“Hope that Holds in the Hard Times”
(Readings: Jeremiah 31:27–34; Psalm 119:97–104; 2 Timothy 3:14–4:5; Luke 18:1–8)
The pastor gave an unusually long sermon on prayer that Sunday based on the parable of the Poor Widow and the Corrupt Judge. Later at the door, while the pastor was shaking hands with his parishioners, one man said: “Father, your sermon was simply wonderful-- so invigorating, inspiring, and refreshing.” The pastor, of course, broke out in a big smile only to hear with a shock the man’s next words: “I felt like a new man when I woke up!”
My friends, let me take you to Bentong Mountain in Malaysia, where I spent the day on Friday. We had gone there for a silent retreat — a time to listen for God’s still, small voice. Everything was calm: the mist curling gently through the trees, the distant hum of cicadas, and the soft murmur of prayer. We were concluding our retreat, hearts full of quiet peace.
Then, out of nowhere, the sky darkened. The wind began to moan, and raindrops the size of coins started falling sideways. Within minutes, our peaceful mountaintop turned into a battlefield of wind and water!
Everyone sprang into action. One group tried to block the wind with plastic sheets. Another attempted to hold down the roof. A few of us — myself included — discovered that “silent retreat” quickly becomes “loud retreat” when thunder cracks above your head!
Soon we all ended up huddled in one corner, soaked, shivering, praying out loud, half in fear and half in faith. I remember whispering, “Lord, we came up here to find You — but You’ve found us faster than we expected!”
That evening became a living parable — because life is like that storm: calm one moment, chaotic the next. But God meets us even when everything falls apart. Each of today’s readings speaks precisely to that kind of hope — hope that holds when the storm finds you.
Jeremiah spoke during one of Israel’s darkest seasons — around 600 BCE, during the Babylonian exile. Jerusalem had fallen. The Temple lay in ruins. Families were scattered. Many believed God had abandoned them.
In that despair, Jeremiah proclaimed a new covenant. This was radical. The old covenant at Sinai had been broken, but God now promises renewal — not carved on stone tablets but written on human hearts. The exiles thought the story was over; Jeremiah said, “No — God is replanting.”
“I will sow the house of Israel and Judah with the seed of humans and animals,” says the Lord. In ancient terms, sowing meant new beginnings after catastrophe. God promises not only survival, but regeneration — a total renewal of community, fertility, and faith.
To seniors today, we may feel life’s harvest is behind you. But God is still sowing through our prayers, our wisdom, and our memories. We are part of God’s “replanting” project — our stories water the faith of those who come after us.
When I was a boy in rural Zimbabwe, my grandmother would replant maize washed away by rain. I used to complain, saying, Grandma isn’t this wasted effort?” She replied, This is fertile soil. Watch this seed will grow and catch up with the one already germinated, and it happened exactly that way. So, if our faith remains, even after loss, we are still fertile ground. God will plant again.
Psalm 119 was written after the Babylonian exile, when Israel was rediscovering its identity as “a people of the Word.” Without the Temple, the Torah (God’s law) became the center of worship. This psalm celebrates Scripture as the living presence of God — a light when the world seemed dark.
The psalmist says, “How sweet are your words to my taste, sweeter than honey to my mouth!” In the ancient Near East, honey was rare and precious — a symbol of delight. To say God’s Word is sweeter than honey meant it was life-giving in hardship, something to be savored daily.
Christians know that many things lose their sweetness with time — friends pass on, health fades, children move far away. Yet the Word of God grows sweeter with age, not bitter.
When I think of my childhood, I remember those small sugar sweets we’d buy at the bus terminus — the ones that stuck to your teeth but made you smile. The Bible is like that: it clings to your heart even when life is tough.
So, keep your Bible close. Let it be your morning sweetener, your spiritual tea. You’ll find that Scripture not only teaches you but keeps you young in spirit.
Paul wrote the letter to Timothy from prison in Rome, likely near the end of his life (around 64–67 CE), while Emperor Nero’s persecution was intensifying. Timothy was a young leader in Ephesus, facing false teachers and social hostility. Paul, awaiting execution, writes to strengthen his disciple: “Continue in what you have learned… Preach the Word… Be persistent in season and out of season.”
These are a dying man’s words to his spiritual son — the passing of the torch from one generation to another. “All Scripture is God-breathed and useful for teaching…” — Paul roots faith in Scripture’s divine origin. When the Church feels surrounded by confusion, the Word anchors us. And Paul reminds Timothy that his faith was handed down — first from his grandmother Lois and mother Eunice.
You are the Loises and Eunices of today’s church. You may not stand in pulpits, but your kitchen-table prayers and living-room testimonies are sermons your grandchildren will never forget.
When Paul says to Timothy, “I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith,” he’s handing over the baton — not dropping it in despair, but passing it in hope. Paul knows that the gospel must continue beyond him, through Timothy, and through all who will keep running faithfully in every generation.
Luke wrote his Gospel around 80–90 CE, to a community weary from persecution and delay — Jesus had not yet returned, and many wondered if prayer still mattered. This parable about the persistent widow was Luke’s way of saying: “Don’t stop praying. Justice is coming. God is listening.”
In the ancient world, widows had no legal power — they symbolized the powerless who depended solely on God. Jesus’ story turns social expectations upside down: the powerless woman prevails because she refuses to lose heart.
A widow — powerless, penniless —faces a corrupt Roman judge, one of those paid officials people called “Dayyaneh Gezeloth” — robber judges! He feared neither God nor man. She had no lawyer, no husband, no influence. But she had one thing: persistence.
She kept showing up. Day after day. “Give me justice!” And though the judge didn’t care for her or for God, finally he gave in — not from compassion, but exhaustion!
And Jesus says: If a crooked judge will finally respond to persistence, how much more will your loving Father respond to your cry? God is not like that judge. He doesn’t get irritated by our prayers. He never says, “Enough!” He welcomes our persistence because it’s proof of trust.
One Sunday, my aunt baked her famous homemade bread — golden crust, soft inside,
the kind whose smell alone could make angels jealous. We, the children, were each given our share. But then visitors came. They, too, were given their bread.
And my cousin and I — with the persistence of professional beggars — stood right there in front of the visitors and kept saying, “Auntie, may we please have more bread?” The visitors, feeling sorry for us, gave us their pieces! We smiled, waved them goodbye, and thought we had won.
But as soon as the visitors left, Auntie said, “Ah, you want bread, do you? Good!” She went to the kitchen, baked two fresh loaves, placed them on the table, and said, “Eat. All of it. I’ll sit and watch.”
We tried — oh, we tried! But halfway through, we were gasping. And when we couldn’t finish, let’s just say Auntie’s rod of correction reminded us that persistence is not always wise in front of visitors!
But here’s the lesson, friends — God is not like tauntie! When we persist in prayer, He doesn’t punish us for asking again and again. He delights in our persistence! He loves it when we trust Him enough to keep coming. Where human patience wears thin, divine mercy grows deeper.
Seniors, this is your calling. Many of you are living proof that faith can last a lifetime. You’ve prayed through family struggles, through illness, through loss. The world needs to see your persistence — your calm, steady, weather-beaten faith.
After that Bentong storm, as we descended muddy and dripping, one Malaysian brother joked, “Father, you came for a silent retreat but got a baptism of thunder!” I told him, “Indeed — the Lord wanted to make sure the blessing really soaked in!”
My friends, sometimes blessings come through storms.
Sometimes silence is broken so that we can hear God’s louder whisper: “Be still, and know that I am God.”
May that God who replants what was uprooted,
May that Word that sweetens bitterness,
May that Faith that never retires,And may that Prayer that never stops
Keep you steady, hopeful, and joyful, even when storms find you on the mountain.
Amen.