“Beware that you are not led astray; for many will come in my name and say, ‘I am he!’ and ‘The time is near!’ Do not go after them.”
An emergency-room nurse was working in the hospital during the worst months of the pandemic. Every day she walked into a place filled with uncertainty, short-staffed shifts, overwhelmed patients, grieving families, and a constant sense that the normal world had fallen apart.
One night, after a grueling 14-hour shift, she stood in the parking lot with a coworker who said, “I don’t know how you keep doing this. Aren’t you terrified?”
The other nurse paused for a long moment before answering:
“I am scared. Every shift. But fear isn’t the only voice. There’s another voice that says: You’re here for a reason. Someone needs you today. Show up one more time.”
This nurse wasn’t heroic in a Hollywood sense. She didn’t feel brave. But she showed up, one day at a time, one patient at a time, steady, faithful, enduring.
Later, she said something deeply spiritual without ever intending to preach:
“Not every day was a miracle. Most days were just… endurance. But I learned that if you keep showing up, grace keeps showing up too.”
Today’s gospel passage from Luke is about endurance. This story is about the long haul and that our spiritual journey is not a sprint but rather a marathon. Each day, we must pick up our cross, whatever that may be, and keep moving forward.
As the disciples walk with Jesus near the Temple, they cannot help but be impressed. The building glowed with white marble, gilded with gold, surrounded by enormous stones, some weighing more than 100 tons. It was the center of religious life, national identity, and spiritual pride. It was, in the eyes of the people, one thing that could not fall. It defined their stability.
A modern equivalent would be the Washington National Cathedral in Washington, DC. DC is filled with significant, large buildings made of marble and stone, but towering above them is the Washington National Cathedral. It is the second-largest church building in the United States; the largest is St. John the Divine in New York City, and it is the third-tallest building in DC. The sanctuary of the Church is so large that you could lay the Washington Monument on its side in the center aisle and still not touch the ends.
A few years ago, I had the privilege of participating in a service at the cathedral. I was awestruck by the size of the place. President Theodore Roosevelt was present at the laying of the cornerstone in 1907, and George H.W. Bush was present, 83 years later, when the final stone was laid in 1990. And I thought our 10-month home renovation took forever!
When I hear descriptions of the Temple in Jerusalem, this is the Church I think about.
Standing there with his disciples, looking at the Temple, the place they believe God lives, Jesus says, “Not one stone will be left upon another,” He is not just talking about architecture. He is talking about everything we assume will last forever. Everything that seems immovable. Everything we use to keep fear at bay.
The disciples ask, “When will this be?” They want certainty. A timeline. A sense of control. And Jesus does not give it; instead, Jesus teaches them how to live when the world feels like it is coming apart.
His words are sobering wars and insurrections. Nation rising against nation. Earthquakes, famines, plagues. Even betrayal and persecution. Fear, uncertainty, chaos
Jesus names the truth: this world is not as stable as we imagine. The stones fall. The institutions collapse. The norm we cling to does not stay normal forever.
But Jesus does not leave His disciples, nor us, in fear. In fact, He does something remarkable. He reframes these crises not as signs of God’s absence, but as opportunities for God’s faithful witness.
Jesus is not telling His people to deny reality. He is not saying “don’t worry, nothing bad will happen.” In fact, He promises that hard things will come. But He also promises this: God’s presence is not dependent on worldly stability.
When the disciples feel fear rising, Jesus says, “Do not be terrified.” Not because we are strong, but because God is.
Fear shrinks our vision. Fear makes us cling to old stones. Fear turns us against one another. Fear causes us to act irrationally. Fear causes retreat into our own little world. Fear tries to convince us that the world’s chaos is more potent than God’s promise. But Jesus says, ‘Lift your eyes.’ The world may tremble, but God does not.
Then Jesus says, “This will give you an opportunity to testify.”
What an extraordinary thing for Jesus to say. When the world falters, the Church is not called to panic. The Church is not called to retreat into our sanctuaries. The Church is not called to hate others. When chaos surrounds us, the Church is called to bear a bold witness.
And not witness through strength, through legislation and nationalism, but through hope. Not through certainty, but through trust. Not through easy answers, but through steadfast love.
Christians across history have found that moments of instability often reveal the most profound truths: When everything else is stripped away, what remains? When the familiar foundations crack, what truly holds us up? When fear rises, what voice do we follow?
Jesus promises His disciples that when they face trials, He Himself will give them “words and wisdom.” The presence of Christ is not a doctrine; it is a lived reality. At the moment they feel most alone, Christ will speak through them.
A few years ago, I fell and broke my ankle and needed surgery. I had never had surgery, and I had only broken one bone before this. In fact, up to that time, I had only had stitches once in my life. Needless to say, I was a bit nervous about what was going to happen.
I trusted the surgical team that they knew what they were doing, but when the nurse came and wheeled me in, I panicked. I was short of breath and could not control myself. I was in unfamiliar territory and was no longer in control.
As I lay there in the bed, I was trying to calm myself when one of the nurses noticed I was a bit agitated. He came over and asked if I was okay, then he put his hand on my foot, looked me in the eye, and told me to close my eyes and take some deep breaths.
Before I knew it, I was calm. When I opened my eyes, he was gone, and I never saw him again. I was able to pray, not that God would heal my ankle so I could avoid surgery, although that would have been nice, I prayed for the surgical team and for me.
That nurse, that prayer, and the wonderful dose of Haldol I received helped me get through my ordeal. But I felt God’s presence with me at that moment, when I was most fearful; God was there.
Then Jesus says, “By your endurance you will gain your souls.”
Endurance, in Scripture, is not passive. It is not gritting our teeth or waiting for the storm to pass. Faith is not passive. Faith requires us to do something.
Endurance means faithfulness over time. It means holding onto Christ, even when the world around us is shifting. It means refusing to let fear rewrite the story of our lives.
The endurance Jesus speaks of is the slow, steady trust that God is still God, even now. That love is still stronger than hate. That mercy still has power. That hope still matters.
This is not the endurance of heroes; it is the endurance of people who know they are held and loved by God.
Like the disciples, the ER nurse I spoke about lived in a time when the “stones” of normal life had fallen. She didn’t get certainty, control, or a clear timeline.
But she discovered the very thing Jesus promises: Fear is real, but we don’t have to be ruled by it. Difficult times are opportunities to bear witness through compassion. Endurance, faithful showing up, often reveals God’s presence most clearly.
Her story reminds us that endurance isn’t glamorous; it’s faithful presence. And as Jesus says, “By your endurance you will gain your souls.”
I know I don’t have to tell you this, but we live in a world that feels unstable. I cannot remember a time when I daily felt the sands under my feet shifting.
The news can feel like an echo of Luke 21. Conflict. Division. Uncertainty. Anxiety. Cultural shifts that shake our assumptions. Personal losses that feel like the falling of stones we thought would always stand.
Jesus’ message is not, “These things will never happen,” but rather: “You are not alone when they do.”
When our world shakes, Christ remains the solid ground. When fear rises, Christ speaks peace. When persecution, betrayal, or hardship come, Christ gives us wisdom. When the future is uncertain, Christ anchors our souls.
The Gospel is not that God prevents all trials. The Gospel is that God transforms them. The Gospel is not that the stones will always stand. The Gospel is that even when they fall, Christ remains. The Gospel is not that our lives will be free from struggle. The Gospel is that nothing, not even struggle, can separate us from the love of God.
Paul, writing to the Church in Rome, says, “For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.”
Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Can separate us from God’s love!
Jesus does not promise an easy path. But He promises a faithful one. He does not promise the world will stand firm. He promises He will. He does not promise we will avoid difficulty. He promises we will not face it alone.
One of my favorite church songs is “Be not afraid.”
If you pass through raging waters in the sea, you shall not drown.
If you walk amid the burning flames, you shall not be harmed.
If you stand before the pow’r of hell and death is at your side, know that I am with you through it all.
Be not afraid. I go before you always. Come, follow me, and I will give you rest. Amen.
