From the hill country of Ephraim lived a Levite, a man who sought companionship and found it in a woman from Bethlehem in Judah. She became his concubine… but her heart wandered. One day, she left him and returned to her father's house in Bethlehem.
Four moons passed before the Levite's longing overcame his pride. He saddled his donkeys, took a servant, and went to speak kindly to her—to bring her home.
When her father saw him at the gate, joy broke over his face. He welcomed the Levite as family, urging him to stay. Days passed—one, then two, then three—as wine flowed and laughter filled the house. Even when the Levite rose to leave, the old man would plead, "Stay a little longer, refresh yourself, and go tomorrow."
By the fifth day, the Levite's patience thinned. Though evening shadows stretched across the road, he turned his back on Bethlehem and set out with his servant and concubine toward the north.
As the sun bled red over the horizon, the servant said, "Master, let us rest in Jebus—it is near."
But the Levite shook his head. "No. We will not sleep among strangers. We will go to Gibeah, among our own people."
They reached Gibeah of Benjamin at nightfall. In the square they waited, weary and unwelcomed, for no one offered them shelter. At last, an old man returning from his fields saw them. His heart was moved, and he said, "Come, my friends. Do not spend the night here in the open. You will find rest under my roof."
Inside, there was warmth—bread, water, and peace. But outside, the city's men, vile and twisted in their desires, gathered in the darkness. They pounded on the door, shouting, "Bring out the man who came to your house! We want him!"
The old man's voice trembled as he stepped out. "No, my brothers, do not do such wickedness. This man is my guest." But they would not listen.
In fear and desperation, the Levite seized his concubine and thrust her outside. The door shut. The night swallowed her screams.
Hour after hour, the darkness feasted on cruelty. When dawn touched the rooftops, they released her—broken, silent, and empty. She dragged herself to the threshold of the house and fell, her hands clutching the door that had once promised safety.
When the Levite rose in the morning and opened the door, there she lay.
"Get up," he whispered. "Let us go."
But there was no voice—only stillness.
He lifted her lifeless body onto his donkey and rode home in silence.
There, in a fury of grief and horror, he took a knife. With trembling hands, he cut her body into twelve pieces—one for each tribe of Israel—and sent them across the land with a message that burned like fire:
"Look upon this evil. Such a thing has never been done since we left Egypt. Consider it. Speak of it. Tell us what must be done."
And all Israel trembled. For sin had no king—and in its silence, it had become monstrous.