Brothers and sisters,
We hear this morning the cry of the prophet Habakkuk: “How long, Lord, am I to cry for help while you will not listen?” His words feel ancient, yet they might just as well have been written yesterday. They come from a heart that has prayed, waited, and seen little change. They are the words of someone who has remained faithful while surrounded by violence and confusion, someone who cannot yet see the fruit of God’s promise.
In that tension — between faith and delay, between promise and fulfilment — the prophet receives a reply: “this vision is for its own time only: eager for its own fulfilment, it does not deceive; if it comes slowly, wait, for come it will, without fail… the upright man will live by his faithfulness.”
This small phrase — “the upright man will live by his faithfulness” — echoes through all of Scripture, and today it’s answered by the Gospel. The apostles, too, feel the strain of delay, the weariness of waiting and trying. They come to Jesus with a simple plea: “Increase our faith.”
It’s a beautiful prayer, and perhaps it’s one of the most honest in the Gospels. They don’t ask for power, or success, or certainty — only for faith. Faith that can hold fast when the heart grows tired; faith that can continue to pray when God seems silent; faith that can forgive, love, and serve even when the results are unseen.
And Jesus’ answer is striking: “were your faith the size of a mustard seed…” A seed so small it can slip through your fingers — yet full of life and potential. Christ does not speak of quantity, but of quality. He is saying: Even the smallest, most fragile faith, if it is real, if it is living, is enough to move mountains — or, as he says here, to uproot trees and plant them in the sea.
Faith, then, is not an achievement or a possession. It’s a relationship of trust. It’s the willingness to stand before God, often without answers, yet to say: “I am still here. I believe you are good.”
In our Cistercian life, we know something of this rhythm — the waiting, the silence, the long fidelity of prayer that often bears no visible fruit. Habakkuk’s lament could easily be the monk’s psalm: “How long, O Lord?” The world outside moves at a frantic pace, always searching for immediate reward, visible progress, measurable success. But in the stillness of the cloister, in the daily repetition of the Hours, we learn another way — the slow way of God. The vision “presses on to fulfilment.” And as Habakkuk reminds us, it will not deceive.
St Paul, in his letter to Timothy, speaks to us in the same spirit: “I remind you to fan into flame the gift that God gave you… God’s gift was not a spirit of timidity, but the spirit of power, and love, and self-cpntrol.”
Notice how Paul connects courage with gentleness. The power he speaks of is not domination, but endurance; the love he names is not sentiment, but sacrifice; the self-discipline is not rigidity, but constancy. These are the hallmarks of true faith. And perhaps that is what Jesus was trying to tell his disciples — that faith is not a magic key to miracles, but a quiet strength that endures the cross.
So, brothers and sisters, today’s readings ask us: what does it mean to live by faith, in the face of delay, uncertainty, or struggle? It means trusting the slow work of God — trusting that His promises do not lie. It means keeping alive the small flame, the mustard seed, that may flicker but will not go out. It means giving thanks in all circumstances, even when we see only a fraction of the grace we have been given.
Perhaps that is the call for us monks — and for all who pray and persevere in silence – not to chase after visible miracles, but to live daily in the miracle of trust itself. Faith, even the smallest seed of it, can sustain a life of prayer, forgiveness, and love. It can make us whole, even when the world sees nothing happening at all.
And so we return to Habakkuk’s assurance: “The vision is for its own time.” We wait, we pray, and we keep our lamps lit. The Lord will not disappoint.
Amen.