2 Chronicles 35:23–25

King Josiah, the great reformer of Judah, is mortally wounded at Megiddo and dies upon being brought back to Jerusalem — a death that plunges all of God's people into grief. The prophet Jeremiah himself composes lamentations in Josiah's honor, a mourning so profound that it became a national ordinance in Israel. These verses hold in tension the mystery of a righteous man's untimely death, the communal nature of holy grief, and the theological problem of why the just suffer.

Verse 23 — "Take me away, for I am seriously wounded" The arrow-wound of Josiah at Megiddo is narrated with stark human immediacy. The king who had swept idols from the Temple and renewed the covenant with breathtaking energy is undone not by apostasy but by a military miscalculation — he had insisted, against the word of Pharaoh Neco (who claimed, astonishingly, to carry a divine message; cf. 35:21–22), on meeting Egypt in battle. The word translated "seriously wounded" (Hebrew hālâ mě'ōd, "I am very ill / gravely sick") strips the warrior-king of all royal pretension. He is mortal, broken, and aware of it. The reader feels the shock: this is the man who, upon hearing the Law read aloud, tore his robes and wept before God (2 Chr 34:19). The same heart that trembled at God's word now trembles at death.

Verse 24 — Transfer, Death, Burial, and National Mourning The transfer from one chariot to a second may reflect the king's deteriorating condition — his royal war-chariot perhaps conspicuous and exposed, a secondary vehicle offering a less prominent retreat. He is brought to Jerusalem, the city of David, the city of the Temple he had so faithfully restored. His burial "in the tombs of his fathers" is a mark of honor (contrast the dishonored burial of wicked kings), yet it carries an undeniable pathos: this is where the story ends, in the sepulchres of the dead. The phrase "all Judah and Jerusalem mourned for Josiah" is remarkable — it is a communal grief, nation-sized. The Chronicler is not merely recording sentiment; corporate mourning in the Hebrew tradition is a theological act, an acknowledgment that something irreplaceable has been lost to the whole people of God.

Verse 25 — Jeremiah's Lament and the Institutionalization of Grief That Jeremiah personally composed laments for Josiah elevates this mourning to the level of sacred literature. The "Book of Lamentations" as we have it in the canon concerns the destruction of Jerusalem, not Josiah's death — which suggests that the "lamentations" mentioned here were either a now-lost composition or a liturgical genre associated with Josiah's memory that fed into the broader Lamentations tradition. The Chronicler's note that these laments became "an ordinance in Israel" — a fixed, public, institutionalized ritual — is theologically significant. Israel is not instructed to suppress grief but to ritualize it, to give holy mourning a permanent place in the calendar of communal memory. Grief over the righteous dead is not weakness; it is an act of faith and fidelity. The phrase "to this day" anchors the narrative in living tradition — the author and his audience still inhabit the world shaped by Josiah's death.

Catholic tradition brings several distinctive lenses to bear on these verses. First, the mystery of innocent suffering. The Catechism of the Catholic Church (CCC 272) affirms that "God permits" evils He does not will, and that faith trusts in His goodness even when providence is inscrutable. Josiah's death — righteous king, covenant-renewer, faithful reformer — is precisely the kind of scandal the Catechism addresses: "We firmly believe that God is master of the world and of its history. But the ways of his providence are often unknown to us" (CCC 314). The Church has never demanded tidy theodicy; it has demanded trust.

Second, the sanctification of grief. Catholic tradition, rooted in the Psalms and the Prophets, has always held that mourning the dead is not merely natural but spiritually meritorious. The Church institutionalizes mourning in the Office of the Dead, Requiem Masses, and the liturgical commemoration of the departed. Josiah's institutionalized lamentation is the Old Testament root of this impulse. St. John Chrysostom, in his homilies on the dead, drew on the communal mourning of Israel to justify and ennoble the Church's funeral liturgy.

Third, typology and Christ. St. Cyril of Alexandria and later St. Thomas Aquinas in the Catena Aurea recognized the typological resonance between the mourning over Josiah-at-Megiddo and Zechariah's prophecy of mourning over the pierced one (Zech 12:10–11). The Second Vatican Council's Dei Verbum (§15) affirmed that the Old Testament books "contain matters imperfect and provisional" yet "show forth a divine pedagogy" — in Josiah's death, God is schooling Israel in the grammar of redemptive suffering that will reach its fullness in the Cross.

Josiah's death poses a question every serious Catholic eventually faces: Why do faithful people suffer and die without seeing the fruit of their labors? Josiah never witnessed the full restoration of Israel — he died as the exile loomed. Yet his faithfulness was not wasted. The Chronicler preserves it. Jeremiah sings of it. It becomes an ordinance. Catholics who pour themselves into parish renewal, family catechesis, pro-life witness, or works of mercy — and who die before seeing results — are living in Josiah's shadow. The Church's answer is not "your suffering makes sense now" but rather "your suffering is written down, remembered, and woven into the living tradition." Concretely: when grief over a righteous person's death threatens to feel purposeless, Catholic practice invites us to institutionalize that grief — in Masses offered for the dead, in litanies of the saints, in keeping alive the memory of holy people we have lost. Grief given a ritual form becomes an act of faith.