The Idea Behind the Book: A Story Hiding Within a Story

I have always found it fascinating how the way we view the world, shapes the world. The lives and fates of individuals and civilizations alike, driven by something as nebulous as perception. For this reason, I have consumed more than my fair share of reading material on topics relating to religion, mythology and philosophy. Or, as the ancients would put it, the underlying truth to all things.

It was during one of these reading sprees that I conceived of the story for There Came Darkness. I was reading a lot about the authorship of the Old Testament at the time, and how it came into form. I was surprised to find that the preponderance of evidence pointed toward an oft-neglected chapter in history as being most pivotal in this process. During the reign of an easily overlooked king by the measured treatment he receives. King Josiah ruled from 641 to 609 BCE, not long before the Babylonian invasion and subsequent Exile. While he is not lionized or mythologized like other iconic figures, he may have been the grandest of them all in the flesh.

At the same time, I was reading a book about how the ultimate archvillain came into being. Starting as a mere divinely appointed adversary, Satan would graduate into the pantheon of archangels as a lieutenant of the Most High God. Doing his bidding in the accusing and prosecuting of mortals on earth. Only much later would he be elevated to the embodiment of evil itself.

(The Birth of Satan: Tracing the Devil’s Biblical Roots by T.J. Wray, Gregory Mobley).

Anyway, two intriguing storylines began to coalesce in my mind. Hinted at by the hidden voices locked within the text as it survived the gauntlet of time. Nearly redacted to silence by editors many years and centuries after the fact. These voices might have been lost to us forever if not for the miracle of modern advances and technologies, including those in the field of textual analysis.

But it was a third pillar of interest that triangulated my scattered thoughts into something tangible. An unexpected mosaic comprised of pieces that would begin to come together in surprising ways. The third pillar, in this case, was genocide. I found myself mulling over the calls for mass extermination found in the Old Testament. Commanded by Yahweh through the mouthpieces of prophets. In modern times, we have seen what a genocide looks like. Even through the mitigating intermediary of the camera lens, or dramatic reenactment, nothing could be more tragic and grotesque. And yet, it is endorsed in what is supposed to be one of our preeminent sources of moral authority. Not just against men of fighting age, but also every woman and child within certain rival nations.

Among them, there is one which the ancient Israelites held a special hostility toward. This being the Amalekites. An extermination order is given for the Amalekites in both the books of Deuteronomy and Samuel. An interesting fact, considering both are among the many works identified as having been composed during Josiah’s reign. Compiled and written by a school of priestly scribes that scholars now refer to as the Deuteronomist. Aside from writing style, many of the circumstances and themes in these works are uniquely applicable to the late 7^th century BCE. These include an anti-Assyrian bias (a long-time nemesis of Israel), unification of Israel into a single kingdom, the preserving of the Davidic line of kings, centralization of worship and governance in Jerusalem and the worship of only one god (Yahweh).

These themes were heavily woven throughout the Deuteronomist history because they were matters of critical importance during Josiah’s reign. Contempt for the Amalekites was yet another recurring theme. In fact, it was by a show of mercy to this nation that Saul lost favor with God. A favor that would transfer to David instead. This would make sense if you consider what we know about the Amalekites. For one, we know they occupied the Negev Desert to the south. Due to its valuable mining resources, the Kingdom of Judah was expanding into this territory during Josiah’s day. Undoubtedly, this would have been a source of bitter and violent conflict between the two sides.

But in the end, only one side of the story lived on, while the other is utterly lost to us. Of course, we all know the saying about how history is written by the victors. But I found myself imagining the point-of-view of the Amalekites in this episode. It is easy to gloss over calls for their annihilation, to paint them as a savage people perhaps deserving of divine retribution. But in reality, they were a real people like anyone else who has ever lived. With human qualities both good and bad. Driven by hopes and dreams of their own, along with a sense of heritage and a set of stories and beliefs that defined them as a people. Not in the way their enemies saw them, but as they saw themselves.

I thought about how all of this might have looked up close and personal. How their theologies and mythologies might have been both similar and different from their bitter enemies to the north. Although we are left to speculation, there is another clue to consider, aside from geography. We also know that they were a nomadic people. This made me think of Jethro the Kenite, father-in-law to Moses. The one who taught him about Yahweh in his escape to the desert. Interestingly, according to the biblical account, the Kenites were also nomadic, while also occupying the same territory. This led me to think of the other nomad in the bible, the original wanderer himself, which is Cain. To add to the intrigue, Kenite could just as easily be translated as Cainite. I was not surprised to see that many others before me had made this same connection.

In light of this, it made sense that in the fable of Cain and Abel, as it exists in Israelite canon, Cain would be cast as the villain. But it is not hard to imagine how the story could be flipped to place Abel in the less favorable light. Or how the conflict between the Israelites of the Exodus and the Amalekites could also be recast. Now I had the basis of a tribal/national mythos for the Amalekites. I also had a conflict with both historical and biblical intrigue. And, in Satan, I had a provocative mythological figure to tie it all together.

Early in its development, the idea of Satan was that of a mortal adversary. For instance, there were actually two satans raised up against King Solomon when he began to lead Israel down a path of idolatry. One, in fact, from Edom in the south, which is adjacent to—if not overlapping—the roaming grounds of the Amalekites. Also, let’s not forget that this comes to us from the Book of Kings, part of the Deuteronomist history. So the idea must have been in the bloodstream during the reign of Josiah. Not only the concept, but the association between a Satan and the nomads of the southern desert.

It was a concept that would evolve in the intervening centuries between Josiah’s death and Christianity’s birth. From common noun to proper noun—in messianic circles of Judaism, anyway. Becoming a character no longer content to carry out the will of God, seeking to actively oppose it instead. But it is interesting that it was Satan who would grow into this role as the ultimate titan of evil. Especially considering that there were many other gods and demigods who might have more naturally fit the part. Although Satan would, over time, assimilate many of their characters for himself.

Still, it is curious as to why this is. Maybe the answer can be found at the genesis of this transition. The death of Josiah. The Book of Revelation describes an end-of-times battle, where Satan will be let loose to lead his followers in a final fight-to-end-all-fights against the armies of righteousness. It is in this battle that the Messiah will make his triumphant return to earth, leading the righteous to victory. We call this Armageddon, which has become synonymous for all battles epic.  And yet, this portentous term simply translates to the mount at Megiddo. The only event of real biblical significance that ever took place there was the death of King Josiah.

When Revelation was written, could it be there was still a residual memory of a Satan-figure who carried out some awful crime against a messianic figure in Megiddo? Perhaps, if true, leaving a traumatic scar that would remain unfaded for generations to come. A national tragedy made tolerable only by the hope, or belief, that this messianic figure, or king as it were, would one day return to usher in the kingdom of paradisaical peace that was promised, but never realized.

If there were such a residual memory still being harbored by the Jews of Roman and pre-Roman Judaea, it would seem very likely to stem from the death of King Josiah, the original king of promise. This makes sense on a number of levels in addition to what has been outlined already. The Deuteronomist portions of the Book of Isaiah tell us of a messianic figure who comes to the people as a child, a government upon his shoulders. A prince of peace to usher in an Eden-like kingdom where the lamb lies with the lion. This comports rather well with the oracle given by the prophetess Huldah about Josiah. About how he would be gathered into the grave of his fathers in peace. This prophecy must have commonly known at the time, because Josiah did not go to his grave in peace. The fact that it was left in the text suggests this prophecy was imbedded too deep into the collective consciousness to be redacted away, even generations after the fact.

But there’s something else perhaps even more strange about the record as it relates to Josiah. With all the buildup, the acclaim, the dedication to the rediscovered law, the final word on Josiah could not be more anticlimactic. He leads his troops to Megiddo to confront the Egyptian army, which is en route to assist the Assyrians in their final stand against the Babylonian alliance. He is then killed, and his body is brought back to Jerusalem to be buried. End of story. The silence that follows is deafening. The Book of Chronicles, written centuries later, offers a flaccid explanation for this. But that is about the extent of the commentary on this unceremonious death of an exalted king. Even Jeremiah, a contemporary of Josiah, also has very little to say on the matter, aside from a few nice compliments.

But he does echo what Huldah supposedly prophesied about the situation, which is that it was too late to appease God by the time the Israelites started to follow the law. But this simply strains credulity too far. What about the doctrine of being accountable for only one’s own sins? As it is stated in Ezekiel 18:20, the child shall not share the guilt of the parent. This allusion to generational sin and condemnation has all the feel of a feeble post-hoc rationale. With this part of Huldah’s divination perhaps being an interpolation, taking its cue from Chronicles and Jeremiah. After all, it is much more acceptable to insert a line or two of elucidation than it is to excise something well-known.

But this idea that all had turned suddenly grim in Jerusalem upon the finding of the law in the temple wall during a renovation project does not add up. As a sidebar, the law was likely the Book of Deuteronomy, a document suspiciously resembling an Assyrian tribute contract. Anyway, all indications seem to point the other way. Archaeological and extra-biblical evidence suggests that Josiah’s reform program was a resounding success, and that Jerusalem had attained a prominence it would not again realize—under Jewish control that is—until the 20^th century. In other words, unlike virtually ever other iconic figure in the bible, Josiah brings real credentials to the table in backing up his hype. In fact, he might be the one figure whose actual stature is understated.

It is my strong belief that the mood in Jerusalem during this time was far from fatalistic. Where everyone was just trudging along, knowing disaster was right around the corner. But rather it was a time of great hope and optimism. Their long-time oppressor, Assyria, in the throes of total collapse. A power vacuum with no one left to fill but themselves. Nearly all of Israel galvanized under a single banner, enjoying unprecedented growth and prosperity. This must have been a people unwavering in the faith that prophecy was being fulfilled before their very eyes. Under the leadership of a king foretold by ancient prophets. Their dedication to the law being rewarded. It was through them that God’s Kingdom on Earth was finally being established. With the power of the heavens behind them, there was no enemy too powerful. None could stand in the way of what Yahweh had already set into motion. Not even Pharaoh himself. It was with this sense of divine invincibility, I believe, that Josiah went to confront him. And this is when reality came crashing down on this upstart kingdom. Stunning the scribes and prophets to literal silence.

But the story is not nearly so straight-forward as all this. As an audience with the advantage of hindsight, we may know where it is all heading. But the real surprise is in how we get there. And where it goes from there. As we know, the story does not end with Megiddo. Josiah the man may fade into one of history’s footnotes. But the legacy of his acts and deeds will go on to change the course of human history. More than Abraham, or Moses, or David and Solomon. All merely literary devices to a much greater story. One that spent much of history hiding within the text.

But Josiah is not the only one to come out of this saga with newfound immortality. There is another whose effect will also be felt through the ages. Changing the way we think of right and wrong, and good versus evil. Forcing us not only to grapple with our own true nature, but with the mind of God itself.

But there is another element to this story I feel bears mentioning here. And that is the role of the divine protector in all of this. The Cherubim. Preserving that which is sacred in order that all will not be lost. This is represented in the central character in the story: Samuel, chief guard of the king. In sparing the life of the king, often in miraculous fashion, it would seem that he was sent as a guarantor of prophecy.

Because where there is one who seeks to destroy, there must be one that works to preserve. Where one sows chaos, another must create order. There is satisfying symmetry in this. An opposition in all things, to balance the scales of Creation. And that’s what a story does for us. It’s how myths are made. Using mystery to make sense of the mysterious. To steal glimpses of the higher truths that elude the constraints of straight-forward explanation. Because, as the ancients would tell us, the experience is in the story, not the other way around.

And above all else, that is what I set out to accomplish. To tell a story. I tried to adhere to historical and material fact to the extent possible. I am even of the belief that there are some insights to be gleaned in this work. I certainly researched it enough to make this unavoidable. There might even be messages of a moral value of some kind, if one chooses to see them as such. After all, each character has a moral compass of their own, put to test by the gauntlet of circumstances they are forced through. But in writing this, I found that the more I extricated myself, and my preconceptions, the better the story became. I really don’t believe anyone should come away from it overly offended or conflicted or in need of ritual purification of any kind. I doubt anyone will be at risk of changing their core principles over it, one way or another.  Whether you are a bible-literalist, bible-skeptic, or bible-indifferent, I wrote it with you in mind. Serving the story above all else, rather than trying to push any one point of view.