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Jephthah was a marvel. Hulking in his armor, sun glittering off his greaves, helm, and shield, he was impregnable.

Shobi knew that he couldn’t allow the young Hebrews to perceive him as their ruler for very long. They would soon have the power to overthrow him. And, when they did, Nahash would likely side with them. At his age, the bonds of friendship would quickly eclipse the bonds of blood. So Shobi decided that tonight, while he was still firmly in control, he would cease to be a slave-master. He would become a different kind of Master.

Jephthah heard voices. He couldn’t see anything, couldn’t even tell if his eyes were open or shut. His head hurt, he felt sick, and he couldn’t remember what had happened. But even in this confused state, he thought there was something wrong with the voices he was hearing. The words sounded wrong. The speakers pronounced them strangely and jumbled the order too. Yet, he could still understand them.

Jephthah was cold, and his body ached. Whatever strength and resilience had flowed into him during the vision was gone now, and he felt every bruise and cut that Zephon laid on him the previous day. He’d spent the night outside of the village, eaten nothing and slept little. After his conversation with his father, Jephthah wasn’t sure that he ever wanted to go home again.

We called them Judges, these men who rose to power and fought back Israel’s enemies. What a righteous sounding word: Judges. The songs around the campfire and the gossip in the market have already rewritten their stories. The Judges were barely in their graves before every fault was forgiven and every skirmish hailed as a great victory for the nation. As though they were above it all, as though their campaigns weren’t just another war of domination. Maybe they were. I don’t k