We read in the Old Testament—almost like from a thriller—that there rose a man named Jehu, a warrior-turned-king, a man of Divine mission but also one of troubling legacy. It is a name seldom heard in homilies, yet deeply important in understanding how God deals with corruption, especially when it metastasizes at the highest levels.

Jehu was no priest. He wasn’t a mystic. He was a general. And he wasn’t gentle. He was a man summoned by God, not to heal—but to cut. To purge. To sever the unholy from the holy. Sometimes, that’s what it takes. Sometimes, mercy takes the form of surgical precision. Are we seeing that occur in the current-day world?

You decide.

The tale tracks back to the book of 2 Kings, in an era of moral rot in ancient Israel. The prophets Elijah and Elisha had long battled a spiritual disease spreading through the kingdom: the idolatry and witchcraft of Jezebel and the apostate king Ahab. Baal worship had infected the nation, the same way occultism and relativism poison our world today.

Jezebel?

There is even a group of witches called “Jezebel” that levels actual curses (and did so, though not calling for actual violence, against Charlie Kirk).

God had seen enough.

And so, quietly, almost covertly, a prophet was sent to anoint Jehu—a move not unlike sending a secret agent into the enemy’s camp. “You are to strike down the house of Ahab, your master,” said the young prophet. The mission was clear: the judgment of God was about to fall.

And Jehu obeyed.

He is remembered for many things, but perhaps most for how he rode—a furious charioteer, eyes forward, unstoppable. “He drives like a madman,” said the watchmen on the tower of Jezreel. There was something unearthly in his approach. One almost sees the wrath of Heaven in his wheels.

In one swift uprising, he shot King Joram in the back with an arrow—fulfilling prophecy. Then he pursued and killed Ahaziah, king of Judah, who had foolishly aligned with Ahab’s bloodline.

And then came the moment etched into eternity: he stood beneath the palace window and looked up at Jezebel—painted, arrogant, defiant.

She taunted him.

But Jehu spoke just a few words—and her own eunuchs threw her down. Her blood splattered the wall. Dogs devoured her in the street, as prophesied by Elijah. It was as if the ground itself rejected her.

Yet it turned out that Jehu was not done.

He sent word across the kingdom, pretending to honor Baal, inviting all its priests and worshipers to a great celebration. But this was not a feast. It was a trap. When they all had gathered in Baal’s temple, Jehu had them surrounded and slaughtered to the last. The temple was then reduced to rubble, and—remarkably—converted into a latrine.

Judgment, yes. But also purification.

What, then, does the story of Jehu say to us today?

We are in a time again of deep spiritual compromise—when Baal returns in new disguises: as secularism, gender confusion, occult fascination, materialism, and technological idolatry. We are again a land teetering, like Israel before Jehu.

God raises instruments in every age. Sometimes priests. Sometimes prophets. And sometimes—unexpectedly—soldiers. A billionaire? 

The warning of Jehu is clear: partial obedience is not enough. Outward victory does not guarantee inward holiness. It is possible to be the hammer of God—and yet still fall short.

In all this, Jehu fulfilled the words spoken by Elijah years before. He was God’s instrument, cleansing a kingdom. And yet—there is a haunting footnote. Jehu destroyed Baal. But he did not destroy all idols. The golden calves of Jeroboam, those old counterfeit shrines in Bethel and Dan, he left standing. Perhaps out of political convenience. Perhaps out of spiritual blindness.

In this, we see the tragedy. A man used by God, yet not fully surrendered. A man who brought fire—but not light. Various leaders can fit the bill.

Scripture says the Lord rewarded him by allowing his sons to reign for four generations. But in the book of Hosea (1:4), centuries later, the Lord declares: “I will punish the house of Jehu for the blood of Jezreel.” There had been obedience—but also excess. Zeal—but not always mercy.

It is a sobering reminder: Divine appointment does not equal Divine approval in all things.

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