I remember the day in 1989 when the Loma Prieta earthquake struck with full force. I worked in Sunnyvale, California, close to the epicenter, and the ground suddenly heaved and moved like it was jello. My office was this one big open space packed with cubicles under a fifteen-foot-tall ceiling. The drop ceiling was not made right at all. Everything came crashing down, sending what looked like those little fluorescent lights down. What looked small way up in that ceiling turned remarkably huge. They were these four-by-two-foot metal boxes, and then those fluorescent bulbs popped loudly and simultaneously, sending bits of glass flying everywhere. Then those two-by-two HVAC registers were actually heavy for some reason, and those were also intense when they came crashing down. Chaos took over. Dust filled the air, it was suddenly dark, alarms wailed, and the floor kept shaking relentlessly.
Now, my employer had spent time teaching employees how to survive an earthquake. Something that they missed, however, is that when you’re in a big earthquake, walking is impossible. I wanted to run out of the building, but I had to make do with where I was. I looked for something to get under, and the only thing available was a small circle table with just one leg. I felt very certain the building was about to crush my precious body. My heart raced, my legs shook, and fear gripped me completely. In that moment, I braced for death right there. It felt like forever, but the building finally stopped rumbling, leaving the room dark and ruined. All sorts of things were hanging down from the top of the building, and debris littered the floor. I rushed down the cluttered stairs, still shaken and worried the building might fall. Outside, though, the scene looked mostly normal. No total devastation.
All of the job-related things that I had just been worried about vanished. I sped home to my wife and daughter. I found furniture overturned and dishes broken across the floor, but they emerged unharmed. Relief washed over me. In the days ahead, work demanded fixes and adjustments to keep projects on track, but family bonds and everyday routines mostly held firm. That quake showed me how fear can make change feel like total loss, yet life adapts and carries on, drawing strength from the parts of our life that really matter.
In Luke chapter 21, in the story of the temple thrown down, people marveled at the Temple in Jerusalem, with its precious stones and votive offerings gleaming as symbols of stability and faith. But Jesus warned them: “The days will come when not one stone remains on another.” He spoke truth. History confirms the Romans destroyed it utterly in AD 70 during a savage war. Soldiers encircled Jerusalem, starved the people inside, and torched the sanctuary. They pried every stone apart, erasing it completely, just as Jesus predicted. The Romans had a goal to erase every indication that people had ever lived there or been there. For those who lived through it, the Temple anchored everything: worship, sacrifices, community, their very way of life. Its destruction shattered their world, leaving survivors to face a reality that seemed forever broken, with no clear path back to normal.
Yet Jesus offered hope amid the ruin. He warned of persecution for his name — arrests, betrayals by family and friends, even death for some. Still, he promised: don’t prepare defenses ahead; I provide wisdom no foe counters. He said, “Not a hair on your head will be destroyed. By your perseverance, you secure your lives.” He called them to endure, trusting that upheaval is not something that has to be feared. When change comes upon us, we often want to know, “Where is this going?” God is telling us here to trust that it will be okay, even when it seems pretty clear it’s not okay. Betrayal by parents or family would cut very deep. Still, Jesus says to trust.
For me and my earthquake experience, the quake upended my routine and sense of security. To a much more intense degree, the Temple’s destruction tore apart their way of living. In both cases, terror strikes when life-altering events hit, making the future look impossible to navigate. I emerged from that office rubble fearing everything had changed for the worse. The survivors of the attack on the Temple must have been distressed as they saw the complete and total destruction. How would life continue?
Something that is easy for us to see as we look back on the Temple: the old Temple gave way to something greater. Jesus’ risen body as the rebuilt Temple. The Church as his living community, which teaches that it itself is a new Temple, and each of us are temples of the Holy Spirit. What felt like total loss actually opened doors to deeper faith and purpose. It actually brought us all much closer to God and his new Temple.
We all face our own quakes — illness, loss, unexpected turns that shake our foundations and stir anxiety about what’s next. The path ahead might seem blocked, the new life unfamiliar and unwelcome at first. But Jesus invites us to persevere, trusting his promise holds firm. Release the grip of fear. Lean into the uncertainty with faith. Our time on earth stays short, but it expands with meaning through him. Do what you can to embrace the changes, find joy in the perseverance, and know that God turns even the hardest upheavals into opportunities for growth and grace.
If something has just heaved and you cannot tell what is still standing, start with what the room actually did. The ceiling came down. The lights were four-by-two metal boxes, not small. Walking was impossible. I got under a one-leg table because that was what was there. Write the fact of your hour before you write the ending. The ending, outside that building, looked mostly normal. I did not know that from under the table.
Then name the two losses. The job worries vanished on the way home. The dishes were broken, and the wife and daughter were unharmed. Not everything that shook was destroyed. List what fell. List what held. If you cannot tell yet, write “I cannot tell yet.” That is a true sentence. Do not fill it in to make the day smaller.
Perseverance, in this Gospel, is not a speech you prepare before the next shock. Jesus said not to prepare the defense ahead. Do the next bodily thing. Get out of the unstable place if you can. Call someone who is actually in the house. If you are in danger now, call 988 or local emergency services. Trust is not the claim that the ceiling was fine. It is staying through the hour after the shaking stops, long enough to see what is still there.
This is a pastoral reflection, not clinical care and not a substitute for it. If you or someone you love is in immediate danger, call 988 or local emergency services.Drawn from a homily first preached in 2025. 