A Reflection on Luke 21:5-19
There's a moment in
Luke 21 that should stop us cold. The disciples are marveling at the temple, the
very dwelling place of God's presence among His people, adorned with beautiful
stones and sacred offerings. And Jesus, looking at this monument to faith and
sacrifice, says it will be utterly destroyed. Not one stone left upon another.
Then He speaks of wars, earthquakes, persecution, families torn apart,
disciples dragged before governors and kings. This is the Lord speaking. The
Word made flesh. And He's telling His closest friends that following Him leads
straight into the storm. What strikes me isn't just what He says, but who
is saying it, the One who holds all things together is telling us that
everything will fall apart. There's something almost unbearable about this,
until you realize: He's the one thing that won't.
Here's where it
pierces deeper. After describing all this devastation, Jesus says, "Not a
hair of your head will perish." Some will be put to death; He's just told
them, yet not a hair will perish. This isn't a contradiction; it's a
revelation. Jesus is distinguishing between what we can lose and what we are.
Your body, your reputation, your earthly life, these can be taken. But you, the
eternal you, the soul God breathed into existence and Jesus died to redeem, this
cannot be touched by any power in heaven or on earth except by your own choice
to turn from Him. When Jesus says, "by your endurance you will gain your
souls," He's not talking about gritting your teeth through hard times.
He's talking about holding fast to Him when everything else is stripped away
and discovering that He was all you ever truly had. That He is enough. That He
is everything.
This is why I keep
returning to the Rosary, especially now. When we pray the Sorrowful Mysteries,
we're not just remembering events from two thousand years ago; we're kneeling
at the foot of the Cross in this present moment. We're with our Lady as she
watches her Son suffer, and we're learning from her how to stand when
everything is darkness. She didn't understand it all. She couldn't stop it. But
she stayed. The Rosary teaches us our Lady’s posture: Fiat, let it be
done. Not passive resignation, but active surrender to the will of God even
when it breaks your heart. And then, this is the grace we need, the beads lead
us forward to the Resurrection, to the empty tomb, to Jesus Christ ascending in
glory, to the Holy Spirit falling like fire. The Rosary itself is Luke 21 in
prayer: through destruction to preservation, through death to life, through the
terror of Friday to the triumph of Sunday. Mary walks this path ahead of us, and
she's holding out her hand, always leading us to Jesus.
So what does Jesus
want from us when we read these words? I think He wants our illusions to die
before they kill our faith. He wants us to stop building kingdoms on sand, whether
those kingdoms are political, financial, relational, or even religious in the
shallow sense. The temple fell, just as He said. Empires have risen and
collapsed. The securities we cling to will fail us. But God will not. Jesus
will not. And here's the terrible, beautiful truth: sometimes He allows
everything else to fall away so we finally understand what we truly have in
Him. Not a comfortable life. Not protection from suffering. But Him. His
presence. His strength is in our weakness. His wisdom is on our lips when we
face our accusers. His hand is holding ours when we walk through fire. This
isn't the Gospel many want to hear, but it's the Gospel that saves us, not from
the storm, but while we are in it. Not around the Cross, but through it. And on
the other side: Glory. Life. Resurrection. Everything we were made for that
this world cannot give us.
©2025 James Dacey, Jr., OFS
