A Homily for the 33rd Sunday in Ordinary Time
Sunday, November 16, 2025
Malachi 3:19-20a; Psalm 98:5-6, 7-8, 9; 2 Thessalonians 3:7-12; Luke 21:5-19
Audio Recording
As we approach the end of another liturgical year, the Church invites us to reflect on endings and beginnings, on what lasts and what passes away. Today’s readings offer us difficult images—a day “blazing like an oven,” temples destroyed, persecution and death. Yet woven through these stern warnings is a promise of extraordinary hope, if we have ears to hear it.
Listen again to Jesus’ words in today’s Gospel. After warning his disciples about the hardships ahead—persecution, imprisonment, even death—he makes this startling promise: “Not a hair on your head will be destroyed.” How can both be true? How can we face death and yet remain unharmed?
The answer lies in understanding the frame of reference Jesus is using—a perspective that reaches beyond our earthly existence into eternity.
We live in a time between times. Christ has come, died, and risen. But he has not yet returned. We exist in what the early Christians called the “already but not yet”—already redeemed, but not yet fully living in that redemption. This in-between time is the story we’re living. And Scripture tells us clearly: it will not last forever.
Malachi speaks of “the day that is coming,” when justice will finally be established. The Psalmist proclaims, “The Lord comes to rule the earth with justice.” Jesus warns that even the magnificent Temple—the very dwelling place of God’s presence—will not remain standing. Everything in this visible world is temporary.
Many of us, especially as we grow older, have witnessed this truth firsthand. We’ve seen buildings torn down that we thought would stand forever. We’ve watched institutions crumble that seemed unshakeable. We’ve buried loved ones and mourned the passing of ways of life we cherished. The world is constantly reminding us that nothing here is permanent.
Yet Scripture doesn’t present this as cause for despair. Rather, it’s an invitation to hope—but hope placed in the right foundation.
When Jesus tells his disciples that “not a hair on your head will be destroyed,” he’s revealing something profound about the nature of our existence. Our true life—the life that matters eternally—cannot be touched by earthly powers, no matter how violent or destructive they may be. This is the same confidence we hear in Malachi’s prophecy: “For you who fear my name, there will arise the sun of justice with its healing rays.”
Think of the martyrs throughout Christian history. Were they harmed? In one sense, yes. But in the truest sense—the eternal sense—they gained everything. They secured their real lives through faithfulness. As Jesus promises, “By your perseverance you will secure your lives.”
This eternal perspective doesn’t make us indifferent to earthly suffering or injustice. Saint Paul’s words to the Thessalonians make this clear. Some in that community had become so fixated on Christ’s imminent return that they’d stopped working, stopped contributing, stopped taking responsibility for their daily lives. Paul corrects them firmly: “If anyone was unwilling to work, neither should that one eat.”
The knowledge that this world is passing doesn’t excuse us from faithful living within it. Rather, it frees us to live more fully, more generously, more courageously. When we stop placing our ultimate security in earthly things—health, wealth, reputation, even physical safety—we become free to love and serve without fear.
Many of you have already learned this wisdom through experience. You’ve faced losses that once seemed unbearable, yet you’ve persevered. You’ve watched children grow and grandchildren arrive, understanding more deeply with each generation how quickly time passes. You’ve perhaps already begun the work of letting go—of possessions, of control, of the illusion that we can secure ourselves through earthly means.
This is the wisdom Jesus is calling us toward. Not a grim resignation to suffering, but a joyful confidence in what truly lasts.
When Jesus warns against being deceived by those claiming “I am he” or “the time has come,” he’s cautioning us against placing our hope in false saviors—whether political movements, technological solutions, or any promise of earthly paradise. And when he tells us not to be terrified by wars and disasters, he’s inviting us to root our peace in something deeper than worldly security.
The question for each of us is this: Where have we placed our ultimate hope?
Are we living as though our earthly years are all we have? Or are we living with the conviction that we’re made for eternity, that this life—however long or short—is preparation for our true home?
This doesn’t mean we love this world less. Paradoxically, those who hold this world most lightly often love it most deeply. Free from desperate clinging, we can receive each day as gift, serve others without counting the cost, and face even death without treating it as the final word.
As we move toward Advent, the season of waiting and expectation, let us examine our hearts. What are we holding too tightly? What fears reveal where we’ve placed our security? What would it mean to live each remaining day—whether many or few—with full confidence in Jesus’s promise that not a hair on our heads will be destroyed?
Malachi assures us: “For you who fear my name, there will arise the sun of justice with its healing rays.” That sun is Jesus Christ. He has come. He will come again. And in the time between, he walks with us, securing our true lives through every trial.
Let us persevere in faith, knowing that what we cannot see is more real and more lasting than anything our eyes behold. This world is passing away, but God’s Kingdom endures forever. This life is but a journey to our heavenly homeland. And if we remain faithful, we will find that nothing—absolutely nothing—can separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.
May we live each day in that confidence.