Scripture Stories for Little Saints

Esther 4:14 And who knows if perhaps you have come to the kingdom for such a time as this?” (BSB)

Hadassah lived in a place called Persia. When she was young, her mother and father had died, and so she was raised by her cousin Mordecai. And even though they lived in Persia, they were not actually Persian. They were immigrants. Well, sort of. They had not chosen to come here. Their great-grandparents had been taken out of Jerusalem by an army and plopped here to help build buildings, clean streets, and paint houses. And so while Hadassah and Mordecai lived in Persia and spoke Persian, they were also part of the family of Jacob. And they were called Jews. And while some Jews had returned to rebuild Jerusalem, Hadassah and Mordecai stayed behind. They thought things would be better for them in Persia.
But sometimes Mordecai would talk about their ancestors in Jerusalem and what their life would have been like. He’d tell Hadassah the stories of Ruth, and David, and Moses. But Hadassah didn’t want to look back or care to imagine a world she’d never known. Instead, she looked out the window facing the big, beautiful palace in the center of the city and listened to the giant parties, smelled the huge feasts, heard the loud music, and dreamed of a different life. A better life. A better life for her and for Mordecai. And the best life she could imagine was here in Persia, in that palace.
That’s right, she wanted to be a princess. And who hasn’t imagined being a king or queen, and having a palace with servants? But Hadassah was not just a dreamer. She was a believer. And she trusted that one day she’d get the chance to impress the king, and he’d be so struck by her charm and beauty and wit that he’d fall in love and make her his queen.
And so when the king announced that he was hosting a contest to help him pick his next bride, Hadassah jumped for joy. “It’s going to be me!” she shouted. And people must have thought she was crazy to even try to compete. How could an orphan girl, an immigrant and refugee, become the queen of the most powerful empire in the world? There were lots and lots of perfectly fun, smart, rich, and beautiful Persians who were lined up ahead of her. Why would the king ever pick Hadassah?
Do you remember the princes who refused to eat the Babylonian food or say the Babylonian prayers? That is the opposite of what Hadassah did. She wasn’t going to miss out on her one and only opportunity. She would do anything to win. Hadassah learned to look, smell, dress, eat, and talk like a Persian.
She ate their meat and drank their drinks. She switched her linen and wool clothes for silks and velvet. She did all the fancy baths and beauty treatments. Nothing could stop her. Not naysayers, not poverty, not her ancestry. She’d give up sleep, time, and her own name if she had to. And it turns out she had to. Her name was too… foreign. It wasn’t Persian enough. And so she changed it. She started to call herself Esther, and Mordecai called her Esther, and soon everyone was calling her Esther.
And she learned to walk in high heels, and figured out dresses and colors that complemented her complexion. She practiced applying mascara, foundation, blush, and eyeliner. She learned to tell jokes and laugh loudly but not too loudly, and to eat food without spilling like she was already a princess.
On the day of the competition, as she walked through the doors of the palace, she couldn’t help but gasp. The windows were draped in rich, blue linen tied back with thick silver rings. The floor was made of marble and shells that collected into pictures that told stories all the way down the halls. There was gold and jewels on all the cups and plates, and utensils. It was even more gorgeous than she could have imagined. And she thought, “How could this ever be my home?” And for a moment, she doubted herself. But Mordecai came up behind her and whispered, “You’ve got this,” and that was just what she needed. So Esther took a deep breath and a step forward.
When it was her turn to compete, she walked with confidence. Her hair was thick. Her skin was smooth. Her face was bright. Her clothes were perfect. Her body smelled like jasmine and rose. And as she walked through the palace, she heard the contestants around her whispering together in despair because Esther looked like a queen already. And she smiled, a stunning, radiant smile. She was steps away from a new life. She took a deep breath, then turned down the hallway to see the king.
And the king immediately saw what everyone else had seen already: Esther was going to be the next queen. And so he threw a huge party and put a crown on her head. She had done it. And soon enough, they were married and Esther became a queen, joined a family, and received a country.
It was just like she dreamed. She was given a giant bedroom filled with beautiful things and lots of women to do her hair and draw her baths. Her sheets were made of the most comfortable silk. Her windows were stuffed with flowers. Her dresser was filled with jewels. She had money to spend and influence to wield. This was all even better than she’d imagined.
But in another way, it wasn’t quite what she had hoped. Because living in a palace surrounded by people who take care of you isn’t necessarily the same thing as living in a home with people who care about you. And while the king thought Esther was beautiful, he wasn’t around very much. She was never asked for her opinions about anything important. In fact, she wasn’t even allowed to go and talk to him uninvited. If she came to him with her own ideas, or thoughts, or even just to talk, she’d be kicked out of the palace and maybe even killed.
And so she spent her evenings alone and remembered her time with Mordecai, when he would tell her about life in Jerusalem, and their ancestors, and she felt an emptiness that no throne, or jewel, or wardrobe could fill. And one day, as she was looking out the window, thinking of Mordecai, she saw him. But he wasn’t coming to visit her. He was holding a poster above his head, protesting at the palace gate. Why? Esther sent a servant to find out.
As it turns out, Mordecai had a good reason. The king was planning to drive out the family of Jacob. Even though the Babylonians had taken the family of Jacob from their homes and brought them into their city to do their work, the Persians didn’t want them anymore. There were just too many of them now. They were taking good Persian jobs, joining gangs, and causing crime. They had to get rid of them, one way or another.
Mordecai cried, “You have to stop this!”
Esther swallowed hard. “What can I do about it? I’m Persian now. I’ve changed my clothes and my name, the food I eat, the laws I keep. I don’t belong to the family of Jacob anymore. I never really did.”
“Hadassah,” said Mordecai, “you are still part of the family. You can put on new clothes, change your name, and conquer the whole world, and still you would be part of our family. It’s not something you can get out of. It’s who you are. You did not become queen because you are Persian. You became queen because you’re a Jew. Your strength, your beauty, your determination, those are gifts from your parents. Remember the old story of Ruth, who left her family to take care of her mother-in-law? You are like Ruth to me. Remember David, who was a shepherd boy who became a king? You are like David. And remember Moses, who saved his people even though he didn’t think he could? You are going to need to be like Moses now. Save us.”
And Esther, who had broken every Jewish law, who had worked so hard to become the perfect Persian queen, who had spent months forgetting old habits and learning new manners, decided again to become Hadassah the Jew. She prayed and she fasted. She trusted and hoped. And then she stormed right up to the king and told him who she was. “I am Hadassah, a descendant of Kish, the great-grandson of Benjamin of the family of Jacob. And so if you’re going to get rid of the family of Jacob, I guess you’re going to have to start with me.”
The king was speechless. Esther could hear the servants whispering together. She’d come uninvited. She would be banished for sure, if not killed. But Esther did not die that day. Instead, the king was impressed with her bravery, and the family of Jacob was saved.
And as Esther walked away, she no longer felt lonely or empty or hollow. Instead, she felt something she hadn’t felt in a long time. She felt home. And she ran out to tell Mordecai the good news. She ran out through the large palace doors. She walked through the crowded streets, past mud-brick buildings, along the open sewage lines, to the neighborhood where she’d grown up, into the home where Mordecai was. And as she entered their old, broken-down apartment, she never felt more like a queen.
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Daniel 3:17-18 If this be so, our God whom we serve is able to deliver us from the burning fiery furnace, and he will deliver us out of your hand, O king. But if not, be it known to you, O king, that we will not serve your gods or worship the golden image that you have set up.

The destruction of Jerusalem happened slowly at first, and then all at once. It started with intimidation. The Babylonian army marched all through the city of Jerusalem and waved their glinting swords, and pounded their hard shields, saying, “We are strong! You are weak!” After that, they took the family of Jacob’s money, collecting tributes and taxes. Then they forced the people to speak the Babylonian language and to practice the Babylonian religion. “You are conquered,” they said, “Now you must learn to do things our way.”
And the family of Jacob didn’t like this. They knew that if they stopped speaking their own language and telling their own stories and practicing their own religion, they’d soon forget all about Abraham, Moses, Rebekah, Rachel, and the others. They’d forget they were ever slaves in Egypt or how God delivered them. They’d forget about Adam and Eve, Noah and the rainbow. They’d forget about the angel that came for Ishmael or the promise given to Isaac. They’d forget about how their family was split apart and came back together. They’d forget about water coming out of rocks and manna in the wilderness.
And so the family of Jacob told their children, “We are going to have a rebellion. We’re going to fight back.” This was a very hard decision because Babylon had the most powerful army in the world. And fighting against Babylon meant certain death. But there was something that scared them more than death: extinction.
The parents told their children, “If we die, you will have to carry on without us. You will become the memory keepers. The family of Jacob will live on in you. Our city might be destroyed, but we will continue as long as you keep speaking our language, practicing our religion, and telling our stories.”
And then the parents did something really brave and really dangerous. They took their swords and yelled, “Babylon, we aren’t going to do what you say any longer.”
And the Babylonian army came and beat down the rebellion. The temple was toppled. And the leaders retreated to the palace. But the palace was destroyed, all the leaders were killed, and their children, the princes of Jerusalem, were gathered and tied with ropes, and dragged across the wilderness, over mountains, and back to Babylon.
As they traveled, the children imagined all the terrible things that would happen to them when they arrived in Babylon. Maybe they’d be put into cages or tortured or forced to fight each other or who knows what else. And so they cried and prayed and struggled to sleep, and cried and prayed some more.
But when they arrived in Babylon, they were not thrown into a damp prison or spat on or laughed at. Instead, they were given nice rooms, lots of food, and interesting books to read. And tutors to help them learn the new language. There were playgrounds, friends, pools, and so much to do. They couldn’t believe their luck. This was turning out better than they could have hoped.
But it was not as lucky as it seemed. You see, the Babylonians were trying to distract the children so that they’d forget all about their life in Jerusalem and their families and their language and their traditions. Because although the army had destroyed the city of Jerusalem, Babylon still needed to stamp out the idea of Jerusalem. Until the memory was gone, the city would continue to exist. And as long as it existed, it continued to be a threat. Just the memory of Jerusalem was enough to cause another revolution.
So they gave the princes new Babylonian names. And they fed them Babylonian food and didn’t let them pray to their God, celebrate their holidays, practice their religion, sing their old songs, or tell their stories. And they hoped this would be enough to make the children forget.
But the children did not forget. They remembered their fathers and mothers. Their parents had died to preserve Jerusalem. And now the children carried that memory. They knew that the city, the culture, and the whole family of Jacob were on the brink of extinction. And they were not going to let it go so easily.
And so the children refused to eat the Babylonian food, worship the Babylonian god, or practice the Babylonian traditions. They sang their own songs, celebrated their own holidays, told their own stories, and prayed to their own God. And when the king asked them why they were not fitting into their new life, they said, “Our parents would not approve. We are the memory keepers.”
The king laughed and said, “This is ridiculous. I could have thrown you in prison or had you killed. But instead, I brought you into my own palace and am offering you my own food. I’ve given you books to read, teachers to teach you, and nannies to care for you. I’ve done more for you than your parents ever could. So why worry about what your parents would think? They’re gone. They can’t help you now. But I’m helping you. So show some gratitude.”
But the princes just said, “We are grateful that you didn’t kill us and that you’ve treated us so nicely. But if we don’t honor our parents, live our traditions, tell our stories, and worship our God, we will forget where we came from. And whenever any of us forget, there is one less person keeping it alive.
“You have changed our names, but you cannot change who we are. We are princes of Jerusalem. And we will always be who we were born to be. We did not choose our family, but they are ours, and nothing can replace them. And we cannot deny our beliefs. They are part of us, even if they are not cool or convenient.”
But this only made the king angrier. “You come from a weak family and a silly religion,” he shouted as he tore down some curtains. “Your family couldn’t save itself against my army. None of my soldiers were struck by lightning when they tore your temple down or took your gold. If your God had any power, if he cared at all about your family, he would have stopped my soldiers. But he didn’t. He abandoned your family, and your family abandoned you when they decided to die fighting me. And so here I am trying to raise you to be so much better than them. You are Babylonian now. We are your family, I am your king, and this is your people.” The king gestured wildly out the window.
“My palace is your palace,” he shouted, thumping his fist on the table, “and my god is your god. And this should be really good news for you, because I have a much bigger, better, stronger, longer-lasting tradition than you ever had. So join us, and forget about your silly, backwards upbringing. You’re much better off as a child of Babylon.”
But the princes shook their heads. And this made the king even more furious. So he called in the soldiers, “We can’t keep people around who refuse to be a part of us. We can’t allow other ideas and other loyalties. That’s how rebellions start. That’s how nations fall. The memory of Jerusalem must be killed one way or another. And if you won’t let it die, then we will have to kill you. If that’s what you want, then I’ll throw you in this fire and turn you into ash.”
The soldiers seized the princes as the princes replied, “You might be right. Our God did not save our city. Our family lost the battle. Our people have fallen, our temple is destroyed, our kingdom is in shambles. But we are who we are, and we believe what we believe, and we know what we know. And we remember our parents who died for this memory, and we have the names they gave us. And we believe that our God will save us from the furnace. But if not, we cannot be anyone else but who we are. And we are princes of Jerusalem.”
The king had had enough. He told the soldiers to throw three of the princes into the furnace. And the princes closed their eyes, and prepared to feel their bodies burn up from beneath them. But instead, they felt pleasantly warm. God had come for them. He came for them like he hadn’t come for Jerusalem or their parents or their people. And he saved their lives.
And when the fire didn’t work, the king threw one of the princes into a lion’s den, but the same thing happened. God came for the boy and protected him too. And the king learned that he could not simply replace their families or their names or their faith. And their God was not silly or weak or stupid. Their God was powerful. And their lineage was noble. And while their city was gone, and their people were scattered, and their homes burned, the memory remained strong and clear and bright. And memory is a powerful thing. And with their memory, the family of Jacob continued.
They’d persisted through slavery in Egypt, they’d passed over oceans and deserts, and now through lion’s dens and into a fiery furnace. And somehow, they were a people that kept existing. And the king came to know that this scattered group of people would continue for a thousand thousand years. They’d outlive him and his kingdom. And other kingdoms. They’d become more powerful than any tyrant or dictator. They’d take over the world someday. Not with soldiers, but like a stone rolling down a mountain that hits another stone and another stone and another stone until a landslide cascades and covers the valley below. Or like a forest grows over a mountain, or like snow covers the land with a billion tiny miracles.
Because they knew who they were. They were the family of Jacob, the city of Jerusalem. And that family and its city could never really be destroyed, because it was not built with mortar and stone, but was composed in the sacred places of their hearts. And they carried it with them, tucked beneath their ribs. And they passed it down from parent to child, parent to child.
And it has been passed to you. You may not have chosen this family or this faith. But it is often those things you do not choose that hold onto you when you are cold, that keep you going when you are lonely, and come for you when you are lost. Kings die, and lions are tamed. People’s minds go wild, their bodies give out, and their wealth dries up. But our names remain. And our people and our stories continue. And you are part of that story. You are princes and princesses of Jerusalem. You are memory keepers. The city lives in you. And someday, when there are enough of us, we will bring it back to the earth, and we will pluck it out of our hearts, and place it on the ground. And our memory will cease to be a memory, because it will be the city we live in.
To purchase a hard copy of The Bible Storybook: The Old Testament, visit ForLittleSaints.com
To access the complete audiobook of The Bible Storybook: The Old Testament, become a Friend of Faith Matters by subscribing at FaithMatters.org/subscribe.


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Ezekiel 34:11-12 For the Lord GOD says this: “Behold, I Myself will search for My sheep and look after them. As a shepherd cares for his flock … so I will care for My sheep and will rescue them. (NASB)

Ezekiel was a man on a mission. And his mission was to get a job working in the temple. He had spent fifteen years studying to become a temple priest, which is longer than all the years of elementary, middle, and high school combined. He was so close to finishing his education and was just about to start his new career the moment he turned thirty. But before he came of age, the Babylonians arrived and everything changed.
It was sort of like leaving one school in the middle of the year and starting all over at another one. Only it was worse, a lot worse. Because Ezekiel wasn’t just switching schools or moving with his family to a new town to start a new job. He was taken away from his home by an actual army that bound his arms and made him walk hundreds of miles.
And what he saw along the road to Babylon gave him nightmares. The soldiers were not only strong but also cruel. He’d seen them let women and children starve to death. They threw rocks to hurt people and spat on them, and called them names. And so by the time Ezekiel arrived in Babylon, he already hated it.
But Ezekiel wasn’t just angry with Babylon. He was angry with his own people, too. He thought the family of Jacob had brought this tragedy upon themselves. There were warnings, so many warnings. There were prophets, so many prophets. All they had to do was listen and be better, and this would never have happened. But they didn’t listen, and they weren’t better. The family of Jacob fought and lied and cheated and oppressed the poor and worshiped idols and broke God’s commandments over and over again.
And so it was no wonder that God had not protected them from Babylon. Why would he? They were not wonderful. They were not even special. They were just normal, rotten, selfish people, like everyone else.
And so one day in Babylon, while Ezekiel was feeling particularly sad about everything, he went for a walk, sat against a tree by the side of a river, and cried. You see, he was sad because it was his thirtieth birthday, and no one was there to give him a cake or light candles. And as he cried, he imagined what he would be doing if he were back home.
He’d be preparing for his first day as a priest at the temple. It would have been the culmination of all his work, study, and effort. And people would come to see him perform the rituals. And they’d clap and maybe talk about what it all means and how it points to God.
But now, he’d never present anything for anybody. Now, he was a stranger in a strange land with no ritual to perform and no temple to perform it in. And as he was crying and feeling sad, that sadness seeped into his body, and he must have fallen asleep because he started to dream. And in his dream God spoke to him.
And even though it was just a dream, it felt real, so real. More real than any dream he’d ever had. Ezekiel felt warm, bright, powerful, and loved, just like you feel on your birthday when your family gathers round to sing you a song. And when Ezekiel woke up, he thought that it must have been sort of close to an approximation of what it might kind of have felt like to have been a priest at the temple, basking in the warmth of God’s presence.
And Ezekiel woke from that dream with a new hope for the future and a new vision for himself. Maybe he would never be a priest at the temple, but that didn’t mean he’d never perform for a crowd. So that night, Ezekiel began to pray to God for inspiration, and God inspired him to write plays — small one-man performances he could do on a street corner. And people came to see this new, first-of-its-kind entertainment.
Ezekiel started with something simple. He began by building a miniature set of Jerusalem, and then just as he finished the model, he tore it apart. It was dramatic and shocking, and the message was straightforward. The people clapped and talked together about the symbolism. And for a moment, Ezekiel smiled.
Inspired by his success, he tried something more daring. It was a long-form public art performance. It went like this: Ezekiel lay on his side, ate food cooked over dried dung, and kept doing this for weeks and weeks. The commitment to his art brought new crowds who came to see just how long he could keep doing this. But as the performance dragged on, as the weeks stretched into months, the audience dwindled.
So Ezekiel returned to a more traditional length while incorporating the personal commitment that had become the hallmark of his art. He was his own canvas, his own puppet, his own prop. This time, he shaved the hair off his head and then cut that hair into little pieces, and threw the pieces in the wind. Everyone watched as the hair dispersed into a million shards over Babylon. And the people wondered at how quickly it all disappeared. And then they thought about how they were like that hair, scattered over the earth. Whatever it all meant, they enjoyed how it made them think.
Then, Ezekiel decided to try a surprise performance. Just as the sun was setting, he broke out of the side of his home and ran away into the night. It was a hit. The people cheered and talked for a long time about what it might have meant. “I guess we will never know,” they said. But to Ezekiel, the art communicated a clear message, so he came back and told them what the play had symbolized.
And in all his performances, Ezekiel reminded the people about Jerusalem. He wanted them to remember where they had come from, because he had dreams of going back someday and rebuilding the city: the homes, the streets, and of course the temple. Except in his dreams, it was all newer and bigger and prettier than it had ever been. And the people were better, too, better than the family of Jacob had ever been.
And in his dream city, Ezekiel saw a river coming out of the temple. And the river spread across the world. And as it spread, the water healed oceans and brought trees, and fish, and life wherever it went. And the river was growing ever wider and deeper. First to the ankles, then to the knees, then hips, then chest, and finally too deep to do anything but swim.
And Ezekiel called his dream city, “The Lord is There,” because that’s what he hoped for more than anything. He wanted to feel it again. That feeling he had beside the river, on his thirtieth birthday. Even if it was just sort of close to an approximation of what it might kind of be like to be with God, it was enough.
And I wonder if maybe, just maybe, Ezekiel did not just dream God was with him on his birthday when he was sad and all alone. Maybe it really was God. Maybe it was more than an approximation of sort of what it might kind of have been like at the temple in Jerusalem. Maybe God followed the family of Jacob out of the temple, through Jerusalem, and all the way to Babylon.
Maybe God wasn’t trapped in a past golden age or some future paradise. Maybe God was not just the God of beautifully perfect people. Maybe he didn’t just care about the most righteous and most deserving. Maybe he even cared about the people who were only just approaching an estimation of being kind of close to good enough. Maybe even dried bones were not beyond his reach. Maybe he was coming for the family of Jacob. Maybe he already had. Maybe he was there now, weeping with them by the rivers of Babylon.
To purchase a hard copy of The Bible Storybook: The Old Testament, visit ForLittleSaints.com
To access the complete audiobook of The Bible Storybook: The Old Testament, become a Friend of Faith Matters by subscribing at FaithMatters.org/subscribe.


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Isaiah 35:10 And the ransomed of the Lord shall return, and come to Zion with songs and everlasting joy upon their heads: they shall obtain joy and gladness, and sorrow and sighing shall flee away. (KJV)

Isaiah was a prophet who foresaw that in just a few generations, Babylon would come to destroy Jerusalem and topple the temple. And, in truth, Isaiah felt it was about time. The temple had been opened and closed and robbed and humiliated. The rich people were taking advantage of the poor people and then showing up to the temple to be forgiven instead of making things right.
And so maybe it was a good thing that the city was going to be destroyed and the temple was going to be torn down. Because in a way, it already was. To Isaiah, the temple was a pile of rubble long before the Babylonian army would ever arrive. It was no longer the palace of justice or an anchor of humility or a pillar of community that it had once been.
But as he was taking one last look and getting ready to say goodbye, he noticed a small light. There was still something, a remaining beauty. Like the embers of a fire. And Isaiah wanted to grab the ember, to feel if it was hot, to understand how it remained after all this time and through all this wickedness. As he looked at it, it seemed to burn brighter and hotter. Brighter than he could have ever believed possible.
And then he understood. The corruption, the selfishness, and pride, everything that is ugly and vile and bad about people, only made the goodness of God burn brighter, like night uncovering the stars. The worse the people became, the more marvelous God’s generosity shone. And Isaiah understood that while the building was doomed to become a rubble pile, that didn’t mean the temple would be totally destroyed. God had existed here all this time, through all their mistakes and selfishness, and he’d continue to exist after Babylon.
And so Isaiah took the charcoal and opened a notebook, and used the charcoal like a pencil to write about the amazing persistence of God. He wrote about his charity and grace and forgiveness that burned brighter and brighter, even as the people became worse and worse. He wrote about God’s commitment and promises. And he wrote about a future day when Jerusalem would return.
Because Jerusalem was not just a city they called home. It was supposed to be the City of God, which was more than a city. It was a piece of heaven on earth. A place where people lived together in love and mercy and justice. Where there was no crime and no reason for crime. Where people who became poor were raised out of poverty. Where women who lost their husbands were cared for. Where people who got sick were healed. Where children were loved and cherished. Where people didn’t fight, or steal, or hate. Where people worked and laughed and lived together in a community that really was a community.
It was a big idea. Maybe an impossibly big idea. But Isaiah still believed in it. Because it was also more than an idea. It was a mission, given to them from God. It was the project of making a place where God and his people could be together. And at the center of the city was the temple, the place where heaven and earth touched. And God could come down and live with them there. And they would be his people, and he would be their God.
And Isaiah wrote about God’s temple, his kindness, his persistence, and everything else he could think of. And he wrote as beautifully and powerfully as he could, filling his pages with poetry and promises and descriptions of God. And some people read his writings, and the words were so beautiful that the people began to cry.
And they thought, “Maybe Isaiah is right. Maybe the city and the temple were about to be destroyed. But maybe that didn’t have to be the end. Maybe,” they thought, “God can stay even after everything is burnt and ruined and destroyed. Even when we don’t have a tent or a temple, maybe God can still live in our stories. Maybe we can keep a sliver of God with us the same way we keep a flower, pressed between the pages of a book.”
And so before the Babylonians came, Isaiah’s readers gathered all his writings and all the other prophets’ sermons and the family histories. They called it Project Emmanuel, which means “God with us.” And they put all the sermons and stories together in a book, and they left blank pages at the end for more. And when the Babylonians came and destroyed the city, when they toppled the temple and carried the people away into new towns and new civilizations, the people took the book with them.
And they would read the stories together at night. And the characters created constellations in their minds so that wherever they traveled, they could know where they were and who they were and whose they were. And this is how they carried God with them. They heard echoes of God in their stories. And they learned from their stories how to be God’s people.
When they were hungry, they read about manna. When they were thirsty, they read about Rebekah at the well. When they were angry, they read about Jacob and Esau. When they were lonely and thought God had forgotten all about them, they read about Hagar. When they were weak and insecure, they read about Moses and Aaron. And whatever they read, they read about God.
And this is how they persisted. This is how their embers continued to burn. This is how they remained a people and maintained their mission.
And the mission was a new Jerusalem. Someday they would return. They’d rebuild the city and its temple, and God could come out from the pages of their stories and live in his temple once more. And the people would try again to create the City of God. But they’d do it better this time, armed with experience and everything they had learned from the book.
And when they had done it, when they finally created a city where everyone was free, and kind, and cared for, and happy, the people would call the city Zion. Because Zion is the city where God lives. And it’s always under renovation. A new neighborhood here, a new road there. It is growing, expanding, reaching outwards towards the entire world. And one day, the oceans will be its highways, and all ports will be its entrances, and every person everywhere will live and thrive in the city Zion. And on that day, earth and heaven will come together. And God will walk out from his temple and breathe the fresh air. And his breath will bless the flowers and bushes and cheeks of the people. And his shoulders will hold up parliaments. And his feet will walk the streets.
Which is to say, the temple will no longer be on Zion or in Zion. But Zion will be the temple. And on that day, the stars will be its vaulted ceilings and the forests and the mountains its rooms. And angels and people will sing new songs. And everyone, everywhere, angels, people, and even God, will call it home.
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Hosea 2:19-20 And I will take you for my wife for ever; I will take you for my wife in righteousness and in justice, in steadfast love, and in mercy. I will take you for my wife in faithfulness; and you shall know the LORD. (NRSV)

Once there was a woman named Gomer and a man named Hosea. And while we don’t know how they met, I imagine it went something like this.
Hosea was a serious young man who spent his time studying the scriptures. And then studying what smart people had said about the scriptures. And then studying what smart people had said about what smart people had said about the scriptures. He was not going to be just another priest. He was going to be a great priest. He was going to be the head priest. Who knows, maybe even a prophet.
But then one day, Hosea met a girl named Gomer. She was different. Gomer didn’t sit around reading or think too much about what was the right thing to do. Instead, she did whatever seemed right in the moment. When Gomer saw the man at the fruit stand throw away apples with small bruises, Gomer stole them and gave them to a few homeless women on the corner. When there was bad traffic and someone swerved right in front of her, Gomer swore. Loudly. And she didn’t even feel bad about it.
So in a way, Gomer and Hosea couldn’t have been more different. Hosea was careful and deliberate, while Gomer was impulsive and passionate. But sometimes opposites attract. And when Gomer and Hosea met, they fell in love. And while Hosea worried about Gomer’s impulsive behaviors and unpredictability, that was also what he liked about her. She was beautiful like a flower is beautiful because it only lasts a moment. It was here and now and precious because it would be gone later.
But the story of Hosea and Gomer is not about their romance. It’s about their marriage falling apart. And we don’t know much about how it happened, but here’s what I imagine. Gomer was Gomer. She was too busy going here and there to stop and make dinners, or do dishes, or clean her own clothes. And Hosea was Hosea. And so he worked and earned money, and then made food, and did dishes, and then laundry.
Gomer’s choices created a lot of problems for Hosea. Sometimes she’d show up happy and silly and flirty, and Hosea would feel swept off his feet. But other times she wouldn’t show up at all. And Hosea would eat the dinner he’d made all by himself, only to find out that Gomer was out gambling or smoking or worse.
And as time passed, Gomer showed up less and less. And Hosea ate, cleaned, worked by himself, and felt alone, abandoned, and betrayed. And he started to hate Gomer. And when she was around, she no longer looked beautiful to him at all. In fact, he thought she looked plain and a little ugly. Her nose had a weird shape. And she had bad breath and did annoying things like chewing ice. He didn’t know what he’d ever seen in her.
And Gomer was also disappointed. Hosea was totally predictable. She wanted something new, someone willing to put down his books and climb a mountain. Someone who could say something unexpected and make her laugh. She was stuck in her marriage and wanted out. There was nothing new to learn, nothing new to do, nothing for them to even talk about.
And that’s how I imagine the marriage came to the brink of destruction. Hosea wanted a divorce, and Gomer was acting as if she were divorced already. And that’s what this story is really about. It’s about a marriage that was almost over, and what happened next.
Hosea prayed to God and apologized for his shortsightedness. He should never have married someone so inconsistent, unpredictable, and selfish. He’d been bewitched by her beauty and spontaneity, but he should have known better. Beauty was so temporary. Spontaneity had big downsides. He should have married someone else, someone better.
Hosea asked God what to do about his silly, stupid mistake. Should he get a divorce? And he thought he knew what God would say: “Of course! You should never have married Gomer. Find someone else who will be truer and better. Don’t look for beauty, look for goodness and agreeability. Don’t look for romance, look for righteousness.”
But that’s not what happened. Instead, God related with Hosea. “I have been there,” God said. “And it’s hard. It hurts. It’s embarrassing and heartbreaking and tiring. And because of that, you think your love is over, you think it’s dead or dying, or never really existed in the first place. But that’s not true. It wasn’t a mirage. It was real. And though it seems dead, it is just sleeping.”
And then God made Hosea a promise. “Don’t despair because what used to feel new can feel new again, but not in the same way. You cannot get back what you had. And that’s not what you’d want anyway. You’ve already experienced love that is young. Now you have a chance to know a love that is old. Gomer is seeking a new love, but you must show her a love that can age. Not the excitement of what could be, but the reality of what is.
“Some marriages will end, but yours is not over. You can still choose each other. So go back to her. Tell her you have a surprise for her. Tell her you love her now and you will love her always. And tell her that she can travel the world if she must. But when she is ready, tell her to come home. And you will be waiting for her. You will have a warm meal cooked, the candle lit, and the table set. And when she comes, you will eat together and start a new adventure. One that never ends. One that grows older and older without dying. One that is both now and forever. A beauty that does not dim, a love that gets stronger and stronger until not even death can separate it. A love, like an arrow, that you shoot in the sky and never comes down, but goes on and on and on, until it reaches heaven.
“And I know it is possible,” God said, “because that is how I have been loving you and all of my children all along. I am here waiting. The meal is prepared, the meat is tender, and the table is set. All that is missing is you. So, when you are ready, come home. Come to me. And we will sit and eat.”
To purchase a hard copy of The Bible Storybook: The Old Testament, visit ForLittleSaints.com
To access the complete audiobook of The Bible Storybook: The Old Testament, become a Friend of Faith Matters by subscribing at FaithMatters.org/subscribe.


This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.faithmatters.org/subscribe