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| The King Who Burned The Word of God |
I am Eliam of the House of Adriel, a scribe in the court of King Jehoiakim. On that winter day, I had been given a simple task: keep the king's fire burning.
And this is the day I learned that a king may burn the scroll, but he cannot destroy the Word.
There are three things a man learns quickly in a king's court: keep your records straight, keep your ears open, and keep your opinions to yourself.
I was particularly skilled at the third.
My father used to say a man's tongue could cause him more trouble than both his feet combined. Considering the number of men I had watched stumble over their own words before the king, I believed him.
So I wrote.
Orders. Accounts. Names. Taxes. Decisions made by men important enough to expect their words preserved long after everyone else had forgotten the conversation.
I understood the value of words.
I also understood their danger.
Especially when they belonged to Jeremiah.
Everyone in Jerusalem knew the prophet's name.
Some called him a man of God. Others called him a traitor who seemed determined to find destruction behind every sunrise.
In the palace, we were more careful.
Walls have ears.
Palaces have considerably more.
Jeremiah had been warning Judah for years. Repent. Turn from evil. Return to the Lord.
Few at court enjoyed hearing it.
King Jehoiakim least of all.
Then came the scroll.
I first heard of it when Micaiah hurried into the palace.
Men who bring ordinary news walk.
Micaiah did not.
He had heard Baruch son of Neriah reading the words of Jeremiah before the people at the house of the Lord.
By the time he finished telling the officials what he had heard, the room had changed.
I had seen powerful men receive reports of approaching armies with less concern.
They sent Jehudi and others to bring Baruch—and the scroll.
I remember watching the door after they left.
“You think it's as bad as Micaiah says?” another scribe whispered beside me.
I dipped my reed into the ink.
“If it isn't, we'll know soon enough.”
“And if it is?”
I looked at him.
“That is why God gave scribes quiet work.”
He stopped asking questions.
When Baruch arrived, he carried the scroll beneath his arm.
Nothing about it looked remarkable.
That bothered me.
Danger should announce itself somehow.
A drawn sword gleams.
An approaching army raises dust.
A scroll simply waits to be opened.
The officials told Baruch to sit and read.
So he did.
Jeremiah's warnings filled the chamber.
Judgment.
Calamity.
A nation refusing to turn from its wickedness.
I watched the men around me.
No one laughed.
No one whispered.
When Baruch finished, the officials looked at one another in fear.
“We must tell the king all these words.”
My stomach tightened.
There are moments when a servant wishes powerful men would reconsider their devotion to duty.
This was one of them.
They questioned Baruch about how the scroll had been written.
“Jeremiah spoke all these words to me,” he told them, “and I wrote them with ink in the book.”
One of the officials leaned forward.
“Go and hide, you and Jeremiah. Let no one know where you are.”
Baruch left without argument.
The scroll did not.
It was placed in the chamber of Elishama the secretary while the officials went to speak with the king.
I stared at it after they had gone.
So much fear contained in rolled parchment.
I wondered whether Jeremiah understood what his words had done to the room.
I would soon learn they had not yet done nearly enough.
Winter had settled over Jerusalem, and the king was sitting in his winter chamber when we were summoned.
A brazier burned before him.
I remember that fire.
Small.
Ordinary.
Necessary against the cold.
The officials told Jehoiakim about the scroll.
The king listened, then ordered Jehudi to bring it.
I stood near the wall as Jehudi returned with Jeremiah's words in his hands.
The room grew still.
Jehudi began to read.
Three or four columns.
That was all.
The king held out his hand.
Someone passed him a scribe's knife.
I knew that knife well. We used blades like it to trim parchment and sharpen reeds.
Tools for creating words.
Jehoiakim used it to destroy them.
He cut the columns from the scroll.
For one foolish moment, I thought he intended to set them aside.
Then he dropped them into the brazier.
The parchment curled.
Ink disappeared beneath orange flame.
No one moved.
Jehudi continued reading.
The king cut again.
Another piece fell.
Then another.
Read.
Cut.
Burn.
I had copied enough documents to know what it took to fill a scroll. Hours bent over parchment. Ink staining the fingers. Eyes aching in poor light. A single careless stroke scraped away and written again.
But this was more than a scribe's labor.
These were the words Jeremiah said the Lord had given him.
And our king was feeding them to the fire.
Elnathan stepped forward.
“My lord, do not burn the scroll.”
Delaiah and Gemariah joined him.
The king would not listen.
I watched the flames consume another section.
No one tore his garments.
No one cried out.
I thought of my father then.
He had served in the court of King Josiah when I was young.
Once, years before, another book had been read before another king.
My father had come home shaken.
“The king tore his clothes when he heard the words of the Lord,” he told us.
I had never forgotten it.
Josiah had torn his garments.
His son tore the scroll.
By the time Jehudi finished reading, nothing remained but ash.
The king ordered Jeremiah and Baruch seized.
They were not found.
And I returned to my work.
That is what servants do when kings behave as though nothing has happened.
We return to our work.
But for the first time in my life, I could not make my hand steady.
Several days passed before I heard the whisper.
I was sorting records when another scribe leaned close.
“Jeremiah has written it again.”
I stopped.
“What?”
“The scroll.”
I stared at him.
“The king burned it.”
“I know.”
“Every word.”
“So I hear.”
I lowered my voice. “Then what did Jeremiah write?”
The man glanced toward the doorway.
“The same words.”
He started to leave, then looked back.
“And more.”
For a long moment, I sat without moving.
Then I laughed.
Quietly, because I was still a man who valued keeping his head attached to his shoulders.
But I laughed.
All that cutting.
All that fire.
All those ashes.
And the words had returned.
I had spent my life believing that a scribe preserved words by putting ink to parchment.
King Jehoiakim believed he could destroy them by putting parchment to flame.
We were both wrong.
The parchment had never been the source of their power.
Years have passed since that winter.
I have copied the commands of kings whose voices are now silent. I have recorded names belonging to men whose bones have long since returned to dust.
Ink fades.
Scrolls crumble.
Kings die.
But I still remember the fire in Jehoiakim's chamber.
And I remember what came after.
The king burned the scroll.
God spoke again.
👑 An Echoes of the Court Story
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