Habakkuk 1:1-4, 2:1-4; Psalm 37:1-10; II Timothy 1:1-14; Luke 16:19-31
Not much is known about the prophet Habakkuk. We don’t know his hometown, his occupation, his parents, or even his tribe. He seems to be from Jerusalem, likely around the time of the Babylonian empire, as much of his work references the atrocities committed by the Babylonians against Israel. His name may mean “embrace”—but even that is uncertain. What we do know is that Habakkuk is the only prophet who openly questions God. Habakkuk wastes no time in expressing his frustration with God. He begins his book with a bold cry:
“O Lord, how long shall I cry for help, and you will not listen? Or cry to you ‘Violence!’ and you will not save?”
He doesn’t pull any punches—he comes out swinging.
To be honest, I really appreciate Habakkuk’s anger and his willingness to express it to God. How often have I been completely exasperated with God? To the point of yelling at him, telling him off—even cursing his name. Well, okay—not very often. But there have been a few times.
When my grandfather died, I remember in my grief and anger calling God every name I could think of. I was furious that God had taken away someone I loved so deeply and would never see again.
Papa Jerry—that’s what we called my grandfather—loved me more than anything. And I loved him just as much. Losing him was one of the saddest moments of my life. I raged at God. I cried until I had nothing left. In my anger, I didn’t care if God didn’t like it—I didn’t like that He had taken my Papa Jerry. I figured that made us even, and God could just deal with my anger and disappointment.
When I was completely spent and had cried every tear in my body, I curled up on my bed in the fetal position. I was too tired to be angry anymore and too sad to move. In that moment, I experienced God in a way I never had before—and never have since. As I lay there, I felt the wings of an angel surround me—their feathery softness brushing against my skin, their strength encompassing me. A peace—that peace which passes all understanding—flowed into my heart, mind, and body, washing away the anguish and sorrow.
In those few moments, I didn’t move. Not because of the exhaustion, but because of the euphoria. I didn’t want that experience to end. As that peace filled me, it also strengthened me. I knew God’s presence in a deeply intimate way—a fullness, a completion.
I’ve never had an experience like that since—and to be honest, I’m not sure I want to. That theophany—that appearance of God—was preceded by emotional devastation, grounded in fear and doubt. But it changed me. It made me whole. It deepened my faith.
Faith seems like it should be easy. We often define it as belief in something or someone unseen—something we trust in, despite the lack of visible proof. We all want more faith. We all want to believe—in God, in the goodness of others, even in the best versions of ourselves. We want to trust that good will overcome evil… that love is all we need. We want to believe we can doubt and be angry without retribution from God. Deep down, we long to let go of our need for control and allow God to carry us.
Faith seems easy—but real faith is hard. Real faith shows up in the pain and suffering of a world that refuses to conform to our will. Real faith is what we have left when everything else has been stripped away—when the leather of the oppressor’s belt has lashed our backs. Real faith remains when all else fails. Real faith is about surrendering control—releasing our expectations of how people should behave, how life should unfold, how justice should arrive—especially in a world that is brittle, anxious, non-linear, and often incomprehensible. Real faith says, “Not my will, but Thy will be done.”
So when the apostles said to Jesus, “Increase our faith,” I’m not sure they fully understand what they were asking; that they truly appreciated what it would mean to have their faith increased. So often, that “increase” comes as a response to suffering, to loss, to hardship. They couldn’t yet fathom the cross, or the fear and disorientation they would experience in the days and weeks following Jesus’ crucifixion and resurrection.
To ask Jesus to “increase our faith” always includes risk.
Habakkuk witnessed the destruction of the Temple. He knew only famine, hardship, and loss. He questioned God not because his faith was weak—but because his faith was strong enough to believe God could handle his questions, his grief, his lament. His challenges weren’t meant to provoke God—they were his way of letting go of control, of turning toward the remnant, of choosing to seek hope even in despair. Habakkuk knew that while many of the Jewish authority—the religious leaders, the wealthy, the ruling class—were gone, those who remained would need a vision to hold onto.
Habakkuk struggled with the silence of a just God while the wicked seemed to thrive. His words became lament, even as he shared the vision God gave him. And though he seems to know he will never see that vision fulfilled, his faith is in no way diminished. Habakkuk understood the cost of real faith.
Habakkuk’s book ends with a song—a haunting blend of lament and hope. His trust in a sovereign God, who will deal with injustice in God’s own time and way, is clear. And he offers clarity as to what is required of the believer which is simply to live by faith.
He writes:
Though the fig tree does not blossom,
and no fruit is on the vines;
though the produce of the olive fails,
and the fields yield no food;
though the flock is cut off from the fold,
and there is no herd in the stalls,
yet I will rejoice in the Lord;
I will exult in the God of my salvation.
God, the Lord, is my strength…
Faith is not about what we have—it’s about what we hope for.
Suffering, sorrow, anger, and frustration can absolutely make us question God—even make us question our belief in what God is doing, or not doing, in the world. But those things don’t have to limit our faith. If we are willing to trust God enough to walk through our pain, we will find God there—in the struggle—as our strength, our redeemer, a sure presence in the darkest of times. And our faith will be increased.
Amen.