Mal. 4:1-2; 2 Thess. 3:7-12; Lk. 21:5-19
That image — faith standing amidst ruins — captures the message of this Sunday’s readings. We are nearing the end of the liturgical year, when the Church invites us to meditate on the final things: the end of the world, the judgment of God, and the endurance of the righteous. These readings are not meant to frighten us but to strengthen us — to remind us that in a world of uncertainty, the only sure foundation is God.
The prophet Malachi, in the first reading, speaks of a day that will come like a blazing oven. The proud and the evildoers, he says, will be like stubble, consumed by the fire of God’s justice. But for those who fear the Lord, “the sun of righteousness will rise with healing in its wings.” (Mal 4:2) What a powerful image — the same sun that burns the wicked also heals the faithful. God’s light exposes sin but restores holiness. Malachi speaks to a people who had grown weary of waiting for justice. They saw the wicked prosper, the arrogant succeed, and wondered if serving God still mattered. But the prophet assures them: the day will come. God’s justice may be delayed, but it will not be denied.
This same tension — between weariness and faith, despair and endurance — echoes through the other readings. In the Gospel, Jesus gazes at the magnificent temple of Jerusalem. The disciples are in awe of its beauty, its stones adorned with precious gifts. But Jesus shocks them: “The days will come when there will not be left a stone upon another stone that will not be thrown down.” (Lk 21:6) The temple, the pride of Israel, will crumble. Their world will collapse. Yet Jesus tells them not to be terrified. Wars, earthquakes, plagues, and persecutions will come — but these are not the end. They are the birth pangs of a new beginning.
Every generation has its “temple” — something it believes will last forever: empires, economies, technologies, or even our own ambitions. But history teaches us that every human glory fades. The pyramids erode, the palaces fall, the towers burn, the systems we trust falter. The message of Jesus is not to cling to the perishable, but to build our lives on what cannot be destroyed — on faith, hope, and love.
St. Paul, writing to the Thessalonians, adds another dimension. He warns against idleness and discouragement. Some in the community had misunderstood the promise of Christ’s coming; they thought the end was imminent and so stopped working altogether, waiting for the sky to open. But Paul insists: “Anyone unwilling to work should not eat.” (2 Thess 3:10) Faith in the coming of the Lord is not an excuse for laziness or fatalism. On the contrary, it is a call to responsible living — to diligence, service, and perseverance. True hope does not make us passive; it makes us faithful in the small duties of everyday life.
The thread that binds these readings is endurance in faith amid uncertainty. Jesus says, “By your perseverance you will save your lives.” (Lk 21:19) In Greek, the word for perseverance — hypomonē — means steadfast endurance, the ability to stand firm under pressure. It is not mere patience, but the courage to remain faithful when everything around us seems to crumble.
Throughout Scripture, we see examples of this endurance. Noah built the ark when no rain had yet fallen, mocked by his neighbors but sustained by obedience. Abraham set out from his homeland, trusting a promise he could not yet see. Job endured loss and suffering but clung to the conviction, “I know that my Redeemer lives.” (Job 19:25) Daniel prayed in the lion’s den; Esther risked her life for her people; the three young men stood firm before the fiery furnace, declaring, “Our God is able to save us, but even if he does not, we will not bow.” (Dan 3:17–18) In every age, God’s faithful are called not to escape trials, but to endure them with courage.
In the New Testament, the same message resounds. The early Christians lived in an atmosphere of persecution and uncertainty. Yet their faith transformed the world. St. Stephen, the first martyr, saw the heavens open even as stones struck him down. St. Paul wrote his letters from prison, chains on his wrists but freedom in his soul. The Book of Revelation, often seen as a book of terror, is in fact a hymn of hope — that Christ is victorious even when the world seems to belong to the beast.
The saints of later centuries carried this same torch of endurance. St. Thomas More stood firm in conscience before the king’s demand, declaring, “I die the king’s good servant, but God’s first.” St. Teresa of Ávila, reforming the Carmelite order amid ridicule and resistance, saying with calm confidence, “Let nothing disturb you, let nothing frighten you; all things are passing; God never changes.” In our own times, St. Oscar Romero of El Salvador preached against oppression knowing it could cost him his life. His final words during Mass — “May this body and this blood strengthen us to give our life for justice and peace” — were sealed by his martyrdom seconds later. These are lives shaped by Luke’s Gospel: “You will be hated because of my name, but not a hair of your head will perish.”
Endurance is not only the virtue of saints but also of ordinary people who live their faith quietly each day. The mother who keeps her family together through hardship; the worker who resists corruption in his office; the young person who stands for truth among peers who mock belief — these are the silent heroes of perseverance. In the dark days of World War II, a simple Dutch woman named Corrie ten Boom hid Jews in her home, was arrested, and sent to Ravensbrück concentration camp. When all seemed lost, she repeated the words her father had taught her: “There is no pit so deep that God’s love is not deeper still.” Her endurance became her witness.
The challenge Jesus gives — “By your perseverance you will save your lives” — is more urgent today than ever. We live in times of rapid change, confusion, and anxiety. The moral and spiritual foundations of society are shaking. The “temples” of our world — the structures of power, wealth, and fame — glitter for a time, but cracks are showing. Many people lose hope, give in to fear, or retreat into self-interest. The temptation is to either panic or to escape responsibility, just as some Thessalonians did. But the Christian response is different. We are called neither to despair nor to idleness, but to active hope — hope that works, serves, prays, and endures.
The poet T. S. Eliot once wrote, “The Church must be forever building, for it is forever decaying within and attacked from without.” Every generation must rebuild faith, not with stones but with lives. The ruins of Pompeii remind us that everything earthly passes, but the cross endures. Our task is not to preserve a building, but to be living stones of God’s temple — temples of the Holy Spirit, as St. Paul says, where God truly dwells.
And this endurance is not grim stubbornness. It is rooted in joy — the joy of knowing that the “sun of righteousness” will rise. The same fire that destroys evil will heal the good. The light that exposes our sins also warms our hearts. We endure not because we are strong, but because God is faithful.
There’s a story told of a small village in France during the Second World War. A church had been bombed, and a statue of Christ with outstretched arms was shattered. The villagers gathered the pieces and repaired it as best they could, but the hands were missing. Someone suggested sculpting new ones, but the old parish priest said, “No, leave it as it is.” Then he added quietly, “Christ has no hands now but ours.” Those broken hands became a living sermon. The people of the village took it as a call to serve, to help the wounded, the hungry, and the homeless. They became Christ’s hands. Their endurance turned ruin into witness.
That is precisely our calling today. When Jesus says, “You will be brought before kings and governors because of my name,” he is not speaking only of courtrooms. He is speaking of every situation where faith demands courage — in our workplaces, families, and communities. When truth is unpopular, when integrity costs, when love requires sacrifice — these are our moments of witness. To endure faithfully is to testify to Christ.
Even in the face of suffering, persecution, or confusion, Jesus assures us: “Do not be terrified.” The word “terror” means to lose one’s center. But faith recenters us in God. The Christian who stands firm, even in fear, bears quiet testimony that God’s kingdom is stronger than the kingdoms of this world. As the Psalm says, “God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble. Therefore we will not fear, though the earth should change.” (Ps 46:1–2)
Sometimes endurance simply means continuing to do the good that lies before us. St. Paul worked with his own hands to support himself, not because he loved toil for its own sake, but to teach that waiting for the Lord must go hand in hand with responsibility. Hope without work becomes illusion; work without hope becomes slavery. Christian endurance unites both — faithful labor sustained by eternal hope.
In our modern world, we face new forms of trial — not always violent persecution, but subtle ones: indifference, moral confusion, the pressure to conform, the temptation to apathy. The faith that once shaped nations is often reduced to private opinion. But Christ still calls his disciples to stand firm, to live as witnesses. To persevere in prayer when it feels dry, to forgive when it’s hard, to speak truth with gentleness, to serve when no one notices — these are the hidden acts of endurance that build God’s kingdom.
The English writer G. K. Chesterton once said, “At least five times, the Faith has to all appearances gone to the dogs. In each of these five cases, it was the dog that died.” The Church endures not because of human strength, but because Christ lives within her. When the world seems to fall apart, Christians are called not to panic, but to rebuild — not to curse the darkness, but to light a candle.
So as we approach the end of this liturgical year, the Word of God invites us to look beyond the decay of the present toward the dawn of God’s promise. Malachi’s fire is not destruction for its own sake but purification. Paul’s insistence on work is not harshness but love — that faith may shape life. Jesus’ prophecy of the temple’s fall is not despair, but freedom — a reminder that God’s presence is not bound to stone but to the human heart.
Let us, then, be the people of endurance. Let us stand firm in faith when others give up; continue doing good when others grow weary; and keep hope alive when the night seems long. “Those who trust in the Lord are like Mount Zion, which cannot be shaken but stands forever.” (Ps 125:1).
Sarish