Sermon Based on Luke 21:5-19
I heard a story about fourth-grade class that was given a choice between two rewards. The class had been recognized for consistent school attendance, and they could vote on what kind of celebration they wanted: either a homework pass or the chance to bring a stuffed animal to school.
Now, I would’ve bet money they’d choose the homework pass. I mean, who wouldn’t? But they surprised everyone. They chose the stuffed animal.
One kid told their parents, “You know, there’s really no such thing as a homework pass. You might get to skip it for that day, but you still have to learn it.”
There’s wisdom in that—ten-year-old wisdom, but wisdom all the same. They seemed to know something we adults sometimes forget: the hard things don’t just go away. You can delay them, but you can’t skip them. And sometimes, when life’s challenges show up, the best you can do is bring along something soft and comforting—something that helps you endure.
Maybe it’s that same truth Jesus was trying to get across when he looked around at the temple and said, “All these stones you see, every one of them will be thrown down.”
The Unthinkable
The Jerusalem temple was one of the most beautiful structures in the ancient world. Herod the Great had spent eighty years expanding and refurbishing it. He built new foundation walls, hired the most skilled artisans, and used white marble slabs the size of small houses. Tapestries of fine linen—blue, scarlet, and purple—hung at its entrance, and gold-plated doors gleamed in the sunlight.
It was the pride of the Jewish people, the center of worship, the symbol of God’s presence among them. And it was also, quite literally, a political statement. Herod had rebuilt the temple not just for God, but to show off—to prove his power to both Rome and his own people.
So when Jesus said it would all come crashing down, people were stunned. How could that be? How could something so permanent, so central to faith, be destroyed?
By the time Luke wrote these words, that destruction had already happened. The Romans had torn the temple to the ground in 70 CE, leaving behind only rubble and grief. For Luke’s community, the question wasn’t, “When will it happen?” but “What do we do now that it has?”
And maybe that’s our question, too. Because life has a way of knocking down the things we thought would last forever.
The job we thought was secure. The family that was unbreakable. The body that once felt strong. The institutions we trusted to keep us safe.
We all know what it feels like when the stones start to fall.
Impermanence and Power
When the disciples looked up at the temple, they saw permanence. They saw power. But Jesus saw something else.
He saw the instability beneath it all. He knew that what looks unshakable can crumble overnight. He knew that Herod’s shiny marble monument was built on fear and control. It was a projection of strength masking deep insecurity, like so many of the “temples” we build today.
Jesus wanted them to see that human achievement, no matter how impressive, doesn’t last forever. Nations rise and fall. Economies shift. Buildings crumble. Empires fade.
The question isn’t whether they will fall. The question is where our faith will rest when they do.
Luke’s Gospel subtly shifts the focus from the grandeur of the temple to the story that came just before it, the widow who offered two small coins in the temple treasury. Her gift was small, but it was faithful. Her trust wasn’t in the temple’s walls or the wealth it represented, but in God’s enduring presence.
So maybe Jesus was saying, Don’t get distracted by the stones. Pay attention to the widow. Pay attention to what lasts.
When the Ground Shifts
Jesus goes on to describe what sounds like a global unraveling: wars, earthquakes, famines, plagues, betrayals, persecution. It’s an unsettling list. But it’s also not meant to be predictive in a literal sense. Luke’s audience had already seen war and destruction.
Apocalyptic language like this was common in the ancient world. It wasn’t meant to chart out a timetable for the end times, it was meant to give meaning to suffering. It was meant to tell people, Hold on. God is still here.
Every age has its own earthquakes and false prophets. Every generation thinks the world is ending. But apocalyptic writing reminds us that even when everything looks like chaos, God’s story is still unfolding.
It’s not a code to decipher. It’s a promise to trust.
“Do not be terrified,” Jesus says. “These things must take place, but the end will not follow immediately.”
The point isn’t to predict, but to persevere.
The Opportunity to Testify
Jesus then tells his disciples that persecution is coming—that they will be arrested, betrayed, even hated. But rather than offering an escape plan, he says something strange: “This will provide you an opportunity to testify.”
I don’t know about you, but that’s not the kind of opportunity most of us are looking for. We prefer opportunities that involve good news, or at least comfort. But Jesus reframes adversity as a moment of witness.
He says, “Make up your minds not to prepare your defense in advance.I’ll give you words and wisdom that none of your opponents will be able to counter or contradict.”
It sounds like bad advice at first. If you know trouble is coming, wouldn’t you want to prepare? But Jesus’ words are not about neglect—they’re about trust.
He’s saying: You don’t have to script your faith ahead of time. You don’t have to have all the answers. You just have to show up and trust that God will give you what you need in that moment.
Faith, in this passage, is less about mastery and more about surrender. It’s less about control and more about courage.
And that’s good news for anyone who’s ever felt like they didn’t know what to say or how to keep going. Jesus is saying, You don’t have to prepare your defense. You just have to bear witness to my love, right where you are.
History Repeats
We’ve seen this kind of faith lived out before. In the book of Acts—the sequel to Luke’s Gospel—the early church faces the very trials Jesus describes: persecution, imprisonment, betrayal. And yet, they find words and wisdom when they need them most.
Stephen, the first martyr, testifies with grace. Paul speaks truth to power before kings. The Spirit moves through ordinary people who endure hardship with hope.
And through it all, the gospel spreads, not because the church was powerful, but because it was faithful.
That same pattern has continued through history.
And that’s the kind of endurance Jesus is talking about. Not stoic toughness, but faithful persistence. Not denial of pain, but hope in the midst of it.
Endurance and Resurrection
When Jesus tells his disciples, “By holding fast, you will gain your lives” (or said in another translation) “By your endurance you will gain your souls,” he isn’t calling them to grit their teeth and hang on through sheer willpower. He’s inviting them into a kind of endurance that comes from trust in God’s ongoing presence.
The Greek word for “endurance,” hypomonē, doesn’t mean stubbornness—it means steadfastness. It’s the quiet strength that allows a tree to bend in the wind without breaking. It’s the faith to hold on, not because we’re strong, but because God is faithful.
The Apostle Paul echoes this in Romans 5: “We boast in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope—and hope does not disappoint us, because God’s love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit.”
This kind of endurance doesn’t deny pain. It transforms it. It’s not an escape from hardship; it’s a trust that God is at work within it.
David Livingstone, the missionary to Africa, once prayed, “Lord, send me anywhere, only go with me. Lay any burden on me, only sustain me.” And he testified, “What has sustained me is the promise, ‘Lo, I am with you always, even to the end of the world.’”
That’s the promise Jesus gives his followers. Not an easy road, but a faithful companion.
When Endurance Isn’t Enough
One of the commentaries points out that this passage shouldn’t be cut short. It belongs to a larger scene that continues beyond verse 19—a scene that moves from destruction to cosmic upheaval to the promise of redemption.
If you stop too soon, it sounds like Jesus is saying that our job is simply to endure. But if you read further, you realize endurance is not the end goal—resurrection is.
Endurance is what gets you through the night. Resurrection is what greets you in the morning.
Luke’s audience already knew what it meant for their world to collapse. The temple was gone. The city was trampled. Their faith community was scattered. But Luke insists: even in the ashes, God is not done.
In fact, the chapter ends with a beautiful image—crowds of people gathering early each morning to listen to Jesus teach in the temple. Even as destruction looms, the people of God gather, waiting for redemption together.
Maybe that’s the real invitation here: to be a people who wait together for resurrection.
Waiting Together
Every church I know has its own version of this waiting. Some wait for renewal after a difficult season. Some wait for reconciliation after conflict. Some wait for healing, or for a sense of direction, or for the courage to rebuild after loss.
But waiting isn’t passive. It’s not about sitting still—it’s about staying faithful.
In Luke 21, Jesus’ words are not meant to terrify. They’re meant to anchor. When the world shakes, we lift our heads, not because we’re fearless, but because we know who holds the world together.
That’s the difference between apocalyptic panic and apocalyptic faith. Panic says, “The world is ending.” Faith says, “God is still here.”
And maybe that’s what we need to remember in our own moment—when the news cycle feels like one long apocalypse, when institutions we trusted seem to falter, when even the church struggles to find its footing.
Jesus never said it would be easy. But he did promise we would never be alone.
The Stones and the Soul
In the end, this passage isn’t really about the temple at all. It’s about the soul.
Buildings fall. Systems crumble. Certainties collapse. But what endures is the Spirit of God within us—the same Spirit that carried the early church through persecution, that inspired the prophets to speak, that empowers us still to live as witnesses of hope.
The temple may have been destroyed, but faith wasn’t. In fact, the Spirit of God transcended those walls and spread into the world. The same is true today. The Spirit still moves beyond the boundaries we think contain it—beyond denominations, beyond politics, beyond even the structures we call “church.”
Our calling isn’t to protect the stones. It’s to be living witnesses of the love that cannot be destroyed.
Holding On When the Stones Fall
When Jesus said, “Not one stone will be left on another,” he wasn’t issuing a threat. He was offering an invitation—to stop clinging to what cannot last, and to start trusting the One who always will.
Because in the end, faith isn’t about holding everything together. It’s about being held together by God.
It’s about learning to stand when everything else falls apart. It’s about bearing witness when the world seems lost. It’s about trusting that the same Spirit who gave words to the persecuted disciples will also give strength to us when we need it most.
And maybe, in the middle of it all, it’s about having the wisdom of those fourth graders—knowing that the hard things can’t always be avoided, but they can be endured when you have something—or someone—who goes with you.
We don’t get a homework pass in life. But we do get a companion.
So when the stones start to fall, when the future feels uncertain, and when your heart feels heavy, remember this promise:
Not a hair of your head will perish.
By your endurance, you will gain your soul.
And the God who holds the universe together will hold you, too. Amen.
Sermon by: Rev. Dave Wasson
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