Holy defiance

Sermon by Pr. Sharai Jacob on the Nineteenth Sunday after Pentecost + Saturday, October 18, 2025.

In today’s Gospel reading, Jesus tells a parable about a judge and a widow. And we’re told, right from the beginning, what the point of the parable is: to teach us to always pray and not lose heart.

It’s a simple instruction. But as we all know, it’s not always simple to live out.

In the story, we meet a widow who comes to a judge demanding justice. And this judge is not a good man. Jesus describes him as someone who neither fears God nor respects people. He’s indifferent. Corrupt. And yet, this widow keeps coming back. Over and over again. Until finally, just to get her off his back, the judge gives in and grants her request.

And then Jesus says: “If even this guy eventually delivers justice, how much more will God—who is good and loving—respond to those who cry out day and night?”

It’s a powerful story. But to be honest, it raises some real tension for me.

Jesus says that God will grant justice quickly. But many of us, and many in our world, have been fighting oppression, racism, injustice, and violence for a long, long time. And some never see justice in their lifetime.

So what’s that about? Is Jesus saying they didn’t pray hard enough? Is justice only for those who pray with perfect faith or persistence?

I doubt that’s what Jesus is saying here. But it’s still a question that I was left with.

Often when we read a parable, we assume that one of the characters represents God. Usually the powerful one. But in this case, Jesus explicitly says that God is not like this judge.

So if God isn’t the judge in this story… who is?

What if the one who is mirroring God is actually the widow?

The widow doesn’t just ask for justice once. She keeps showing up. She keeps calling out what’s wrong, even when the system is stacked against her. She refuses to be silent. She refuses to give up. And in doing so, she models a kind of persistence, a kind of faithfulness, that could be a reflection of Jesus’s life and ministry.

The widow’s persistence is bold. It’s courageous. It’s a kind of holy defiance.

She’s operating in a broken system. She likely has very little power, no money, no status. And still, she uses what she does have: her voice, her presence, her refusal to back down. What some might call “weapons of the weak,” Jesus calls a model of faithful strength.

This is not a story about groveling to a hard-hearted God.

It’s a story about showing up in the face of injustice, again and again, because we believe in a God who does hear our cries—and who does care deeply for justice.

And maybe this is what Jesus means when he ends the parable by asking:

“When the Son of Man comes, will he find faith on earth?”

Will he find a faith that demands justice in a world flooded with injustice?

A faith that persists in choosing life, even in systems that deal in death?

A faith that trusts in God’s promises—and lives as if they could be fulfilled today?

In verse one, we’re told this parable is meant to teach us to always pray and not lose heart.

But sometimes, prayer feels like a struggle. Especially when we know that prayer alone won’t dismantle oppressive systems.

The phrase, “Thoughts and prayers” has often been used as a cop-out—a way to avoid doing the hard work of justice. And most of us don’t experience prayer as some magical way to change the world overnight.

So why do we pray?

I think we pray for a few reasons:

First, we pray to cope. Prayer is a place where we can express our grief, our rage, our pain—all the emotions that the world often tells us to hide. We can be real and honest about our feelings before God.

Second, we pray to find hope. In prayer, we remind ourselves of who God is: not like the judge in the story, but a God of compassion, justice, and grace.

And third, we pray for solidarity. When we pray, we join our cries with the cries of the oppressed—and we remember that Jesus himself was no stranger to suffering. He was executed by the state, betrayed, abandoned—and yet God raised him. Jesus stands with the oppressed, and he calls us to do the same.

For me, prayer feeds my soul when I feel weighed down by all the injustice in the world. When I fear for the future—or when I worry I’m not equipped to meet it. This week I prayed in grief after seeing news of Saleh al-Jafarawi’s assassination. I’ve been watching his reporting on the genocide in Palestine for two years.

Prayer doesn’t give me all the answers, it doesn’t take away his family’s pain. But it reminds me of God’s presence with us, and it keeps my heart from growing hard.

It restores my energy and gives me the hope I need to keep going.

It reminds me that I serve a loving God, who equips each of us in different ways to stand for justice. That the ways I call for justice are valuable, and that I am not alone.

I think of my mother’s advice—something I carry with me often. She told me once:

“When people practice hate, they want that hatred to reach your heart. Don’t let them poison your heart with hate.”

Prayer helps me keep my heart open, even when the world tries to close it. It’s my antidote to the poison of hate.

But here’s the key: the widow in the parable didn’t just sit at home and pray.

She persisted. She showed up. She took that hope, that holy anger, that longing for justice—and she acted.

And we can do the same.

Prayer is not the end of our work. It’s the beginning.

It energizes us, centers us, and equips us to join others who are doing the work of justice and healing.

One of the ways we persist, like the widow, is through the work of reparations.

Reparations isn’t about guilt—it’s about repair.

It’s about building trust and restoring relationships that have been broken, especially between communities divided by race, wealth, and historic harm.

It’s faithful work because it mirrors God’s desire for reconciliation—for healing what’s been wounded, for making things right.

And it doesn’t assume the work is finished. It acknowledges that people still suffer under systems that benefit some while harming others. Reparations is about walking with those communities, not ahead of them. It’s a form of persistent faith in action.

Not everyone is called to the same work. We don’t all show up in the same way—and that’s okay.

Some of us organize. Some protest. Some educate.

Some offer financial resources. Some create art. Some create spaces for healing, or offer emotional support and care.

Whatever your gift is, it matters.

What matters most is that we don’t lose heart.

That we keep showing up.

That we join with the God who hears the cry for justice—and calls us to listen, and respond.

Beloved, God is not like the unjust judge. God is good. God is faithful. God is near.

And God hears the cries of the oppressed—not with indifference, but with love and resolve.

Let us be like the widow.

Let us pray with courage, act with persistence, and never lose heart.

Amen.