The Israelites longed for a king who would be great, rich, strong, and eternal, one who would defeat their enemies and establish glory for Israel. Yet on Calvary, God’s response to those expectations is revealed in a way that unsettles us. Above Jesus hangs the inscription: “This is the King of the Jews.” But there is no throne, only a cross; no servants, only mockers; no royal garments, only nakedness. What a strange kingship this is, so utterly different from what people imagined. Even today, many Christians still harbor hopes like the Jews, identifying Christ’s kingdom with victories and triumphs. Yet here stands a defeated king, whose cross destroys all our projects of glory.
On either side of Jesus hang two thieves. One cries out for escape from his pain, hoping the Messiah will free him from torture. Jesus does not grant his request, showing himself unwilling to be the kind of savior who offers shortcuts or miraculous rescues. The other thief, however, whispers a different prayer: “Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.” The thief calls him by name not as a distant ruler but as a companion, a friend who shares the fate of the guilty though innocent himself. He does not ask for deliverance, only for presence. And Jesus answers with a promise: “Today you will be with me in paradise.” This is judgment, not condemnation but mercy, like the scene in Matthew 25 where the King separates hearts—not by power, but by recognition. One thief fails to see; the other sees and trusts.
The story of these criminals is our own. Who among us has not wounded a brother with slander, hatred, or injustice? Who has not caused small or great disasters in family, society, or even the Church? Yet the promise remains: trust in the mercy of this King. His kingdom is not built on our perfection, but on his forgiveness. Many still think the kingship of Jesus was hidden on Calvary, that the real glory will only come at the end of time with armies of angels. They are grossly mistaken. Before he died, Jesus absolved his executioners as a king. He forgave them in the very moment of his greatest glory—the cross. The verdict he gave from the cross is final. The trial will not be reopened. His judgment stands. This is the face of God revealed: love that forgives without condition.
This King disturbs us because he reigns not by humiliating enemies but by asking us to forgive those who harm us. He wins in the moment he loses. He conquers by surrender. The final judgment, then, is not a terror to fear but a joy to await. When our blindness is healed, when our hearts are stripped of pettiness and resentment, we will see him as he truly is. And then, like the thief, we too will hear: “Today you will be with me in paradise.”
Perseverance with Hope: Witness With Courage Luke 21:5–19
Fr. Jijo Kandamkulathy CMF Claretian Missionaries
Titanic. That British ocean liner had been hailed as the marvel of its age, the vessel that could not be defeated. “Unsinkable,” they said. But on her maiden voyage on 15th April, 1912, she hit an iceberg and sank with her crew and passengers and all the opulence in it. Just a few could be saved. The pride of human engineering lay broken beneath the waves, even today.
The disciples stood in awe before the Temple, its stones massive and immovable, its walls adorned with gifts that glittered in the sunlight. To them, it was indestructible, the very anchor of their faith and identity. The Temple was their “unsinkable ship,” a structure so grand and secure that they could not imagine a world without it. Yet Jesus’ words shattered that illusion: “The days will come when not one stone will be left upon another; all will be thrown down.”
The Temple was not only a building; it was identity, memory, and hope. To imagine its destruction was to imagine the collapse of the world as they knew it. And so they ask, “When will this be? What will be the sign?” Their question is not only about history but about the human longing for certainty. We want to know when the ground beneath us will shake, when the structures we trust will fall, when the familiar will be taken away.
Jesus does not give them dates or signs in the way they expect. Instead, He speaks of deception, wars, earthquakes, famines, and persecutions. He paints a picture not of stability but of turbulence. Yet in the midst of this, His words are not meant to terrify but to prepare. “Do not be terrified,” He says. “By your endurance you will gain your souls.”
This passage is not only about the destruction of the Temple in Jerusalem; it is about the fragility of all human structures. We build temples of stone, but also temples of success, reputation, wealth, and security. We adorn them with achievements and possessions, convinced they will stand forever. Yet life teaches us that no stone is immune to being thrown down. Health fails, economies collapse, relationships fracture, dreams crumble. The Gospel confronts us with the truth: nothing we build is eternal.
But Jesus does not leave us in despair. He shifts our gaze from the stones of the Temple to the endurance of the soul. What matters is not whether the structures stand but whether we remain faithful when they fall. The true temple is not made of stone but of trust, not adorned with gifts but with perseverance.
We crave permanence. We cling to what is visible and tangible because it reassures us. When Jesus speaks of collapse, He is not only predicting history; He is exposing our inner attachments. The disciples’ awe at the Temple mirrors our own awe at the things we build in life. We want to believe that our accomplishments, our possessions, our institutions will endure. But Jesus teaches that faith is not about clinging to permanence but about walking through impermanence with courage.
He warns of false messiahs, voices that promise certainty, leaders who claim to know the timetable of history. In times of chaos, we are vulnerable to deception because we want answers. Yet Jesus says, “Do not go after them.” Faith is not about chasing signs but about trusting the One who holds the future. He speaks of wars and insurrections, nations rising against nations, earthquakes and famines. These are not only external events but inner realities. Wars rage within us—conflicts of desire, battles of conscience, earthquakes of doubt, famines of hope. The Gospel acknowledges these inner tremors and tells us not to be terrified. Fear is natural, but it need not be final.
Then He speaks of persecution: “They will lay hands on you and persecute you… you will be brought before kings and governors because of my name.” This is not abstract. The early Church lived it, and many believers still live it today. But even here, Jesus reframes the experience: “This will be your opportunity to bear witness.” What looks like defeat becomes testimony. What feels like loss becomes proclamation.
There is a profound psychological insight here. Suffering is not meaningless; it can become the very place where faith is revealed. When we are stripped of security, when we stand exposed before hostility, we discover whether our faith is rooted in structures or in God Himself. Jesus promises, “I will give you words and wisdom that none of your opponents will be able to withstand.” In other words, the Spirit will speak through our weakness.
The passage ends with a paradox: “You will be hated by all because of my name. But not a hair of your head will perish. By your endurance you will gain your souls.” How can both be true? How can persecution and preservation coexist? The answer lies in the distinction between body and soul, between temporal loss and eternal life. Stones may fall, bodies may suffer, reputations may be destroyed, but the soul that hopes is secure.
This is the heart of the reflection: Hope in God is the new temple. The disciples marveled at stones, but Jesus calls them to marvel at perseverance with hope. The true beauty is not in architecture but in fidelity. The true adornment is not in gifts but in witnessing with hope.
We face a lot of instabilities—political upheaval, environmental crises, economic uncertainty, the ever-changing mindscape created by artificial intelligence, and personal struggles. We want to know when the stones will fall, when the tremors will come. But Jesus does not give us dates; He gives us courage. He does not promise stability; He gives hope for those who persevere with trust.
Perseverance is not to be passive. It is to stand firm in faith, to resist deception, to refuse fear, to witness with courage. It is to recognize that the collapse of structures is not the collapse of meaning. It is to discover that eternal life is not inherited through permanence but through perseverance.
The disciples asked for signs, but Jesus gave them a path: a path of endurance. It is the slow, steady faith that holds on when everything else falls away. It is the courage to trust that not a hair of our head will perish, even when the world crumbles. It is the conviction that our souls are gained not by avoiding suffering but by walking through it with fidelity.
In the end, the Temple did fall. The stones were thrown down. But the faith of the disciples endured, and the Church was born. The visible structure collapsed, but the invisible temple of endurance stood firm. That is the promise of the Gospel: when stones fall, souls can still stand.
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