Malachi 4:1-2a Psalm 98 2 Thessalonians 3:6-13 Luke 21:5-19
Gosh, Jesus must’ve been fun to hang out with, eh? You’re wandering through a deeply impressive, hugely sacred space, admiring the temple; the stones, the beauty. And Jesus says: Not one stone will be left upon another. It’s not the kind of thing you say in polite company. No one wants to hear that the things we’ve built might crumble. But Jesus goes right to the heart and names the truth: everything built by human hands will one day tremble, might even be completely destroyed.
The disciples must’ve been more than a bit dismayed and they ask for a sign, ‘Teacher, when will this be, and what will be the sign that this is about to happen’ and Jesus says something that could be straight out of 2025 news, just as easily as it could be out of 1st century Palestine; ‘there will be wars…Nation will rise against nation, kingdom against kingdom; there will be great earthquakes, … famines and plagues; and …they will arrest you and persecute you’. Sound familiar?
We can hold this passage in one hand and our own world experiences in the other. Our own world is shaking. There’s wars and rumours of wars. The planet is heating beyond its limits. The gap between rich and poor yawns wider every year. We scroll and we grieve, caught between fury and fatigue, and we whisper, what on earth can we do?
And Jesus’ advice is very clear then, and still applies today, and it is this:
Do not be terrified…simply endure. Do not be terrified. Be aware, but not scared. And press on. By your endurance you will gain your souls. This current time might be characterised by destruction and anxiety, or stress and despair, but keep going. Endure. New life is always on its way.
On Wednesday night, some of us were in the council chambers listening to the councillors talking about this place. One of them described wandering through our grounds and being amazed by the beauty and inclusion of the place. Time and again, at weddings and funerals and random other times, people stop and say ‘I had no idea this was all here. It’s incredible’, as they admire it.
And I thought of this gospel passage as I heard those things this week. And then I thought of you lot and how many of you have come and joined this community, much more recently, and might not know our own remarkable story of destruction and rebuild, because there was significant temple trembling right here.
Now forgive me for the haziness and hyperbole of this storytelling, but when this church was first built the war interrupted the bricks and mortar and the guys got called up to fight. A temporary wall was erected here, at this east end, and the horrors of war meant those men never came home to finish this work. By 2010, with the temporary wall still in place, almost, there was a gaping space between wall and wall – so much so I am told you could stretch your hand through it to see if it was raining!
Some canny churchwardens or priest called an architect, and they didn’t quite say ‘As for this wall that you see, the days will come when not one stone will be left upon another; all will be thrown down’. But they said something like, ‘if you don’t do something, now, that wall is going to fall, and it will fall inwards, right on the people’.
It was sobering. The beloved building was in danger; the trusted stones were failing. But from that warning came something extraordinary. You dared to imagine what could rise from the risk — and slowly, prayerfully, this new space was born: the light-filled chapel, the amphitheatre open to the sky, with such stunning acoustics, the meeting rooms and gardens that have become places of welcome and renewal. A community living on site.
What could have been collapse became creation. Out of fear grew faith. Out of stone came space. What could have been destruction became resurrection. Our own buildings tell God’s own resurrection story, right here, in brick and timber and faith and courage. It’s what happens when people refuse despair, refuse to be terrified and dare to dream again.
So maybe it is true that when Jesus speaks of falling stones and raging nations, he isn’t describing the end of everything. He’s describing labour. Something ending — and something being born. And I’m told that the pain of birth always feels like the end, until the cry of new life is heard.
And perhaps this is the pattern of all true faith: to hold our grief and still choose to plant, to build what will bless generations we may never meet. To continue to create and co-create with the One who is always creating. To speak into the horror and the darkness, Let there be light. Let there be life. God’s first commandment is still God’s last.
Faith is not pretending everything is fine. It is planting gardens and communal spaces beside cracked walls. It is believing resurrection is always God’s rhythm. It is living and retelling and demonstrating the Christian story, because that begins again and again in the rubble — in the ruins of Jerusalem, in a borrowed rock-hewn tomb, in every broken heart and ruined life.
And that image of broken, destroyed, restored, re-storied, brings me, once again, to this table, to our holy meal. And maybe it explains why, every time we gather, we take bread — and we break it. The body of Christ, broken. The world’s pain, named and held. And from the breaking comes blessing. From the fragments, food. From the ruins, resurrection. What is shattered becomes shared. And somehow, by grace, the broken body becomes life for the world.
So, when the walls shake, and stones fall, we remember: this is not the end.
This is the moment God begins again.
And maybe our calling, in this world of shaking stones, is not to predict the end — but to midwife the new beginning. To live as if God’s kingdom is already breaking in — because it is. May it be so, amen.
Holy Adventures 