The Stone Speaks

When some were speaking about the temple, how it was adorned with beautiful stones and gifts dedicated to God, He said, “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.”
(Luke 21:5–6; Gospel reading Luke 21:5–19, RCL Year C)

You stand there admiring me.
Beautiful stone, you say.
Gifts dedicated to God.
Look at the craftsmanship.
Look at the permanence.
I’ve been here a long time.
Long enough to know
that permanence is what you call a thing
until it falls.

I was here when the widow came—
remember her?—
dropping two coins in the treasury,
everything she had.
You barely noticed.
Too busy admiring the architecture,
counting the rich men’s contributions.
But I noticed.
I’ve learned to watch the margins
while you watch the center.

I heard the Pharisee, too,
praying loud enough for everyone to hear
how grateful he was
not to be like other people.
And I heard the tax collector in the corner,
beating his breast:
“God, be merciful to me, a sinner.”
You probably thought the Pharisee
was the one who understood this place.
After all, he knew all the right words,
kept all the right rules.
But I knew better.
I’ve held up these walls long enough
to know the difference between
religious performance and prayer.

I was here when they brought the infant—
Mary and Joseph, too poor for a lamb,
offering two birds instead.
Minimum required.
Nobody paid attention
except old Simeon and Anna,
those two relics
haunting the corners of the Temple
like living stones
waiting for something
the rest of you had stopped expecting.
They saw Him.
Really saw Him.
Called Him salvation.
Light to the nations.

I remember thinking:
God shows up in the least likely places,
doesn’t He?
Not in gold leaf and marble columns,
but in a poor couple’s required sacrifice,
recognized by the old and forgotten.
And now He’s back.
The Son of Man Himself,
teaching in my shadow,
and you still don’t see Him.
Too busy admiring me.

John the Baptist—
you remember John?—
he said God could raise up children
from stones like me.
I wondered what he meant.
Now I think I know.

Jesus just told you
not one stone will be left on another.
All thrown down.
Me included.
You want to know when.
You want to know the signs.
You want a schedule for catastrophe,
as if knowing the timeline
would give you control.

But here’s what I’ve learned
from my long watch:
God doesn’t need this Temple.
Doesn’t need me holding up these walls.
Doesn’t need beautiful stones
or dedicated gifts
or permanent structures.
God needs the widow’s last two coins.
The tax collector’s broken heart.
Simeon and Anna’s patient vigil.
The margins you never notice.

So when I fall—
and I will fall—
don’t mourn me too long.
Don’t mistake my destruction
for God’s absence.
I’m just stone.
Always have been.
Beautiful, maybe.
But never the point.

Job wanted his words carved in stone,
a permanent witness.
I am stone—
I’ve borne witness for centuries.
And still, I’m coming down.
Maybe that’s the witness you need.
Maybe that’s what endures—
not monuments,
not institutions,
not beautiful stones,
but the God who shows up
in widows and tax collectors,
in infants and prophets,
in the margins you barely see.

The God who doesn’t need
stones like me
to raise up children.
The God who can start fresh
even from rubble.

So yes, admire me while you can.
I don’t mind.
I’ve seen worse ways
to spend a moment.
But when you hear the prophecy—
when He tells you everything
you thought was permanent
is coming down—
don’t say the stone didn’t warn you.