Jesus’ disciples were enamored with the brilliance and beauty of the temple’s architecture and liturgy. They noticed how expensive the edifice must have been to construct and maintain. The “costly stones” adorned the place and the “votive offerings” attested to the people’s dedication to the holy site.
Who wouldn’t have been amazed by it all?
I’m awestruck by ancient and medieval architecture. The pyramids are astounding. The intricacies of the Angkor Wat complex render me speechless. Gothic cathedrals like Chartres make me stand in wonder. These places took decades, if not centuries, to build. Entire communities mobilized, pooling their treasure and talents in order to construct sacred spaces in which people could encounter the transcendent.
When the Cathedral of Notre Dame in Paris caught fire, I watched in horror. It felt as if the world was burning, and we were on the precipice of losing something irreplaceable. Centuries of worship, craftsmanship, and history were literally going up in smoke,
It’s not unusual to hear people lament the current state of sacred architecture, and I usually agree with their assessment. The design of churches, basilicas, and shrines often leaves me feeling empty and uninspired. I wonder what the architects were thinking when they designed brutalist buildings and bland suburban structures. I’m sure a trained critic would say something like the architecture reflects the state of the community it serves.
Many so-called traditionalists long for the days of soaring spires, airy interiors, and exorbitant artwork, and sometimes I feel drawn toward their position. “The state of our architecture should raise our hearts and minds toward the divine,” they contend. “We should be uplifted when we enter a sacred space, and our buildings deserve to be places of beauty that inspire us to live beautifully.”
It’s hard to argue against that, but Jesus does in today’s liturgical Gospel reading in Luke 21:1–5. “While some people were speaking about how the temple was adorned with costly stones and votive offerings, Jesus said, ‘All that you see here– the days will come when there will not be left a stone upon another stone that will not be thrown down.’”
“Everything you see here,” he tells them, “will be cast down. It’s all going to be destroyed, trampled on, and burned. Not one stone will be left upon another. So, don’t be too attached to this place.”
He was right. In about a generation, the Roman armies of Vespasian and Titus surrounded Jerusalem, tragically destroyed the temple, and set it ablaze. Two thousand years later, only a wall remains.
Christians have often misused this passage of scripture as an antisemitic attack. They falsely claim that God used the Romans to destroy Jerusalem for somehow not accepting Jesus as the Messiah. Such distortions have caused incalculable harm. This text has nothing to do with God punishing Jews.
Instead, Jesus reminds us that no site and no project— regardless of how holy, beloved, and expensive it is — will last.
Every Gothic cathedral will eventually go the way of the temple in Jerusalem. Not one stone will be left upon another. It might not happen due to a random fire or by invading legions desecrating the sanctuary, but it will happen. Time will take its toll, and the gorgeous buildings we love so much will end up disintegrating.
That doesn’t sound like good news. Why, then, should we spend any time building sacred sites if they’re just going to eventually disappear? What a waste of time, resources, and human ingenuity!
Jesus isn’t taking the path of an angsty teen wondering what the point of anything is. He’s not a cynical nihilist. Jesus isn’t telling us that nothing matters and we might as well do nothing because everything is just dust in the wind.
Instead, he shows us not to overly trust in anything that ultimately transitory.
The sand mandalas of the Tibetan Buddhist tradition teach a similar lesson. Careful attention goes into designing and crafting the sacred circles. However, they, like the temple Jesus spoke of, are made of rock and precious stones that will eventually be destroyed.
Nevertheless, the monks participate in the creative process, offer their lives, and invest themselves into the mandala. The creative act of human endeavor is worthwhile. They believe making it matters, yet the destruction of the mandala symbolizes the profound truth that nothing lasts forever. Everything is in a constant state of flux, and dynamic change is unavoidable.
If we attach our utmost hopes and dreams to anything — even if it is beautiful, mesmerizing, and conveys a sense of the transcendent — we’re bound to be disappointed because no human endeavor will last.
In his Beatitudes, Jesus taught, “Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust consume and where thieves break in and steal, but store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust consumes and where thieves do not break in and steal. For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also” (Matthew 7:19–21).
The massive sphinx was all but consumed by the desert sands, and it will be again. The jungles nearly devoured many Mayan and Aztec cities, and they eventually will. Fire might not have incinerated Notre Dame, but time will eventually overcome it.
Today’s reading follows yesterday’s in which Jesus contrasted the expensive offerings of the wealthy and the two small coins of the poor widow. She gave her entire livelihood and had nothing left. This widow understood the two-fold truth that giving ourselves to the sacred matters, and it will all eventually go away.
In Matthew 23, Jesus asks us to consider our priorities. “For which is greater, the gold or the sanctuary that has made the gold sacred?” We immediately understand the presence of the divine is what sanctifies the outer elements.
He asks another rhetorical question, “For which is greater, the gift or the altar that makes the gift sacred?” The price of the gift is irrelevant because all gifts are sanctified with the holiness of the altar.
But wait. Aren’t the altar, gold, and sanctuary themselves going to be destroyed?
Yes. And that’s why Jesus points out, “So whoever swears by the altar swears by it and by everything on it, and whoever swears by the sanctuary swears by it and by the one who dwells in it, and whoever swears by heaven swears by the throne of God and by the one who is seated upon it.”
Everything from gift to altar to sanctuary, and even God’s throne itself is traced back to God. The entirety of the cosmic order is, as Gerard Manely Hopkins penned, charged with the grandeur of God. The divine presence is fully and directly immanent in every particle even if there are layers of emanations as Dionysius the Areopagite andJohn Scotus Eriugena argued.
The disciples beg to know, “Teacher, when will this happen.” Maybe they hope to prevent the destruction of the temple they had been marveling at. After all, they’re in the thrall of the wealth and power on display. This is the center of their lives. Their soul is attached to this holy place.
Jesus warns them not to believe the hucksters that will show up claiming, “The time has come.” He warns, “Do not follow them!”
Countless people today dread what they sense to be their own coming demise. The fear the end of their nation or religion as they’ve always known it. They’re afraid of being replaced, so they take up torches and arms, chant hateful slogans, and enact extremist agendas in a fruitless attempt to keep everything just as it is.
Jesus reminds us there will be “wars and insurrections.” Violent conflicts are inevitable. “Nations,” he affirms, will rise against nations.” Political orders come and go, and natural disasters are certain. “There will be powerful earthquakes, famines, and plagues.” There’s no way to escape the destructive forces of this world.
Instead of being terrified of the coming destruction, Jesus teaches us that we can loosen our grasp and let go.
In the first half of the 19th century, Scottish Anglican priest Henry Francis Lyte wrote the beloved hymn Abide with Me. The song explores the feelings that emerge when approaching the ultimate change any of us undergoes — death.
The song recognizes the uncertainty and anxiety we feel when “fast falls the eventide.” Those emotions are not to be ignored, nor are we better of pretending they don’t exist. Instead, “When other helpers fail and comforts flee” as they all eventually will, we cry to God, “Abide with me.”
The last couplet of the final stanza echoes the sentiments of Jesus in today’s Gospel:
“Change and decay in all around I see;
O Thou who changest not, abide with me.”
Our most hallowed buildings will fall. Our projects will be surpassed. Our bodies will die. Not one stone will be left upon another. The precious gems will be lost. God, though, remains through it all.
Every change is a kind of death.
Jesus himself experienced the loss that comes with death. When he announced, “Destroy this temple, and in three days I will rebuild it,” his hearers were confused. How could anyone rebuild a temple that took nearly five decades to construct? And why destroy it in the first place?
He wasn’t speaking then of the holy building they stood in. Instead, he was referring to the temple of his body.
The Nicene-Constantinopolitan Creed that is recited in Orthodox, Catholic, and many Protestant Churches each week affirms Christ was crucified under Pontius Pilate, suffered death, and was buried. But that’s not the end. It goes on to assure us that he rose again on the third day.
Although change is death, the resurrection of Christ demonstrates that death itself changes. The Orthodox liturgy expresses this sentiment in the Paschal troparion, “Christ is risen from the dead, trampling down death by death, and upon those in the tombs bestowing life!”
Christ gives new life through the paradox of destroying death by death.
“In the days of his flesh, Jesus offered up prayers and supplications, with loud cries and tears, to the one who was able to save him from death, and he was heard because of his reverent submission” (Hebrews 5:7).
Jesus was saved from death by letting go of any desire to avoid it. “Let this cup pass,” he prayed, “Nevertheless not my will but yours be done.”
By submitting to death, he became a mandala who was wiped away only to be reborn through his resurrection.
Instead of trusting in the ephemeral, Jesus reminds us to follow his example. “Since, therefore, the children share flesh and blood, he himself likewise shared the same things, so that through death he might destroy the one who has the power of death, that is, the devil, and free those who all their lives were held in slavery by the fear of death” (Hebrews 2:14–15).
In today’s reading, Jesus liberates us from being held in bondage by the fear of death. There’s no need, then, to follow the false promises claiming, “The time has come! Follow me! I alone can save you!” The ones who make such claims are themselves subject to change and decay.
Like the buildings of the temple, we are made of sand and adorn ourselves with all types of precious gems. We’re fearfully and wonderfully made, yet we’re also subject to death. Just like the temple, we too will be torn down with not one stone left upon another.
All of our temples will eventually be destroyed.
However, through the holy paradox of dying to death, Jesus demonstrates the way to become free from the fear of death. By trusting in the one who changes not — the one who is non-contingent — we develop a deep knowing that this one abides with us in and through every change, bringing new life.
