Redistricting lawsuits are once again multiplying like rabbits in springtime, gathering at the steps of the Supreme Court as though the justices were oracles perched atop a modern Mount Olympus. Democrats are filing challenges against Republican-drawn maps from coast to coast, Republicans are defending their cartographic handiwork with equal zeal, and legal analysts are circling the action like sports commentators calling a game no one fully understands but everyone insists is life-or-death. For all the heated rhetoric, the situation is hardly new. Every decade, Americans act genuinely shocked—positively stupefied—that politicians attempt to draw districts beneficial to their own side. That’s like being surprised that a cat knocks things off the counter. My friend, this is not a plot twist.

Yet beneath all the legal maneuvers and partisan lamentations lies something deeper that exposes an ancient human instinct to place our trust in structures we think will outlast us, whether those structures are temples or congressional maps. And because God has a remarkable ability to speak across millennia, the moment Jesus had with His disciples in Mark 13:1–4 gives us uncanny insight into our own political obsessions.

As Jesus left the temple complex after a long day of teaching, one of His disciples could not help but marvel aloud at the splendor of Herod’s temple. And honestly, who could blame him? The temple was one of the architectural wonders of the ancient world. Some of its foundational stones weighed hundreds of tons, massive slabs that would make even modern engineers scratch their heads and mutter about needing a bigger forklift. To the Jewish people, the temple was not merely a beautiful structure; it was the beating heart of their national identity, the center of worship, and the visible symbol of God’s enduring covenant with them.

But Jesus responded with a prophecy so shocking, so downright unimaginable, that it must have arrested the disciple mid-sentence. “Seest thou these great buildings? there shall not be left one stone upon another, that shall not be thrown down” (Mark 13:2). The disciples likely stared at Him in stunned silence. And yet, as history soberly records, within a single generation—just as Jesus foretold—the Romans laid the entire complex to waste in A.D. 70.

Christ’s message was unmistakable: even the strongest human structures, even the institutions we deem sacred and permanent, are not eternal. They may be magnificent, but they are not invincible.

That sobering truth speaks directly into our political moment. Today, Americans of all stripes gaze upon the “great stones” of political power: congressional districts, legislative majorities, judicial rulings, demographic trends, and ideological turf wars. Some activists speak as if winning or losing a particular redistricting case will determine the fate of Western civilization. And while these matters certainly affect our national life, the breathless doomsday rhetoric can sometimes resemble the disciples’ misplaced awe toward the temple building. We have not changed much over the centuries. We still marvel at human craftsmanship while forgetting human limitations.

In the current wave of redistricting fights, Democrats are challenging Republican-drawn maps, Republicans are defending them fiercely, and both sides accuse the other of undermining democracy. If political theater awarded Oscars, this category would be crowded every decade. What neither side likes to admit is that both parties seize every opportunity to gain structural advantage. Republicans do it. Democrats do it. And each pretends the other party invented the sin. The moral outrage often feels less like conviction and more like selective amnesia.

Meanwhile, the American public watches court after court take up maps, redraw maps, reject maps, and occasionally toss the whole pile back to state legislatures like an exasperated parent returning a messy room to a child who created it. And through all of this, there exists an unspoken assumption shared by activists and strategists alike: if we can just get the district lines right, if we can just carve the electorate with surgical precision, then political victory will be secure. That assumption, while understandable, is profoundly misguided.

When Jesus sat on the Mount of Olives shortly after His prophecy, four disciples—Peter, James, John, and Andrew—approached Him privately with two pressing questions: When will these things happen, and what sign will indicate their fulfillment? They assumed the destruction of the temple must coincide with the end of the age. They believed that if something this grand were to fall, then surely history itself must be collapsing. Their questions revealed not only reverence but a misunderstanding: confusing the temporal with the ultimate and the earthly with the eternal.

Our political culture today often falls into the same category of confusion. Many citizens conflate the rise and fall of political arrangements with the rise and fall of truth itself. They look to the Supreme Court as though it were the new Mount of Olives, an elevated place where the mysteries of the future might be unveiled. Politicians and pundits speak of certain rulings as “the moment everything changes forever,” when in reality these are temporary human judgments that will themselves one day be revised, reversed, or forgotten. Courts can resolve disputes, but they cannot repair the human heart. They can adjust maps, but they cannot unify a fractured nation.

The deeper issue is that we routinely place more trust in political structures than in spiritual foundations. We imagine that if only the right party controls the cartography, then justice will prevail. But maps do not save nations. Maps do not heal divisions. Maps cannot restore virtue, rebuild families, or reconcile communities. They are tools: sometimes necessary, often flawed, always temporary.

This is not to say that redistricting is unimportant. Fair representation matters. Transparency matters. The integrity of elections matters deeply to a healthy republic. But as a Christian conservative—one not beholden to partisan blinders—I must also confess that no political arrangement, no matter how efficient or advantageous, can substitute for righteousness, wisdom, or humility. Our nation’s challenges do not stem solely from district boundaries, but from moral boundaries we have steadily erased.

When Jesus spoke of stones falling, He was also inviting His followers to lift their eyes from the earthly and fix them on the eternal. Buildings collapse, kingdoms fade, and yes, even congressional districts get redrawn beyond recognition. But His kingdom is not shaken. His authority is not up for judicial review. His truth is not dependent on the next census.

As we watch the redistricting battles unfold—lawsuits multiplying, pundits pontificating, politicians acting as though eternal power hangs on a handful of suburban precincts—it would do us well to remember the disciples’ moment of awe and Jesus’ gentle correction. Earthly structures, however impressive, will not endure. Christ’s kingdom will. That should not make us retreat from politics, but rather engage with clarity, humility, and hope.

The temple fell, just as Jesus said it would. Maps will change, just as they always have. Empires rise and wobble. Court rulings shift. Legislatures redraw boundaries with the zeal of children reorganizing Lego forts. And through it all, the Lord remains sovereign, not anxious, not surprised, not pacing the floors of heaven wondering how the Supreme Court will rule.

Christ reigns, and His truth outlasts the strongest stones and the cleverest maps.