Lectionary Reflection
“Faith in the Ashes: Lament, Patience, and the Power of Small Faith”
Opening Prayer
God of the brokenhearted and the barely-holding-on,
You see what we carry, what we grieve, what we fear.
You do not rush us past the ashes—
but meet us in them, and hold us through them.
Give us the faith to keep going,
even when hope is a whisper and joy feels far off.
You are faithful. We will wait for You.
Amen.
Prayer Before Scripture
God who speaks into silence,
and answers the cries we’re afraid to say out loud—
Let these ancient words be a balm,
and a challenge, and a guide.
Open our hearts to Your persistent mercy,
and give us ears to hear the call to keep trusting.
Amen.
Reflection: "Faith in the Ashes: Lament, Patience, and the Power of Small Faith"
There are weeks when the Scriptures meet us with celebration.
This is not one of them.
This week, the texts ask us to sit with what we usually try to outrun:
Loss.
Injustice.
Waiting.
The slow work of God in a hurting world.
They begin with Lamentations—a book named after grief. “How lonely sits the city that once was full of people,” the writer says in 1:1. The temple is destroyed. The people are exiled. The glory days are gone. These are not abstract theological statements—they are the raw poetry of trauma. “Her priests groan; her young girls grieve… she herself suffers bitterly.” Lamentations refuses to sanitize what’s been lost.
And yet, in the center of this book of mourning—almost hidden in chapter 3—comes a gentle declaration:
“The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases… the Lord is good to those who wait.”
This is not cheap optimism. It’s not a bandage over a bullet wound. It is faith born in the ashes—a belief that even if we don’t see it yet, God is not done.
Psalm 137 offers a different window into that loss. “By the rivers of Babylon—there we sat down and wept.” The exiles are mocked by their captors: Sing us a song of Zion! But how do you sing the Lord’s song in a foreign land? This is the question we all face when joy dries up, when the world doesn’t match the promises we once believed.
Habakkuk takes that question even further. “O Lord, how long shall I cry for help, and you will not listen?” he asks. The prophet names what we all feel in times of injustice—when the wicked seem to thrive and violence is normalized. But Habakkuk doesn’t just rage—he waits. “I will stand at my watchpost,” he says, waiting for a word from God. And when the word comes, it’s not what we might expect:
“There is still a vision for the appointed time… if it seems to tarry, wait for it…
the righteous live by their faith.”
God doesn’t always offer immediate relief.
But God does promise that faith isn’t futile—even when it’s exhausted.
Psalm 37 offers similar counsel:
“Do not fret because of the wicked.”
“Trust in the Lord and do good.”
“Be still before the Lord and wait patiently.”
This isn’t passive endurance—it’s active trust, grounded in a God who will not abandon justice, even if justice seems delayed.
And then we hear Paul’s voice from prison in 2 Timothy. He is in chains. The churches are fragile. Many have deserted him. And yet he tells Timothy: Guard the good treasure entrusted to you… rekindle the gift of God within you. Paul knows what it's like to live with hope in hard places. He speaks not of strength, but of a spirit of power, love, and self-discipline—a resilience gifted by God.
Finally, we come to Luke 17, where the disciples plead, “Increase our faith!” Jesus replies with a parable that confounds expectations. He doesn’t say their faith is too small. He says faith the size of a mustard seed is enough—because it’s not about quantity but trust. Jesus also reminds them that servants don’t demand applause. Faith is not a performance. It is a way of living—quietly, faithfully, without needing reward.
What Holds These Texts Together?
They do not promise easy answers.
They do not minimize suffering.
They do not bypass lament.
Instead, they show us what real faith looks like:
It cries out in honesty.
It waits, even when it hurts.
It trusts that God’s silence is not God’s absence.
It keeps going, one day at a time, mustard seed by mustard seed.
This is faith in the ashes.
And somehow, it is enough.
Benediction
Go now, not with every answer,
but with the courage to keep asking the questions.
Go not with triumphant certainty,
but with the faith that God is near—even in silence.
Go with a mustard seed of hope,
and trust that it is enough for today.
And may the God of lament and restoration,
the Christ who waited in the grave,
and the Spirit who groans with us,
sustain you through the night
until joy comes in the morning.
Amen.