There are days when the lectionary feels like a mirror. Today is one of them. Lamentations opens with a cry: “How lonely sits the city that once was full of people!” (Lam 1:1). It’s a lament for Jerusalem, a city once vibrant, now desolate. The poet walks through the ruins, naming the grief, refusing to look away. “Her princes have become like stags that find no pasture” (v.6). It’s not just a city that’s fallen—it’s a people who’ve lost their way, their strength, their hope.

And maybe we know something of that.

Maybe we’ve walked through our own ruins—of relationships, of communities, of dreams. Maybe we’ve felt the ache of loss, the silence of unanswered prayers, the weight of wondering where God is in the rubble.

Lamentations doesn’t rush to resolution. It lets grief speak. And that’s holy. But it doesn’t stop there.

In chapter 3, the poet shifts: “The thought of my affliction and my homelessness is wormwood and gall! My soul continually thinks of it and is bowed down within me” (Lam 3:19–20). But then—like a candle lit in the dark—comes this: “But this I call to mind, and therefore I have hope: The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases, His mercies never come to an end; they are new every morning” (vv.21–23).

This is not cheap hope. It’s not denial. It’s hope born in the ruins. It’s the kind of hope that doesn’t erase the pain but holds it in tension with trust. “The Lord is good to those who wait for Him,” the poet says, “to the soul that seeks Him” (v.25).

And that brings us to Paul. In 2 Timothy, Paul writes from prison. He’s not in a palace—he’s in chains. And yet he writes with tenderness and fire. “I am reminded of your sincere faith,” he tells Timothy, “a faith that lived first in your grandmother Lois and your mother Eunice” (2 Tim 1:5). Paul is passing the torch—not just of leadership, but of endurance. “Guard the good treasure entrusted to you,” he says, “with the help of the Holy Spirit” (v.14).

Paul knows what it means to suffer. He knows what it means to be abandoned, misunderstood, and weary. But he also knows the power of memory—the strength that comes from remembering who we are, whose we are, and what has been entrusted to us.

And then we hear the disciples in Luke 17. They say to Jesus, “Increase our faith!” (Luke 17:5). It’s a reasonable request. They’ve seen miracles, heard parables, watched Jesus confront power and welcome the outcast. They want more faith—more capacity, more strength, more certainty.

But Jesus doesn’t give them a formula. He says, “If you had faith the size of a mustard seed…” (v.6). And then He tells a story about a servant doing his job—plowing, tending, serving. No fanfare. No applause. Just faithfulness.

It’s a strange response. But maybe it’s exactly what we need.

Because faith isn’t always dramatic. It’s not always about mountaintop moments or spiritual fireworks. Sometimes faith is showing up. Sometimes faith is doing the next right thing. Sometimes faith is praying when you don’t feel like it, loving when it’s hard, serving when no one notices.

Jesus isn’t dismissing the disciples—He’s grounding them. He’s saying: You don’t need more faith. You need to trust the faith you have. You need to live it, even when it’s small, even when it’s quiet.

So what do these texts say to us today?

They say: It’s okay to grieve. It’s okay to name the ruins. But don’t stop there.

They say: Remember the mercies. They are new every morning.

They say: Guard the treasure of faith—not with fear, but with courage.

And they say: Faithfulness is not flashy. It’s mustard-seed small. It’s servant-hearted. It’s daily.

Our previous Presiding Bishop Michael Curry once said, “The opposite of love is not hate—it’s selfishness.” I think the opposite of faith is not doubt—it’s despair. And these texts call us away from despair. Not by pretending everything is fine, but by reminding us that God is present in the ruins, active in the waiting, and faithful in the ordinary.

So let us be faithful. Let us lament honestly, hope fiercely, and serve quietly. For the steadfast love of the Lord never ceases. And that is enough. Amen.