Amos denounces the rich, with their summer houses and winter houses, couches of ivory, wines and perfumes: they take interest on loans to their brethren, falsify weights and measures, bribe judges, and sell the poor into debt slavery. Isaiah and Jeremiah refer more directly but also more obscurely to the political power structure. We have a picture in our mind of the people described by Amos. They are the local bourgeoisie. But when Isaiah says, ‘The Lord will enter into judgment with the ancients of his people, and the princes thereof: for ye have eaten up the vineyard’ (3:13-14), we are on less familiar territory. The ancients (elders) and the princes are men of the state, not men of the market, and we know only in a rough way how the state functioned, how its functionaries were selected, and exactly what their functions were. Here the biblical texts provide fewer details, an imagery far less rich – as if the writers were uninterested in the textures of political life or were relying on the all-too-intimate understanding of their audience. In any case, the crucial point is this: all these rich and powerful people are denounced in the hearing of the others, the poor, the week, the needy.
Michael Walzer, “Prophets and Their Audience” from In God’s Shadow: Politics in the Hebrew Bible
“OW!” Yoongi pulled his sliced knee into his chest, snarling at you like some wild beast.
You scoffed, “Oh, please, Yoongi. Quit being so dramatic.”
“But it hurts,” he whined, popping his bottom lip forward playfully, fighting your reach for his scraped knee.
“Yoongi.” A warning growl coupled with a mother’s stern, hard stare had your boyfriend offering up his wound freely. Mostly out of fear that you might reward him with a matching one on his other leg.
Rifling through the small first aid kit, you found a few bandages, laughing as you realized they were floral—a set you had picked up years ago—and screaming femininity. Yoongi furrowed his brow, crossing those arms over his chest in an “Oh, heck no” gesture. You smirked and strapped two lavender and pastel pink floral band aids on his scrape.
“Maybe you’ll think twice about sliding around the dance floor at your next rehearsal now,” you smiled, leaning forward to kiss the bandaged knee.
He muttered to himself, but a flush of red colored that winter-kissed ivory skin all the same. Your hands trickled up to his cheeks, and squeezed lightly, making him smile forcibly. “You’re mumbling again.”
“I said,” He snapped, “that it isn’t like I wanted Hoseok to spin me around and try to toss me to Jungkook.”
“Hoseok threw you?” This was news to you. Yoongi’s original story was that he fell. A hand clasped over his mouth and he silently reprimanded himself as your hands shot to your hips in an angry mom stance.
“Baby—it was an accident. Don’t kill him.”
But it was too late, you were heading to the studio to give those boys a piece of your mind! No one hurt your Yoongi and got away with it!
Yoongi was chasing after you, limping with his wound, that flash of floral band aid stark against his bone white knee. But you knew that if the roles were reversed he’d be doing the same—knew that you were both fiercely protective of one another no matter how much you bickered.
So, with a frown and a glare that could drop a three hundred pound man on his butt, you stalked into the studio and scolded the boys that dared to wound your precious, perfect Yoongi.