Where is Our Refuge?

I don’t know about you, but some mornings I pick up my phone, open a news app or scroll through social media, and I’m just… bombarded. It’s a lot. We see stories of conflict, natural disasters, political infighting, and systemic injustice. Some of it is good, but so much of it feels heavy, and it’s easy to get overwhelmed. It’s easy to feel like the sky is falling.

I think the disciples were having a very different, but related, human moment at the start of our passage today. They’re standing in Jerusalem, looking at this magnificent temple. And it was magnificent. This was Herod’s big project. It was massive, beautiful, and covered in stone and gold. It was a projection of power, a symbol of stability, and the center of their religious world. They look at this building and say, “Wow, look at these stones, this craftsmanship!”

They see permanence. They see strength. They see security.

And then Jesus, in his typical, comfort-disrupting way, says, “As for these things that you see, the days will come when not one stone will be left upon another; all will be thrown down.”

Talk about a buzz kill. But Jesus isn’t just being cynical. He’s pointing to a fundamental truth.

That temple, for all its beauty, was also a complicated symbol. It was built by Herod the Great, a deeply insecure and brutal puppet king, as a way to appease the people he ruled and project a power he didn’t truly have. It was a human institution, built on a human scale, with all the human baggage that comes with it.

And Jesus’s point is this: if we place our ultimate faith in these kinds of structures—in buildings, in human institutions, in political parties, in economic systems, even in our religious structures—we are setting ourselves up for disappointment. Because all of these things are temporary.

This is a hard word, because we like our institutions. We like the things that feel stable. But Jesus warns us that these structures can also become illusions, blinding us to other truths, especially the truths about systemic harm they might be causing.

So, the disciples, naturally, get worried. They ask, “When? When will this happen? What’s the sign?”

And what follows is a classic piece of apocalyptic literature. It sounds a lot like what we read in the book of Revelation. Jesus talks about wars, insurrections, earthquakes, famines, plagues, and persecution.

When we hear this, our modern brains, trained by bad theology and “Left Behind” novels, immediately want to create a checklist. We want to match these “signs” to current events. “Oh, that earthquake? Must be the end times.” “That conflict? Jesus predicted it!”

But that’s not what this text is for. This passage isn’t meant to be a crystal ball for us to predict the future. It’s meant to provide meaning for the present.

Jesus is telling his followers, Listen, bad things will happen. The world is chaotic. People will fight. There will be disasters. You will be misunderstood. Don’t be surprised by this. Disappointed, yes. Heartbroken, absolutely. But not surprised.

This is the reality of the world. And as Kendra Mohn writes, “There is really no such thing as getting through unscathed.” The question isn’t if we will face overwhelming circumstances, but how we, as people of faith, are to respond. And where, in all of this, do we find our refuge?

Jesus’s answer is as radical today as it was 2,000 years ago.

First, he says, these chaotic events are not the end. They are a prelude. But more importantly, they will be an opportunity. An opportunity to testify.

When we are dragged before kings and governors, when our faith is challenged, when we are misunderstood, what are we to do? Jesus’s advice is baffling. He says, “do not prepare your defense beforehand.”

No apologetics. No canned speeches. No memorized arguments for the existence of God.

Instead, we are asked to do the scariest thing imaginable: we are asked to trust.

Trust that God will provide what we need in that moment. “I will give you words and a wisdom that none of your opponents will be able to withstand or contradict.” Our job isn’t to be the cleverest debaters. Our job is to be tangible witnesses to the good news. Our job is to live our faith.

The life of Christian witness and discipleship is enduring and ongoing. It’s not about building imposing, permanent temples of stone. It’s about the life-giving, day-to-day work of offering grace and mercy to those we meet.

Now, there’s an unsettling part to this. Jesus says we will be betrayed, even by family. Some will be put to death. And then, in the very next breath, he says, “But not a hair of your head will perish.”

How do we square that?

Chelsey Harmon points out that by the time Luke was writing this, people had perished. Followers of Jesus had already been arrested and killed. James and Stephen were martyrs. Paul was imprisoned.

So, “not a hair of your head will perish” cannot possibly mean physical invincibility. It can’t be a promise that nothing bad will ever happen to us.

It must mean something deeper. It must mean that no matter what happens to our bodies, no matter what happens to our institutions, no matter what happens to our temples, our true selves—our souls, our spirits, our value in the eyes of God—cannot be touched.

The core of who you are, loved by God, is eternal. That is the promise. And then Jesus gives us the path: “By your endurance, you will gain your souls.”

This isn’t a grim, grit-your-teeth endurance. It’s an active, hopeful, and trusting endurance. It’s the quiet refusal to let the world’s chaos have the last word. It’s the faithful, ongoing work of love, even when it’s hard.

So, friends, today we live in a world where the news is at our fingertips, and it can feel like the sky is falling. We see our own “temples”—our trusted institutions—shake and crack.

When we are overwhelmed by it all, where do we look?

Jesus reminds us not to look for false idols, or social media influencers, or charismatic politicians to save us. He tells us to look inside and remember that the Holy Spirit is with us. That God is with us.

Our refuge isn’t a building. Our refuge isn’t a political party. Our refuge isn’t a flawless institution.

Our refuge is the enduring presence of a God who provides, whose wisdom is eternal, and who calls us, again and again, to the faithful, life-giving, and enduring work of building a kingdom of grace and mercy.

May we have the courage to trust in that.

Amen.