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- [00:00]
Narrator
Previously on the Chosen People. The siege arrived like a slow mounting tide. King Nebuchadnezzar was patient, inevitable. Take them. The army of Babylon was released like wolves. Every corner of the city was ransacked. Men were killed, priests were put on pikes. And the monuments to Judah's former greatness were burnt to a crisp. The work of Solomon Ashes. The legacy of David rubble. Nebuchadnezzar knew better than to simply subjugate a people. He wanted them to lose all sense of culture and history. He wanted their heritage diluted and their heroes forgotten. For I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord. Plans to prosper you and not to harm you. Plans to give you hope and a future. And somewhere in the temple, once the footstool of the Most High, the smoke no longer rose because the covenant had been broken not just once, but a thousand times. But the God of Jacob was still watching, waiting.
- [01:25]
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- [01:30]
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- [02:01]
Yael Eckstein
Shalom, my friends. From here in the Holy Land of Israel, I'm Yael Eckstein with International Fellowship of Christians and Jews and welcome to the Chosen People. Each day we'll hear a dramatic story inspired by the Bible. Stories filled with timeless lessons of faith, love and the meaning of life. Through Israel's story, we will find this truth that we are all chosen for something great. So take a moment today to follow the podcast. If you're feeling extra grateful for these stories, we would love it if you left us a review. I read every single one of them. And if you're interested in hearing more about the prophetic life saving work of the Fellowship, you can visit ifcj.org Lets begin.
- [02:49]
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- [03:20]
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- [04:52]
Narrator
There was a moment, a flicker of mercy, a single breath suspended between empire and annihilation. It was the moment when King Zedekiah could have listened to the Lord. He could have bent, could have lived. But Judah's final king, like everyone before him, had confused humility with humiliation. Underneath his borrowed crown and ceremonial robes, he was afraid. Afraid of Nebuchadnezzar, afraid of the Lord, afraid of Jeremiah's father voice, afraid to act and more, afraid to be still. He ruled for 11 years, not with wisdom, not with tyranny, but with crippling indecision. His reign was a slow, passive descent into doom. In the half lit palace hall, torchlight flickered off golden columns. No one polished anymore. The walls echoed with the absence of faith. Zedekiah paced, each step heavier than the last. His eyes were ringed with sleeplessness, his movements staccato with anxiety. The few advisors who hadn't fled or defected stood in a line, hollow eyed and tight lipped, as if their very presence could be held against them. We can't keep babbling to Gah. We can't keep bowing. Bowing to Babylon. Babylon. We want what's left of our people. Restless. We must act. We must act, my Lord.
- [06:40]
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Rebellion means death.
- [06:42]
Narrator
Nebuchadnezzar does not know Mercy. But the. But. But the Lord. But the Lord does. Perhaps he will, Deli. He will deliver us. We're so far gone. If the Lord was to act, wouldn't he have already? The words were heavy. No one said anything after that. Beneath the palace, beneath the streets, beneath even the prayers, there was a pit. Not a prison, a tomb with air, a hole carved into the shame of a nation that could no longer hear its own prophet. At the bottom of that pit lay the prophet Jeremiah, broken but unbent, muttering scripture and warnings in equal measure. His wrists were bruised from rope, his lips cracked from thirst, but the fire in his bones was lit and refused to be put out. He leaned his head against the cold stone, sighing, another prayer. Then from above, a voice sneered into the dark.
- [07:50]
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Still alive down there, pray, prophet?
- [07:52]
Narrator
Still alive, still prophesying. Would you like to hear the Word of God again? We've heard enough doom for a lifetime. No, you haven't heard enough. Not nearly enough. They all thought if they ignored Jeremiah long enough, he'd die off like an infection. But prophets don't die easily. Jeremiah's voice had haunted Jerusalem for years, scraping the temple walls, bleeding through palace corridors. They jailed him, beat him, starved him, called him a traitor. But the Lord didn't stop speaking. And Jeremiah, God help him, didn't stop listening. Outside the city, the second siege didn't come like thunder. It came like cancer. Quiet. Total. Slow. Babylonian armies surrounded the city with the patience. Nebuchadnezzar was a brutal man, but he was no barbarian. He was calculated and understood the worth of everybody. Every man he slayed was one less hand to aid in building his empire. He wouldn't butcher them carelessly, but he was not a king of mercy. He came, and he came with strength. There were no demands, no battles, just the sound of gates sealing from the outside, a silence that choked hope like a noose. Inside a crumbling home near the city wall, a woman stirred a pot. Not of food, just water. She moved slowly, not out of reverence, but because starvation had stolen her strength. Her child watched, eyes wide and glassy, ribs like blades beneath his skin. The child whined in hunger, wondering if his mother was cooking something for him. She wasn't. She couldn't. Around the city, the whispers spread like rot, of rats roasted over coals of leather, belts softened in boiling water, of infants buried without names. Every alley carried stories of mothers holding silence where children used to be. The prophets kept screaming. No one listened anymore. In the royal chambers, Zedekiah sat alone. The sound of wailing Rising to the stone beneath his feet, feet like a funeral dirge that never ended. He unrolled a scroll with shaking fingers. Jeremiah's handwriting, smuggled in by someone still foolish enough to hope. Surrender. There is no other way. This is not abandonment. This is discipline. Yahweh weeps, but he does not. Relentless, Zedekiah crumpled the parchment and wept. I can. I. I can't be I. I can't be the king who surrenders. But the fool didn't realize that he already was. The choice had been made. Two years passed. Two years of starvation and silence. Two years of priests pretending the Lord still lived behind the veil. Two years of prayer echoing off heaven like stones off a dead wall. And then it happened. The ram came. At the edge of night, Babylon's battering ram struck Jerusalem's wall with the force of divine judgment. Stone split. Fire followed. The defences crumbled. Zedekiah fled like a coward. Long gone were the days of King David valiantly roaring into battle ahead of his armies. Zedekiah ran like a frightened rabbit. He ran through the garden and the broken palace gate with his sons and his guards at his side. He. He ran toward the plains, toward Jericho, toward the faint, impossible hope that judgment could still be outrun. But it couldn't. In the dust of the plains, Babylonian soldiers closed in. They came slowly, purposeful. They didn't rush. At the helm was King Nebuchadnezzar, clad in dark, polished armor. They turned the corner, meeting Zedekiah in flight. Zedekiah's eyes widened in horror. He tried to turn, but his frantic sons behind him caused him to trip. Nebuchadnezzar sighed and softly commanded his archer in the shoulder. His archer was quick and precise, releasing an arrow that hit said Ak square in the right shoulder. The king of Judah writhed on the floor. The Babylonians marched forward, surrounding Zedekiah and his sons. The king of Babylon sauntered towards Zedekiah. The king of Judah held out his one good arm with pleas for mercy. Be pleased, Lord Nelkiness. Quiet. The hulking man gave a swift kick to Zedekiah's ribs, knocking the air out of his lungs. He drew his sword and aimed its tip at one of Zedekiah's sons. I made you King Zedekiah. I gave you Judah. I know. I know. You were. You were more than fair, yet you broke your oath. Nebuchadnezzar unceremoniously drove his dagger into the throat of Zedekiah's oldest son. My boy, my love, I said. He strode to the other Boy who was bound by his soldiers. He slashed his throat with cold, quiet ease. I'm a man of war, Zedekiah. Conquest, glory. As such, I must be a man who reads. Another sun, another blade to the throat. I've read about Moses standing against Pharaoh. I've read about Joshua toppling a fortified wall of your forefather David. Slaying a giant, the Babylonian king drove his sword downward into Zedekiah, the youngest son, letting the steel sink deep and remain there. He then turned and retrieved a hot iron from the hearth nearby. Its tip pulsed with white hot intensity. Nebuchadnezzar leaned forward to Zedekiah. The glory of your ancestors dies with you, you cowardly, pathetic, sniveling, double minded dog. He pressed the iron Lord forward into Zedekiah's eyes. Zedekiah thrashed. The guards held him still. Still. He did not scream. Now he couldn't. He just convulsed. Then silence. His hands clawed at his face, blood running down his beard in streams. The sockets were blackened voids. And in that void, he was still alive. Alive to remember, to carry the last thing he ever saw burned onto the back of his ruined eyelids. His sons dying. One by one, they chained him. After that, led him away. The man who once sat on David's throne, who once signed decrees in God's name, was now just a blind animal being hauled off to a foreign zoo. Not a king, not a man. Just a cautionary tale. In the dark pit of a Babylonian prison cell, Zedekiah sat. His hands rested in his lap like they had forgotten how to pray. His eyes, now just scars, stared at nothing. Sometimes he whispered scripture, what he could remember, which was very little. Sometimes he cried, but mostly he was silent. This was how it ended. The last king of Judah. The line of David was broken. The walls of Jerusalem cracked. The covenant was scattered like bones across a battlefield. But despite what so many living in this darkness thought, the Lord was not gone. He was in the pit with Jeremiah. He was in the dust beside Ezekiel. He was standing next to young Daniel in a foreign court. Because judgment isn't absence, it's presence in the fire. It is mercy disguised as ruin. It is exile. Not as an ending, but as a beginning. It took 11 days to unmake a city that took centuries to build. 11 days for King Nebuchadnezzar to turn the Covenant people into a valley of dry bones. He did not rage. He did not roar. He moved through Zion like a sea surgeon through cancer. Blade steady, expression blank, dissecting every sacred thing Judah thought Untouchable. And when he stood in the temple courts, beneath the massive bronze pillars beside the altar, soaked in generations of prayer, he didn't tremble. He smiled. Not cruelly, not joyfully, just professionally. None of this was personal. It was business. The business of conquest. Morning broke through the smoke on the Temple Mount. The priests who hadn't been slaughtered during the initial breach now stood barefoot in the outer court, wrapped in sackcloth, eyes wide with the kind of disbelief that doesn't leave room for words. Some still held incense burners, shaking hands, lifting them like shields against death. Others mouthed psalms, the old songs, the ones they learned as children in temple schools that no longer stood. How lovely is your dwelling place, O Lord Almighty. The temple gates thudded. My soul yearns, even faints, for the courts of the Lord. The hinges were breaking. The onslaught was coming. My heart and my flesh cry out, O the living God. Coals from the burning battering ram spat through the cracks of the gates. Better is one day in your courts, better is one day in your house than a thousand. Elsewhere. Gates gave way, and swiftly turning to ash beneath the blue flames, the priests beheld the full force of Babylon, armed with spears and torches. Lord Almighty, blessed are those who trust in you. Fiery arrows filled the smoke, filled skies like stars against the night. And then the flames touched gold. The fire reached the temple, licking along the beams like the the fire itself wanted to savor the taste of holiness. And then it devoured. Babylonian soldiers tore through the sacred walls with sound and fury. They didn't dismantle, they desecrated the inner court, collapsed under boot and blade. Not one stone was left on another. They ransacked God's house, and the temple was utterly consumed, along with the hope of Israel. It was dark inside the temple sanctuary, the Lord's footstool. It was the place where heaven once touched earth. But now it was a relic. The sacred vessels were ripped from their stations. Gold basins, silver trumpets and bowls, sanctified with generations of blood and incense were torn down, carried out and piled like trophies. Load them all. Babylon will melt down the worship of this God and turn it into currency. A young priest, no older than 20, lunged. His voice cracked with grief and fury. No. That gold is holy. That fire is forbidden. You'll regret. Regret tampering with it. A soldier came to thrust a spear in the young man's belly, but the king stopped him. Tell me, what do you think will happen if I play with your God's toys? Our people have stories. Stories of men being struck dead for even touching such things. In good faith, let alone with disgrace. Our God is not mocked. Nebuchadnezzar didn't move. He didn't argue. He nodded once. A Babylonian soldier stepped forward, one thrust. The boy fell beneath the menorah. The palace went next. The throne room where David once played harp was soaked in blood and ash. Lions embroidered into velvet curtains shriveled in the flames. The cedar beams, brought down from Lebanon generations ago to declare the glory of Israel's kingship split and hissed like serpents as they turned to cinders. Then came the walls, then the towers, then the homes, then the people. The ones who fled were cut down in alleys. The ones who stayed were dragged from hiding places and made to watch. No one died with dignity. They died with open mouths, screaming or praying. The two were one and the same. By sunset, the city was unrecognizable. Streets once filled with pilgrims and laughter now choked with smoke and silence. Bodies slumped in heaps like punctuation marks to unfinished prayers. Mothers wandered, arms empty, eyes searching for children already turned to ash. Dogs licked the blood from stones. And somewhere in the smoke, Jeremiah stumbled through the rubble. His robe hung in tatters. His voice was hoarse. He collapsed near the remains of the city gate, ash caking his face. Jeremiah looked up at Zion. Her towers were shattered, her sanctuary gone, her streets soaked in blood. And then the prophets screamed. Not words. Wailing, rage, despair. This wasn't just a conquest. It was uncreation. Genesis in reverse. The undoing of Sinai. It felt like the very end of the covenant. The priests were slaughtered, the scrolls reduced to floating flecks of carbon. The temple now just broken stone and melting gold. A God shaped hole was carved into the city. In the city square, what remained of the people were bound in chains. Bakers, stonecutters, scribes, poets, singers. Every voice that once defined the soul of Judah now herded like cattle toward a future they did not choose. Jeremiah fell to his knees in sorrow. He stumbled to a ridge on his hands and knees, watching his people march in Babylonian chains. The wind whispered something. A prophecy, a promise. His trembling voice calling out over the ridge for the chosen people to hear. Hear the words of your God, O Israel. Hear the words. When 70 years are completed for Babylon, I will send for you. I will set you free and bring you back to this place. For I know the plans I have for you. Plans to prosper and not harm you. Plans to give you hope and a future. Then you will call on me. Come and pray to me, and I will listen. You will seek me and find me when you seek me with all your heart, I will be found by you and will bring you back from captivity. I will gather you from all the nations and places where I have banished you and will bring you back to my arms. The children of God were silent after that, because hope doesn't always need to shout. Sometimes it simply breathes. Jeremiah's words were not a revival. They were not the beginning of restoration. Those words were something different, stranger, holier. This was mercy where it shouldn't have been. This was grace leaking through the cracks of of pain. This was the whisper in the smoke, the ember in the ash, the broken covenant still breathing because the Lord had not forgotten. Mercy hides in margins. The God who once thundered from Sinai knows how to set a table. Even in Babylon, ash still covered Zion like a burial cloth. Bones still littered the valley. The temple was still gone. The king was blind. The ark was missing. The songs were faint. But hope. Hope was eating dinner in Babylon. And the Lord was not done. Not even close.
- [28:26]
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- [28:57]
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- [30:28]
Yael Eckstein
If your faith has been kindled by this podcast and it has affected your life, we'd love it if you left a review. We read them and me personally, I cherish them. As you venture forth boldly and faithfully, I leave you with the Biblical Blessing from Numbers 6. May the Lord bless you and keep you. May the Lord make His face shine upon you. May he be gracious to you. May the Lord turn His face towards you and give you peace.
- [31:10]
Narrator
Amen. You can listen to the Chosen People with Yale Eckstein ad free by downloading and subscribing to ThePray.com app today. This prey.com production is only made possible by our dedicated team of creative talents. Steve Catina, Max Bard, Zach Schellewager and Ben Gammon are the executive producers of the Chosen People with Yael Eckstein. Edited by Alberto Avila Narrated by Paul Coltofianu. Characters are voiced by Jonathan Cotton, Aaron Salvato, Sarah Seltz, Mike Reagan, Steven Ringwald, Sylvia zaradoc, Thomas Copeland Jr, Rosanna Pilcher and Mitch Lashinsky and the opening prayer is voiced by John Moore. Music by Andrew Morgan Smith. Written by Aaron Salvato, Bree Rosely and Chris Baig. Special thanks to Bishop Paul Lanier, Robin Van Etten, Caleb Burrows, Jocelyn Fuller, Rabbi Edward Abramson and the team at International Fellowship of Christians and Jews. You can hear more Pray.com productions on the Pray.com app available on the Apple App Store and Google Play Store. If you enjoyed the CH people with Yale X Team, please rate and leave a review.
- [32:25]
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- [32:56]
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- [33:55]
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- [34:26]
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