27th Sunday in Ordinary Time: God Does Not Listen

Reflection on the Readings for the 27th Sunday in Ordinary Time, Year C (October 5, 2025)

In the midst of a world that often feels overrun by injustice and chaos—wars raging, systems failing, personal struggles mounting—the prophet Habakkuk's cry in the first reading (Hab 1:2-3; 2:2-4) echoes the raw ache of our own hearts: "How long, O Lord? I cry for help but you do not listen! I cry out to you, 'Violence!' but you do not intervene." It's a lament that could be lifted from today's headlines, where destruction and discord seem to mock our pleas for peace. Habakkuk stands in the rubble of his expectations, demanding answers from a seemingly silent God. 

Yet, the Lord's response isn't a thunderclap of explanation but an invitation to endurance: "Write down the vision clearly upon the tablets, so that one can read it readily. For the vision still has its time, presses on to fulfillment, and will not disappoint; if it delays, wait for it." Here, faith emerges not as a shield against suffering, but as a patient gaze toward a promise that unfolds in God's time. The just one, Habakkuk learns, lives by this fidelity—a quiet revolution against despair. In our own lives, when the wait feels interminable, this reading challenges us: What "vision" is God asking us to inscribe in our days, trusting it will bear fruit even if we don't see it bloom?

The psalm (Ps 95:1-2, 6-7ab, 7c-8, 9) shifts the lens from complaint to communion, calling us to "come, let us sing joyfully to the Lord... let us kneel before the Lord who made us, for he is our God." It's a tender reminder that the same God who hears Habakkuk's frustration is the Shepherd who holds us close, urging us not to harden our hearts in the wilderness of Meribah and Massah—places of testing where doubt can calcify into rebellion. This psalm invites worship as an act of defiance against the violence that surrounds us, a way to reclaim our place as the flock that listens to the Shepherd's voice. In a culture that prizes self-reliance, how radical it is to bow in gratitude, even amid unanswered cries?

Paul's exhortation to Timothy in the second reading (2 Tm 1:6-8, 13-14) grounds these cries and songs in the gritty reality of mission. "God did not give us a spirit of cowardice but rather of power and love and self-control," Paul writes, fanning into flame the gift of grace bestowed through ordination—or, by extension, through baptism and confirmation in our own lives. Timothy, facing persecution, is called to bear his share of hardship for the Gospel, guarding the "good deposit" entrusted to him by the indwelling Holy Spirit. This isn't abstract theology; it's a blueprint for perseverance. In a time when faith can feel like a flickering ember—threatened by division in the Church, secular pressures, or personal burnout—Paul reminds us that God's power isn't about invincibility but about faithful stewardship. We are not passive recipients but active bearers of a treasure that sustains us and others. What "gift" lies dormant in us, waiting to be rekindled for the sake of those around the table of the Lord?

The Gospel (Lk 17:5-10) brings these threads into sharp, humbling focus. The apostles, perhaps overwhelmed by Jesus' call to forgive "seven times a day," blurt out, "Increase our faith!" It's a plea as honest as Habakkuk's, revealing our innate sense that faith is both gift and growth. Jesus doesn't chide their smallness but reframes it: "If you have faith the size of a mustard seed, you would say to this mulberry tree, 'Be uprooted and planted in the sea,' and it would obey." The miracle isn't in the magnitude of our belief but in its mustard-seed potency—tiny, unassuming, yet capable of uprooting deep-rooted strongholds like resentment or fear. Yet Jesus presses further, with the parable of the unworthy servant: After a long day's labor, the servant doesn't expect a hero's welcome but simply does his duty—"We are unprofitable servants; we have done what we were obliged to do." This jars our modern sensibilities, trained to chase affirmation and achievement. Faith, Jesus teaches, isn't a transaction for applause but a response to grace—laboring in love without tallying the score. In the apostles' request, I hear my own: Lord, amplify my faltering trust. But in Jesus' reply, I find freedom: Even a whisper of faith moves mountains, and humble service is its truest expression.

These readings converge on a profound truth: Faith is not the absence of struggle but the choice to live into God's vision amid it—patiently, joyfully, boldly, humbly. Habakkuk's wait teaches us to write the promise; the psalm calls us to worship through it; Paul equips us to guard it; and Jesus reveals its quiet power. As we gather this Sunday, may we bring our cries to the altar, not for instant resolution, but for the grace to become mustard seeds in a world desperate for roots of hope.  Life is a battle, but in the end we who persevere win.  We are not meant for this world so no quick solutions will ever come. In that small surrender, we find the just one who lives by faith—and invites us to join him.