In 2 Chronicles 16 we stand once more with King Asa of Judah, watching as a ruler who began so faithfully begins to waver under the weight of political realities. After years of peace and prosperity—brought about by his early reforms and steadfast trust in the Lord—Asa faces a renewed threat from Baasha, king of Israel. Baasha’s forces have advanced, fortifying Ramah to cut off access to Judah’s northern border, effectively strangling trade and communication. For a man who once trusted in divine intervention on the battlefield, this is a moment of grave anxiety.
Asa’s response is at first a familiar one—he summons Judah’s armies and prepares to defend his land. Yet rather than turning again to the Lord in prayer, he takes counsel from human ambition. He dispatches envoys loaded with silver and gold from his own treasury and from the treasures dedicated at the temple. These precious metals become the ransom he sends to Ben-Hadad, king of Aram, whose territory lies to the northeast. Asa calls on this foreign power to press Baasha from his fortifications at Ramah.
We can almost see the disquiet in the camp at Gibeon, where Asa’s officers watch their king entrust the nation’s security to an ally whose convictions do not match their own. Yet within days, the plan unfolds as Asa hoped: Ben-Hadad’s armies surge against the cities of Israel—Dan, Abel-maim, Janoah, along with all the forts of Naphtali—forcing Baasha to withdraw from Ramah to defend his own realm. Ramah is left unguarded, and Asa orders its stones and timber torn down, carrying the rubble to build fortified towns in Geba and Mizpah. In that moment we feel a grim satisfaction: Asa’s scheme has succeeded, Judah’s borders have been cleared, and the northern threat has been repelled.
But success in human terms often carries a hidden cost. Word of what Asa has done reaches Hanani the seer, a prophet whose eyes remain fixed on the Lord rather than on political gains. Hanani meets Asa beyond the city’s gates, and with a calm yet cutting voice he offers his judgment: “Because you have relied on the king of Aram and not relied on the Lord your God, the army of the king of Aram has escaped from your hand. Were not the Cushites and Libyans a mighty army with great numbers of chariots and horsemen? Yet because you relied on the Lord, he gave them into your hand. For the eyes of the Lord run to and fro throughout the whole earth, to give strong support to those whose heart is loyal to him.”
In Hanani’s words we hear the echo of Judah’s earlier deliverances—the memory of when Asa trusted in divine rather than human strength, and God delivered his enemies into his hands. Now, however, Asa’s reliance on wealth and foreign alliances has cost him not only divine favor but also the counsel of a true prophet. As the crowd disperses, we see a bitter change in Asa’s heart: instead of welcoming Hanani’s rebuke, he reacts with anger, imprisoning the prophet and oppressing some of his own people. The man who once tore down idols and led the nation in covenant renewal now silences the remnant voice of divine correction, fearful of facing his own errant choices.
This chapter doesn’t leave us in the dust of disappointment, however, but in the slow dawn of reflection. We learn that dependence on God must be more than an occasional resort; it must shape every strategy, every treaty, every hope for security. When we build walls with gold rather than prayer, when we push prophets from our presence in favor of advisors who flatter our plans, we risk the very foundation of our strength. The story warns that victories rooted in alliances of convenience can unravel under the first test of faithfulness.
In the forty-first year of his reign, Asa’s story takes another turn. We read that he becomes diseased in his feet, and though his illness is severe, he turns not to the Lord but to physicians for healing. In that choice we recall his earlier refusing to trust in God’s arm, and now a human remedy seems his only recourse. We imagine the palace hallways lined with physicians’ instruments, the echo of Asa’s cane tapping across stone floors as he seeks relief in all the wrong places. Yet no detail is given of whether his illness improves; the narrative simply notes that he died in a time of sickness, having relied more on human strength than on divine promise.
Reflecting on 2 Chronicles 16, we see how even a king chosen for covenant faithfulness can stumble when the tug of expedience grows stronger than the memory of what once defined him. Asa’s life teaches us that true victory depends on where we place our trust—not in silver and gold, not in treaties and armies, but in the One whose eyes flow across the earth, seeking hearts that remain loyal. His example asks us to examine our own choices: when crises loom, do we rush to the nearest ally, or do we first bend our knees in prayer? When wise counsel contradicts our ambitions, do we embrace correction, or do we silence the voices that would keep us true?
As we close the chapter on Asa’s reign, we are reminded that leaders—and all of us—must guard the channels of divine guidance in our lives. We must welcome prophets, we must remember past acts of mercy, and we must choose humility over pride. Only then can our walls stand firm, not merely against foreign foes, but against the subtle siege of self-reliance that erodes the very blessings we once celebrated. In the quiet aftermath of Asa’s story, we hear that still, small voice calling us back to wholehearted loyalty, inviting us to build our trust not on earthly treasures but on the unshakable promise of a faithful God.