In 2 Kings 24 we feel the slow unraveling of Judah’s independence as one ruler after another makes choices that draw the nation deeper into crisis. It begins with Jehoiakim, whose eleven-year reign in Jerusalem is marked by vacillation between submission to Babylon and fleeting alliances with Egypt. At first he pays tribute to Nebuchadnezzar, offering silver and gold from the temple treasures in hopes of staving off destruction. Yet as soon as the immediate threat seems to recede, Jehoiakim’s heart turns toward rebellion. We can almost see him pacing the palace courts, torn between fear and pride, deciding that a foreign alliance might offer more hope than paying endless tribute to a distant king.
That decision proves costly. Nebuchadnezzar returns with a larger army, surrounding Jerusalem and tightening the siege. Jehoiakim’s own people grow desperate as fields go untended and the city’s granaries dwindle. He tries to hold the walls by force, but the king’s heart remains divided, and in the midst of the siege he dies and is buried with little mourning. His three sons—first Jehoahaz, then Jehoiachin, then Zedekiah—inherit thrones that have become traps rather than seats of power.
Jehoahaz takes the throne for a brief three months before Nebuchadnezzar deposes him and installs Jehoiachin as his puppet. Imagine the palace doors swinging open to usher in Buzi’s son, a young man barely old enough to understand the weight he now bears. He walks the same corridors where his father once sought alliances, yet instead of greeting foreign envoys he receives chains and exile. Nebuchadnezzar leads away the great and the noble of Judah—five thousand captives, warriors and skilled craftsmen alike—as though uprooting the very seed of leadership from the land. Only the poorest remain behind, left to wrestle with the ruins of a kingdom emptied not only of its treasures but also of its future.
In place of Jehoiachin, the Babylonian king names Mattaniah as king and changes his name to Zedekiah. We can sense the poignancy of that moment—Zedekiah’s new identity stamped by a foreign power, a king crowned in the shadow of his predecessor’s chains. Zedekiah inherits a throne that has been hollowed by defeat and dishonor. His first days as king could have been full of popular expectation, but instead they are overshadowed by the memory of Jehoiachin’s captivity and the silent absence of so many leaders and artisans.
As Zedekiah settles into the palace, the people of Jerusalem notice that this time the Babylonian grip seems even tighter. The temple’s treasures have already been plundered; the city’s walls are scarred by siege engines; the trust between ruler and ruled lies in shards like broken pottery on the temple mount. And yet, in the midst of such despair, there remains a whisper of hope—a hope that perhaps a new king might choose differently, that maybe Zedekiah’s youth could become the catalyst for genuine renewal rather than another round of rebellion.
But 2 Kings 24 leaves us in the moment before that possibility unfolds. It ends with the chilling note that Zedekiah will reign through eighteen more years, yet the trajectory of exile and destruction has already been set in motion. The choices of Jehoiakim, Jehoahaz, and Jehoiachin have hollowed the land of its trained hands and lifted its heart toward false hope. Now it falls to Zedekiah to either continue in the patterns of rebellion or to turn back to the covenant that once promised restoration.
For us today, this chapter feels deeply personal. We see how small compromises—seeking human alliances instead of trusting in divine faithfulness—can spiral into national catastrophe. We recognize how quickly wealth can be poured out to foreign powers, only to buy a brittle peace that shatters at the next threat. And we feel the pain of exile, not just of land and status, but of identity—when the very names and titles that once defined a person are stripped away by outside forces.
Yet even in this sobering narrative, a subtle hope remains. The very fact that the line of David continues through Zedekiah, that the poorest of Judah remain to care for the land, and that the story does not end with the exile but will continue into the exile, reminds us that God’s purposes transcend every human failure. When we face our own decisions—whether to rely on strength or to lean on mercy—we can learn from these kings’ downfalls. We can choose to rebuild rather than rebel, to restore what has been plundered rather than to follow the paths that lead to loss. And even when exile seems inevitable, we can hold fast to the promise that a new beginning may rise out of the ashes of defeat.