In 2 Kings 23 we stand with Josiah on a day that feels like the turning of a great tide for Judah. Word of the book of the Law, discovered in the temple, has reached every corner of Jerusalem, and the young king has summoned elders, priests, Levites, and all the people to hear its words and renew their covenant with the Lord. We can almost see the sunrise breaking over the temple mount as Josiah takes his place where Solomon once stood, and in that quiet dawn he makes a promise: he and the people will walk in the statutes of the Lord with all their hearts and souls.
What follows is a sweeping cleansing of the land. Josiah moves through Judah as though on a pilgrimage of restoration, tearing down every high place and shrine to foreign gods. At Bethel, where Jeroboam once set up a golden calf to keep Israel from worshiping at Jerusalem, Josiah destroys the altar and grinds its stones to dust. We can imagine his breath catching as he scales the hill, picks up the heavy stones, and flings them down, each one a symbol of his nation’s long betrayal. The ruined calves are broken, the Asherah poles hewn down, and what had become a monument to rebellion returns to rubble.
But Bethel is only the beginning. Josiah sends his messengers north to dismantle shrines in Samaria, making plain that the reforms are not limited to his own territory but extend across the borders of the former kingdom. In the lampstands’ soft glow we sense the hush of departure as priests pack away the carved images, high places abandoned, fields once stained by pagan rites now left fallow, ready for a new planting. Everywhere the king’s command echoes: “Remove these abominations. Let Judah serve the Lord alone.”
The cleansing continues in the very heart of Jerusalem. Josiah orders the removal of all the temple furnishings that had been consecrated to Baal when Judah’s leaders strayed. The bronze sea, the ten stands, the pots and shovels—each instrument of worship is restored to the Lord’s use. He demands the priests’ robes be cleansed, the altars rebuilt according to the pattern of the Law, and the daily offerings resumed with the exact number of lambs required. We can almost hear the trumpets of the Levites, the low murmur of confession, and the steady beat of the temple drums as worship returns to its rightful rhythm.
Perhaps the most stirring moment comes when Josiah calls for the celebration of Passover. For centuries that festival had been diminished, observed without the full commands Moses had laid down. Now, on the fourteenth day of the first month, he reunites the people at the temple, from the greatest to the humblest. From the courtyard’s outer gate to the inner sanctum, families gather around their lambs, and the air fills with the scent of roasted offering and the sound of shared songs. Two priests offer the sacrifices, aided by Levites who blow the trumpets and sound the cymbals. The entire assembly keeps the feast with joy, unhampered by the presence of foreigners, and for the first time in living memory, it becomes a national outpouring of faith.
In each town that once hosted high places—Topheth, Moresheth, Gezer—Josiah’s men dismantle the worship sites, hewing altars to pieces and filling their depressions with human bones. The valley of Hinnom, known for child sacrifice, is cleansed, and the incense altars that once reeked of blood give way to quiet fields. We watch as communities step away from the edge of horror, the silence after the dismantling louder than any lament.
Yet amid these triumphant reforms, a tender note emerges when Josiah finds the tomb of the prophet who cursed the altar at Bethel decades earlier. The king instructs the men to bring the bones of that man and to bury them at the altar’s site, turning a place of judgment into a resting place of honor. In that act of mercy we see the heart of his reign: justice balanced with compassion, the realization that purity of worship includes respect for those who spoke God’s word, even when it meant reproach.
As 2 Kings 23 draws to its close, we witness not only the emptying of shrines but the clearing of hearts. Josiah’s renewed covenant binds the people in sincerity rather than habit. The trumpet’s call, the altar’s fire, the shared Passover meal—all become reminders that true reformation flows from obedience, from tearing down idols both stone and secret, and from returning to the rhythms set by the One who first brought them out of Egypt.
In walking alongside Josiah through this chapter, we learn how revival depends on courage—courage to break what once bound us, to rebuild what once guided us, and to recommit our lives to the covenant that breathes life into a people. And we discover that the greatest renewal happens not in grand monuments but in hearts willing to tear down every barrier between them and the living God.