Late each night, after the dishes are done and the lights are low, Henry sits on his porch swing and listens. The world has gotten loud—too loud, he says. Sirens in the distance, arguments bleeding through apartment windows, and headlines that read more like prophecy than news. “It wasn’t always like this,” he whispers, the wood creaking beneath him. “But maybe the Bible knew it would come to this.”
Maybe you’ve felt that too. That subtle ache in your chest when another war breaks out, when children talk more about anxiety than dreams, when love feels so cheap and quick to fail. There’s something in the air—a trembling—and we can’t quite put words to it. But it's as if creation is groaning, waiting… like we are.
“Tell us,” the disciples asked Jesus one quiet evening on the Mount of Olives, “what will be the sign of your coming and of the end of the age?” (Matthew 24:3). Jesus didn’t give them a date or a chart. He gave them a warning wrapped in love: “Watch out that no one deceives you. For many will come in my name… You will hear of wars and rumors of wars… Nation will rise against nation… There will be famines and earthquakes… All these are the beginning of birth pains.” (Matthew 24:4-8)
Birth pains. Not death throes.
Jesus was saying something underneath those signs—something fierce with hope. That what feels like an ending might be the beginning. That the trembling world still belongs to a steady Savior.
But the signs keep coming, don’t they?
Paul echoed them generations later in his letter to Timothy: “There will be terrible times in the last days. People will be lovers of themselves, lovers of money, boastful, proud… lovers of pleasure rather than lovers of God—having a form of godliness but denying its power.” (2 Timothy 3:1-5). It reads like a scroll of today’s headlines: self-worship, empty religion, cold love.
So we ask: Are we living in the end times?
Here’s the thing—every generation has watched the sky and wondered. From Roman persecution to world wars to global pandemics, believers have seen suffering and wondered if the last chapter had begun. But the better question may be: What are we doing with the time we’ve been given?
Because Jesus didn’t just tell signs—He gave assignments. “This gospel of the kingdom will be preached in the whole world… and then the end will come.” (Matthew 24:14). Not fear. Not hiding. Preaching, living, loving in the tension between now and not-yet.
Maybe that’s the pivot. The end times aren’t just about charts and chaos, but about choosing Christ when the world refuses Him.
I remember a mother crying in the back row of church once—her teenage son lost to addiction, her prayers unrelenting. “It feels like darkness is winning,” she said through tears. But then she reached into her purse and pulled out her son’s Bible. “I still read it every day. Just in case he comes home.” That’s end-times faith. Not just watching the signs—but walking in hope while they pass.
It’s possible we are nearer now than ever before. The earth shows its cracks. Politics fracture, compassion grows cold, and truth gets twisted. Yet, God’s promises don’t shake when the world does. Jesus didn’t tell us to fear the signs—He told us to stay awake, stay faithful, stay full of oil like the wise virgins who waited for the bridegroom.
If the sky split open tomorrow, would it find us bitter or blessing? Distracted or devoted? Afraid or abiding?
“The end of all things is near,” Peter once wrote. “Therefore be alert and of sober mind so that you may pray.” (1 Peter 4:7). Not so you may panic. So you may pray.
And while Henry still listens from his porch each night, he no longer listens in fear. He listens with a heart tuned to glory, a heart that whispers, “Come, Lord Jesus,” not because he’s giving up on the world—but because he’s counted on the One who will make all things new.
Maybe we are in the last days.
Maybe we’ve been in them a long while.
But the gospel still walks on dusty roads, still speaks in midnight prayers, still opens arms to prodigal sons.
And the sound of grace still rises above the noise.
Late each night, after the dishes are done and the lights are low, Henry sits on his porch swing and listens. The world has gotten loud—too loud, he says. Sirens in the distance, arguments bleeding through apartment windows, and headlines that read more like prophecy than news. “It wasn’t always like this,” he whispers, the wood creaking beneath him. “But maybe the Bible knew it would come to this.”
Maybe you’ve felt that too. That subtle ache in your chest when another war breaks out, when children talk more about anxiety than dreams, when love feels so cheap and quick to fail. There’s something in the air—a trembling—and we can’t quite put words to it. But it's as if creation is groaning, waiting… like we are.
“Tell us,” the disciples asked Jesus one quiet evening on the Mount of Olives, “what will be the sign of your coming and of the end of the age?” (Matthew 24:3). Jesus didn’t give them a date or a chart. He gave them a warning wrapped in love: “Watch out that no one deceives you. For many will come in my name… You will hear of wars and rumors of wars… Nation will rise against nation… There will be famines and earthquakes… All these are the beginning of birth pains.” (Matthew 24:4-8)
Birth pains. Not death throes.
Jesus was saying something underneath those signs—something fierce with hope. That what feels like an ending might be the beginning. That the trembling world still belongs to a steady Savior.
But the signs keep coming, don’t they?
Paul echoed them generations later in his letter to Timothy: “There will be terrible times in the last days. People will be lovers of themselves, lovers of money, boastful, proud… lovers of pleasure rather than lovers of God—having a form of godliness but denying its power.” (2 Timothy 3:1-5). It reads like a scroll of today’s headlines: self-worship, empty religion, cold love.
So we ask: Are we living in the end times?
Here’s the thing—every generation has watched the sky and wondered. From Roman persecution to world wars to global pandemics, believers have seen suffering and wondered if the last chapter had begun. But the better question may be: What are we doing with the time we’ve been given?
Because Jesus didn’t just tell signs—He gave assignments. “This gospel of the kingdom will be preached in the whole world… and then the end will come.” (Matthew 24:14). Not fear. Not hiding. Preaching, living, loving in the tension between now and not-yet.
Maybe that’s the pivot. The end times aren’t just about charts and chaos, but about choosing Christ when the world refuses Him.
I remember a mother crying in the back row of church once—her teenage son lost to addiction, her prayers unrelenting. “It feels like darkness is winning,” she said through tears. But then she reached into her purse and pulled out her son’s Bible. “I still read it every day. Just in case he comes home.” That’s end-times faith. Not just watching the signs—but walking in hope while they pass.
It’s possible we are nearer now than ever before. The earth shows its cracks. Politics fracture, compassion grows cold, and truth gets twisted. Yet, God’s promises don’t shake when the world does. Jesus didn’t tell us to fear the signs—He told us to stay awake, stay faithful, stay full of oil like the wise virgins who waited for the bridegroom.
If the sky split open tomorrow, would it find us bitter or blessing? Distracted or devoted? Afraid or abiding?
“The end of all things is near,” Peter once wrote. “Therefore be alert and of sober mind so that you may pray.” (1 Peter 4:7). Not so you may panic. So you may pray.
And while Henry still listens from his porch each night, he no longer listens in fear. He listens with a heart tuned to glory, a heart that whispers, “Come, Lord Jesus,” not because he’s giving up on the world—but because he’s counted on the One who will make all things new.
Maybe we are in the last days.
Maybe we’ve been in them a long while.
But the gospel still walks on dusty roads, still speaks in midnight prayers, still opens arms to prodigal sons.
And the sound of grace still rises above the noise.
