In Ahab’s time, Hiel of Bethel rebuilt Jericho. He laid its foundations at the cost of his firstborn son Abiram, and he set up its gates at the cost of his youngest son Segub, in accordance with the word of the Lord spoken by Joshua son of Nun.
1 Kings 16:34 (NIV)

A few years ago the world was transfixed by HBO’s miniseries Game of Thrones, based on the fantasy books of George R. R. Martin. It tells the stories of multiple houses fighting for control of the land of Westeros. The books, and the miniseries, were an epic study in the violence and intrigue of individuals vying for worldly power with dragons and zombies thrown into the mix. In the larger body of Martin’s series of books, readers learn that the ruling houses of Westeros have been playing at the game for countless generations.

Martin built Game of Thrones on well-worn examples of human history. Today’s chapter is a great example. The throne of the northern Kingdom of Israel does not follow one royal house like in the southern Kingdom of Judah, where the House of David reigns. In Israel, the throne belongs to anyone powerful enough, or cunning enough, or murderous enough to take it. And, goodness, were there plenty of men willing to play the game.

As the chapter opens, Baasha is on the throne because he’d killed Jeroboam’s son, Nadab and wiped out Jeroboam’s entire family. He holds onto the throne until his death, and his son Elah, succeeds him.

Elah rules for two years before a guy named Zimri murders him while he was drunk and claims the throne.

Zimri is king for only seven days because he didn’t have the political wisdom to secure support of the army. The army is led by General Omri – who quickly marches on the capital city to take the throne by force.

Another dude named Timbni makes a claim on the throne along with Omri and a brief civil war erupts, but General Omri wins. To the victor go the spoils. Omri reigns for twelve years, moves the capital to Samaria, and dies naturally.

The chapter ends with Omri’s son, Ahab, succeeding him.

There is a Jewish phrase, middah k’neged middah, meaning measure-for-measure, and this Hebrew game of thrones is a classic example.

Baasha destroys Jeroboam’s house.
Then Baasha’s house is destroyed.
Zimri uses assassination to seize power.
Seven days later his own power collapses.

The chapter then ends with a quirky little aside that is absolutely intentional. Way back in the book of Joshua, roughly 500 years before the events of today’s chapter, the city of Jericho was destroyed and Joshua cursed anyone who rebuilt the city, saying that the foundation would cost his firstborn and its gates his youngest. A guy named Hiel decided it was time to rebuild the city and, wouldn’t you know it, his first-born and youngest sons died.

The narrative repeatedly demonstrates that human actions create consequences corresponding to themselves. But there’s something even deeper happening.

The sins of Jeroboam have ceased to be merely Jeroboam’s sins. The chapter repeatedly invokes the formula: “the sins of Jeroboam son of Nebat, which he had caused Israel to commit.” Jeroboam is long dead, but Jeroboam’s pattern is alive and well.

Sin isn’t merely private moral failure. Human choices shape households, communities, institutions, and generations. Eventually yesterday’s compromise becomes today’s normal. And today’s normal becomes tomorrow’s inheritance.

There’s a phrase buried in the chapter that reveals an important spiritual lesson: “He did more evil than all who were before him.” That’s said of Omri. Then Ahab arrives and it’s written “Ahab son of Omri did more evil in the eyes of the LORD than any of those before him.”

Israel’s game of thrones and succeeding kings reveal a staircase of moral descent.

Jeroboam establishes the compromise.
Baasha perpetuates it.
Omri exceeds it.
Ahab institutionalizes it.

Nobody wakes up one morning intending to become Ahab. Moral descent happens incrementally. One generation tolerates something. The next generation normalizes it. The next generation improves upon it. Eventually someone institutionalizes it.

And by then everyone has forgotten that there was ever another way. That makes the obscure little story about Hiel rebuilding Jericho the perfect ending. Centuries earlier God had said, essentially, “Don’t rebuild this.” Enough time passed that someone apparently concluded, “Surely that old word doesn’t matter anymore.”

And Hiel started laying bricks.

I’ve observed along my own life journey that we humans are always laying bricks. Every ordinary decision is adding something to the world our children, grandchildren, employees, friends, churches, and communities will inherit.

I can lay another brick in an old pattern. Another brick of resentment, of ego, of greed. Another brick of dishonesty, of prejudice, of spiritual complacency.

Or…I can stop construction.

One of the truths I’ve learned along the journey is that generational patterns aren’t destiny. Baasha could have learned from Jeroboam. Elah could have learned from Baasha. Omri could have learned from Zimri. Ahab could have learned from all of them. They simply didn’t.

And, into this spiritual descent into darkness — in the next chapter — God sends Elijah.

That’s grace. When everyone else has accepted the trajectory as inevitable, God raises up a voice to say, “It doesn’t have to keep going this way.”

And in the quiet this morning, I’m left mulling over a question: “What am I perpetuating simply because it was handed to me—and what needs to stop with me?”

Because sometimes faithfulness isn’t building something impressive. Sometimes faithfulness is simply deciding: “I’m not laying the next brick.”

Wendy and I are leaving on a little Labor Day vacay.
Lord willing, I’ll be returning Sep 9!

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