and without you having anything to do with it, Wasted Lebanon will be transformed into lush gardens, and Mount Carmel reforested. At that time the deaf will hear word-for-word what’s been written. After a lifetime in the dark, the blind will see. The castoffs of society will be laughing and dancing in God, the down-and-outs shouting praise to The Holy of Israel. For there’ll be no more gangs on the street. Cynical scoffers will be an extinct species. Those who never missed a chance to hurt or demean will never be heard of again: Gone the people who corrupted the courts, gone the people who cheated the poor, gone the people who victimized the innocent.

Safe Houses, Quiet Gardens

But look! A king will rule in the right way, and his leaders will carry out justice. Each one will stand as a shelter from high winds, provide safe cover in stormy weather. Each will be cool running water in parched land, a huge granite outcrop giving shade in the desert. Anyone who looks will see, anyone who listens will hear. The impulsive will make sound decisions, the tongue-tied will speak with eloquence. No more will fools become celebrities, nor crooks be rewarded with fame. For fools are fools and that’s that, thinking up new ways to do mischief. They leave a wake of wrecked lives and lies about God, Turning their backs on the homeless hungry, ignoring those dying of thirst in the streets. And the crooks? Underhanded sneaks they are, inventive in sin and scandal, Exploiting the poor with scams and lies, unmoved by the victimized poor. But those who are noble make noble plans, and stand for what is noble. * * *

Take your stand, idle women! Listen to me! Indulgent, idle women, listen closely to what I have to say. In just a little over a year from now, you’ll be shaken out of your lazy lives. The grape harvest will fail, and there’ll be no fruit on the trees. Oh tremble, you idle women. Get serious, you pampered dolls! Strip down and discard your silk fineries. Put on funeral clothes. Shed honest tears for the lost harvest, the failed vintage. Weep for my people’s gardens and farms that grow nothing but thistles and thornbushes. Cry tears, real tears, for the happy homes no longer happy, the merry city no longer merry. The royal palace is deserted, the bustling city quiet as a morgue, The emptied parks and playgrounds taken over by wild animals, delighted with their new home.

Yes, weep and grieve until the Spirit is poured down on us from above And the badlands desert grows crops and the fertile fields become forests. Justice will move into the badlands desert. Right will build a home in the fertile field. And where there’s Right, there’ll be Peace and the progeny of Right: quiet lives and endless trust. My people will live in a peaceful neighborhood— in safe houses, in quiet gardens. The forest of your pride will be clear-cut, the city showing off your power leveled. But you will enjoy a fortunate life, planting well-watered fields and gardens, with your farm animals grazing freely.

Still, God, you are our Father. We’re the clay and you’re our potter: All of us are what you made us. Don’t be too angry with us, O God. Don’t keep a permanent account of wrongdoing. Keep in mind, please, we are your people—all of us. Your holy cities are all ghost towns: Zion’s a ghost town, Jerusalem’s a field of weeds. Our holy and beautiful Temple, which our ancestors filled with your praises, Was burned down by fire, all our lovely parks and gardens in ruins. In the face of all this, are you going to sit there unmoved, God? Aren’t you going to say something? Haven’t you made us miserable long enough?

“Build houses and make yourselves at home. “Put in gardens and eat what grows in that country.

“So why haven’t you done anything about muzzling Jeremiah of Anathoth, who’s going around posing as a prophet? He’s gone so far as to write to us in Babylon, ‘It’s going to be a long exile, so build houses and make yourselves at home. Plant gardens and prepare Babylonian recipes.’”

But they wouldn’t do it. “We don’t drink wine,” they said. “Our ancestor Jonadab son of Recab commanded us, ‘You are not to drink wine, you or your children, ever. Neither shall you build houses or settle down, planting fields and gardens and vineyards. Don’t own property. Live in tents as nomads so that you will live well and prosper in a wandering life.’

“And we’ve done it, done everything Jonadab son of Recab commanded. We and our wives, our sons and daughters, drink no wine at all. We don’t build houses. We don’t have vineyards or fields or gardens. We live in tents as nomads. We’ve listened to our ancestor Jonadab and we’ve done everything he commanded us.

“‘No longer will they be exploited by outsiders and ravaged by fierce beasts. They’ll live safe and sound, fearless and free. I’ll give them rich gardens, lavish in vegetables—no more living half-starved, no longer taunted by outsiders.

Wild Weekends and Unholy Holidays

“Haul your mother into court. Accuse her! She’s no longer my wife. I’m no longer her husband. Tell her to quit dressing like a whore, displaying her breasts for sale. If she refuses, I’ll rip off her clothes and expose her, naked as a newborn. I’ll turn her skin into dried-out leather, her body into a badlands landscape, a rack of bones in the desert. I’ll have nothing to do with her children, born one and all in a whorehouse. Face it: Your mother’s been a whore, bringing bastard children into the world. She said, ‘I’m off to see my lovers! They’ll wine and dine me, Dress and caress me, perfume and adorn me!’ But I’ll fix her: I’ll dump her in a field of thistles, then lose her in a dead-end alley. She’ll go on the hunt for her lovers but not bring down a single one. She’ll look high and low but won’t find a one. Then she’ll say, ‘I’m going back to my husband, the one I started out with. That was a better life by far than this one.’ She didn’t know that it was I all along who wined and dined and adorned her, That I was the one who dressed her up in the big-city fashions and jewelry that she wasted on wild Baal-orgies. I’m about to bring her up short: No more wining and dining! Silk lingerie and gowns are a thing of the past. I’ll expose her genitals to the public. All her fly-by-night lovers will be helpless to help her. Party time is over. I’m calling a halt to the whole business, her wild weekends and unholy holidays. I’ll wreck her sumptuous gardens and ornamental fountains, of which she bragged, ‘Whoring paid for all this!’ They will soon be dumping grounds for garbage, feeding grounds for stray dogs and cats. I’ll make her pay for her indulgence in promiscuous religion— all that sensuous Baal worship And all the promiscuous sex that went with it, stalking her lovers, dressed to kill, And not a thought for me.” God’s Message!

“But not so fast! I’m God, your God! Your God from the days in Egypt! I’m going to put you back to living in tents, as in the old days when you worshiped in the wilderness. I speak through the prophets to give clear pictures of the way things are. Using prophets, I tell revealing stories. I show Gilead rampant with religious scandal and Gilgal teeming with empty-headed religion. I expose their worship centers as stinking piles of garbage in their gardens.”

Milk Rivering out of the Hills

“What a day! Wine streaming off the mountains, Milk rivering out of the hills, water flowing everywhere in Judah, A fountain pouring out of God’s Sanctuary, watering all the parks and gardens! But Egypt will be reduced to weeds in a vacant lot, Edom turned into barren badlands, All because of brutalities to the Judean people, the atrocities and murders of helpless innocents. Meanwhile, Judah will be filled with people, Jerusalem inhabited forever. The sins I haven’t already forgiven, I’ll forgive.” God has moved into Zion for good.

“I hit your crops with disease and withered your orchards and gardens. Locusts devoured your olive and fig trees, but you continued to ignore me.” God’s Decree.

“Yes indeed, it won’t be long now.” God’s Decree. “Things are going to happen so fast your head will swim, one thing fast on the heels of the other. You won’t be able to keep up. Everything will be happening at once—and everywhere you look, blessings! Blessings like wine pouring off the mountains and hills. I’ll make everything right again for my people Israel: “They’ll rebuild their ruined cities. They’ll plant vineyards and drink good wine. They’ll work their gardens and eat fresh vegetables. And I’ll plant them, plant them on their own land. They’ll never again be uprooted from the land I’ve given them.” God, your God, says so.

Then God said: “Here’s what I want you to do: Climb into the hills and cut some timber. Bring it down and rebuild the Temple. Do it just for me. Honor me. You’ve had great ambitions for yourselves, but nothing has come of it. The little you have brought to my Temple I’ve blown away—there was nothing to it. “And why?” (This is a Message from God-of-the-Angel-Armies, remember.) “Because while you’ve run around, caught up with taking care of your own houses, my Home is in ruins. That’s why. Because of your stinginess. And so I’ve given you a dry summer and a meager crop. I’ve matched your tight-fisted stinginess by decreeing a season of drought, drying up fields and hills, withering gardens and orchards, stunting vegetables and fruit. Nothing—not man or woman, not animal or crop—is going to thrive.” * * *

“But things have changed. I’m taking the side of my core of surviving people: Sowing and harvesting will resume, Vines will grow grapes, Gardens will flourish, Dew and rain will make everything green. “My core survivors will get everything they need—and more. You’ve gotten a reputation as a bad-news people, you people of Judah and Israel, but I’m coming to save you. From now on, you’re the good-news people. Don’t be afraid. Keep a firm grip on what I’m doing.”

“Begin by being honest. Do honest people rob God? But you rob me day after day. “You ask, ‘How have we robbed you?’ “The tithe and the offering—that’s how! And now you’re under a curse—the whole lot of you—because you’re robbing me. Bring your full tithe to the Temple treasury so there will be ample provisions in my Temple. Test me in this and see if I don’t open up heaven itself to you and pour out blessings beyond your wildest dreams. For my part, I will defend you against marauders, protect your wheat fields and vegetable gardens against plunderers.” The Message of God-of-the-Angel-Armies.