As we come near the end of the liturgical year, the readings turn our attention to the mysteries of the end—of life, of time, of everything we hold onto. It’s a sober reminder that everything ends… except God. All the things we cherish in this world—our homes, our careers, our dreams, even our bodies—will one day fade. We try to cling to them, but they cannot cling back.
In today’s Gospel, the Jews looked at the Temple with deep pride and love. It was the most beautiful structure in Israel—rising like a jewel, built over fifty years, covered in gold and precious offerings. No one imagined it could fall. And yet Jesus said: “The days will come when not a stone will be left upon another.” They could not accept these words. They were offended. And still, forty years later, history proved Jesus true. The Temple was reduced to ruins.
That same lesson touches our lives today. We build our own “temples”—our careers, our reputations, our possessions. We guard them, polish them, defend them. But our soul, the one temple God truly desires to dwell in, we often neglect. God is the Alpha and the Omega. The first and the last. And when we die—and we all will—we bring nothing with us. Not our wealth. Not our achievements. Not the applause of the world. We come into this world empty-handed. And empty-handed, we return. But there is one thing—only one—that we can present before the Lord: our love for Him, purified by a life of faithfulness. Nothing else matters in the world to come.
I have witnessed many deaths with my own eyes: in hospitals, nursing homes, and in people’s beds as they took their final breath. These moments shake the heart. They are filled with silence, a kind of holy silence where heaven feels near. There is sorrow—of course there is. There are tears, regrets, whispers, and final goodbyes. But there is also hope… if we look deeper. Death hurts us because we cling to our own sense of strength. We think we can hold everything together. We think we are in control. But we are not.
When we finally accept that death will come—to all of us, in any moment, in any place—then we begin to understand what it means to live well. Jesus walked ahead of us. He carried every suffering of humanity. He sanctified death by entering it, and He transformed it by rising again.
In funeral Masses, we often speak beautifully about the deceased. We recall their goodness, their laughter, their achievements. But the funeral Mass is not a canonization. It is first and foremost worship—a powerful cry of gratitude to God for the gift of a life we were allowed to know and love. We honor the dead best when we honor God. Jesus has already shown us the pattern: He was born. He lived. He suffered. He died. And then—light burst from the tomb—He rose. This is our pattern too. We are born. We live. We die. And through Christ, we will rise again.
If Jesus did not rise, our faith would be empty. But because He rose, our death is not the end. It is the door. We believe not in a life that ends, but in a life that is transformed. Still, it is often only when someone we love is gone that we realize how much time we wasted… how much love we withheld… how many words we failed to say. We see young people disrespecting their parents; spouses losing their trust in one another; families torn apart by addiction, anger, lust, or pride. These are not just wasted moments—these are wasted lives. When we come to church, we must not come merely to “show up.” We come to look honestly at our own hearts. We come to realign our lives with eternity. We come to learn how to love better, deeper, truer—as if every moment were our last.
Jesus speaks of wars, calamities, disasters—signs that the world is fragile. These things happen daily. And they are gentle warnings that we do not live forever on this earth. Whether our end comes suddenly or slowly through illness or age, God tells us clearly: “Do not be afraid.” Jesus does not list these events to frighten us, but to comfort us: God is present in every storm. He is in control. He does not abandon His children. While everything else crumbles, God remains. He alone is eternal. He alone does not change.
And He promises us: “I am with you always, until the end of time.” Not just in the moments of joy, but in the hospital rooms, the sleepless nights, the unanswered questions, the tears we cry alone.
He promises also: “Not a hair on your head will be destroyed.” Meaning: nothing—not even your suffering—will be wasted in God’s hands. So we trust Him. We follow Him. We share His love with the people He places in our path. We persevere, even when life is heavy.
For He tells us today: “By your perseverance you will secure your lives.”
