In 2 Kings 25 we stand with the people of Jerusalem at the final hour, watching a city collapse under the weight of siege, famine and divine judgment, yet still find human stories of grief, loyalty and a faint glimmer of hope. The siege that began under Zedekiah has dragged on until the walls lie in ruins and the land itself feels exhausted. Bread is so scarce that mothers lament their children, and fathers barter fields for a handful of grain. When the Babylonians finally break through, the breach at the city wall becomes a doorway not to freedom but to doom.
King Zedekiah slips out under cover of darkness, hoping to escape capture, but we can almost feel his heart pounding as he flees by night toward the plains near Jericho. His hopes fade when the Babylonian army, alerted to his route, overtakes him on the plains. They seize him and carry him back to Riblah in the land of Hamath, where Nebuchadnezzar himself has come to judge the king of Judah. We can hardly bear to imagine the moment when Zedekiah watches his sons butchered before his eyes, each life extinguished to break any claim he might have to the throne. It is a scene of heartbreak so profound that when Zedekiah’s own eyes are put out and he is bound in bronze chains, we feel the weight of exile press not only on his body but on the future of his people.
As the city burns, the smoke becomes a shroud over Jerusalem’s history. The temple, long the center of worship, is set ablaze, its walls collapsing under the fire’s roar. The palace and all its buildings go up in flame. We can almost hear the crackle of timber and the crash of stone as sacred spaces become heaps of ruin. The bronze pillars of the temple, the shovels and buckets used in daily sacrifice, the carts that once carried offerings—all are consumed or cast aside. Even the stones and timbers of the city are tossed into the valley of Kidron, as though the Babylonians wish to erase every trace of a nation that defied them.
Yet amid this desolation, a spark of compassion flickers in the figure of Nebuzaradan, the Babylonian captain of the guard. He spares the poorest of the land—those who have no part in the rebellion—and entrusts them to Gedaliah son of Ahikam, son of Shaphan, appointing him governor over the remnant in Judah. We sense his act as both pragmatic and merciful: he leaves behind a few to cultivate the land in exchange for tribute, ensuring that the valley of Jerusalem will not lie utterly fallow.
Gedaliah sets up his administration at Mizpah, where Judah’s broken leaders gather. We can almost taste the mixture of relief and fear in their cups when Gedaliah offers them wine, a gesture that binds them, if only for a moment, in a fragile peace. Yet peace is short-lived. Ishmael son of Nethaniah, driven by loyalty to the old royal lineage or perhaps by bitterness over Babylonian favor, murders Gedaliah and the Babylonian soldiers stationed there. He then strikes down the Judean citizens who rallied around Gedaliah’s governance. In the flicker between life and death, hopes for a tempered restoration flicker and die.
In Mizpah’s shattered courtyard, Johanan son of Kareah and the remaining leaders realize that no future can spring from this soil under Babylon’s shadow or Ishmael’s blade. They gather the rest—women, children, priests, even the daughters of the king—and flee toward Egypt, carrying with them the bones of Gedaliah and the broken dreams he represented. The people cross the Jordan, a living river of refugees, leaving behind the land promised to their ancestors, stepping not into salvation but into exile once more.
And yet the story does not end with the flight to Egypt. Centuries later, the man who once lay bound in Babylonian prison, Jehoiachin, is released by Evil-merodach, Nebuchadnezzar’s successor. We hear of a table set for him at the king’s side, a regular allowance of food and clothing. In that simple provision—bread and a robe—we sense a restoration not of throne or nation, but of human dignity. The line of David, though it seems broken beneath Jerusalem’s rubble, still draws a measure of honor in the halls of Babylon.
Reading 2 Kings 25 with us, we feel the ache of a people torn from home, the horror of children lost, the ruin of sacred places leveled by fire. We witness how political decisions—rebellion against Assyria, revolt against Babylon—carry the lives of ordinary families into exile. Yet amid the ashes, we also glimpse gestures of compassion: Gedaliah’s fragile governance, Nebuzaradan’s mercy to the poor, Evil-merodach’s gesture to a fallen king. These moments remind us that even in judgment, mercy finds its place. And so we carry the memory of Jerusalem’s destruction alongside the promise that God’s purposes, like Jehoiachin’s robe and bread, can shelter dignity even when kingdoms lie in dust.