prophets without honor

I awoke sometime before 2:00 and lay awake in the dark, thinking about problems. The night air was cold. By 3:15, feeling farther from sleep than ever, I got up, pulled on a sweatshirt, sweatpants, socks, and moccasins, and padded downstairs.

In the silence of night the front-porch light glowed dimly in the corridor. I twisted on the heat in the living-room and reset the furniture, which I had moved for TV viewing earlier on, as every night. I switched on the standing lamp, poured myself a cranberry juice (I've decided to forgo whisky in these late-night times in favor of something more productive), and cracked open Asimov's Guide to the Bible (Old Testament), highlighter in hand.

I pushed on with his discussion of the Book of Jeremiah, the prophet of the fall of Jerusalem to the Babylonians, in whose long prophetic career he enjoyed virtually no attention, respect, or success (in terms of influencing the behavior of his countrymen). A witness to the destruction of the city and temple, which he had for so long predicted, he wound up a captive of hostile countrymen, finishing his days, apparently, in exile in Egypt.

What a career. He was buffeted by the same forces that swirl around us today: nationalistic and jingoistic passions, people pinning their hopes on tribal violence to produce good outcomes. Jeremiah was an early advocate of realpolitik, telling people, in effect, that God favors realists. Long before the arrival of Nebuchadnezzar, he was urging Judah to submit to Babylon, and thereby save the temple and walls of Jerusalem.

Jeremiah was right, but he was ignored.

Am I a prophet? I wondered. Is it my destiny to send a futile message to my fellow humans?

Maybe. But my life is easy--so far.

After two glasses of juice, I set down Asimov, switched off the light and heat, and padded back upstairs to spend the last hour of night in the warmth of bed. I dozed briefly before the alarm went off at 5:30.