In the hill country of Ephraim, there lived a man named Micah.
One day he said to his mother, "The eleven hundred shekels of silver that were taken from you—the ones about which I heard you utter a curse—I have them. I took the silver."
His mother's anger melted into relief.
"The Lord bless you, my son!" she said.
When Micah returned the silver, his mother declared,"I consecrate this silver to the Lord for my son, to make a carved image and a cast idol. I will give it back to you."
So she took two hundred shekels and handed them to a silversmith. The man melted, molded, and shaped the metal—and soon there stood a glittering idol, placed in the house of Micah like a god of silver and shadow.
Micah built himself a shrine.
He made an ephod, crafted small household gods, and set one of his own sons as priest over them.
The scripture whispers softly:
"In those days, Israel had no king.
Every man did what was right in his own eyes."
One day, a young Levite from Bethlehem in Judah set out, searching for a place to dwell,
his sandals worn from the journey, his heart uncertain.
He came upon the house of Micah.
"Where are you from?" Micah asked.
"I am a Levite from Bethlehem in Judah," he replied.
"I seek a place to stay."
Micah's eyes brightened with opportunity.
"Stay with me," he said. "Be my father and my priest. I will give you ten shekels of silver each year, your clothing, and your food."
The young Levite agreed. He lived in Micah's house, and Micah treated him as one of his own sons.
Then Micah ordained the Levite,
and the young man became his priest,
standing before the idols of silver and faithless devotion.
Micah said in satisfaction,
"Now I know the Lord will be good to me,
since I have a Levite as my priest."
But heaven was silent. For the Lord is not swayed by images of silver, nor by altars built from human thought.