It’s one thing to face persecution for your beliefs. It’s quite another to have someone else suffer for your beliefs—especially your child.

It’s an impressive story any way you slice it.

The king sets up a huge golden statue and commands that, when the band plays, everyone has to bow down. But three Hebrew exiles who’ve been living in Babylon refuse, saying it violates their conscientious convictions.

The king gets mad. Insanely mad. But the Hebrews won’t budge, even when threatened with death. And before it’s over, the holdouts find themselves thrown into a fire so hot that it kills the soldiers who throw them in.

Now comes the really good part: The fire doesn’t burn them. But it burns the king—indirectly, that is. It singes his ego. Badly. And during the upcoming weeks and months he gets no rest because he’s so ticked about having been made to look a fool in front of all the dignitaries of his kingdom.

So he decides to generate a little déjà vu. (This is the part you probably haven’t heard. In fact, I’d never heard anything about it until I happened to talk to the overseer of the cuneiform tablets at the British Museum a few years ago. Or was it the Cairo Museum? Or did I just dream about such a conversation? Whatever. Anyway, it’s a great story.…)

Word goes out about another convocation around the big statue. The stubborn Hebrews get hand-delivered invitations. But this time their wives and kids are invited, too. Nebuchadnezzar has thought this one through. He’s not stupid.

Everything is the same as before. Huge statue gleaming in the sunshine. Big crowd. Large band. Air of expectancy. Smoke billowing from the furnace.

Again the king issues the orders: When the band plays, everyone is to bow.

The three Hebrews huddle with their wives and kids to discuss something quickly. Then the music starts. Everyone drops. Well, not quite everyone. All three Hebrew families remain standing. But the king, unlike the year before, seems unfazed.

He calmly beckons to the holdouts to approach his throne. "There may be some misunderstanding," he says in a solicitous stage whisper. "I ordered everyone to bow down to the statue. You may not fully appreciate the value I place on compliance. But the fact is, I’m used to getting my own way. Understand?"

"What you need to understand," one of the Hebrew men replies confidently, is that nothing has changed since last year. "We don’t bow down to anyone but our God. Period. We wouldn’t do it then. We won’t do it now. We won’t do it ever. And we repeat: Our God is able to deliver us from anything you throw our way, O honorable king. But even if he doesn’t, be assured that we will never bow down to your statue."

The king listens quietly. "That’s your final answer?" he asks. In unison, the men assure him that it is.

Suddenly, the king is a bundle of fury. Exactly as he’d done the year before, he screams for ropes to be brought. The Hebrew men hold out their hands to be tied, but the soldiers brush them aside, grabbing the children instead. Terror-stricken, the children scream for help, kicking and biting in their futile struggle to escape. The parents lunge forward, only to be restrained by other soldiers.

The only consolation for the parents is the certainty that, if God doesn’t intervene, the children will die quickly. The fire in the furnace is even hotter than the year before.

But the furnace is mere window dressing. A stage prop for the drama that’s about to unfold.

"Bring the branding irons." The king’s voice sends a demonic chill down the spines of the Hebrew parents as it dawns on them what’s in store for their children. Again they struggle to free themselves. But it’s useless.

This time, perhaps for the same reasons that have applied to countless other situations (reasons that have baffled spiritual people for millennia), God doesn’t intervene. The branding irons don’t suddenly grow cold when they make contact with the children’s skin. No laws of nature are suspended. No miraculous way of escape is provided. And the screams cause even the case-hardened soliders to wince and try to look away.

More red-hot irons are brought.

The Hebrew parents seem to be arguing among themselves about something. Are they thinking of complying? Is the sacrifice too great? Is it moral for parents to make decisions that subject innocent children to such torture?

The king raises his hand. The soldiers only too willingly pull the hot irons away from the once-beautiful skin of the children, which is now burned beyond recognition. "Do you wish to say anything now?" the king asks the parents.

With tears streaming down their cheeks the three Hebrews couples look up at Nebuchadnezzar. "O king," says the one who seems to be the spokesman, "we’ve talked this over and…"

"Unfortunately," said the overseer at the British Museum (or was it the Cairo Museum?), "the rest of the cuneiform tablet is broken off. So we don’t know for sure how the story ends. But, given all the other stories in the Bible, I don’t think it’s too hard to figure out."

He seemed absolutely certain. I wasn’t so sure.

EMAIL THIS ARTICLE