29 Sunday of Ordinary Time
Even when God appears silent, faith and prayer invite us into a living relationship with Jesus Christ—a relationship that transforms us even when our prayers go unanswered. Like waves that slowly carve stone, persevering prayer reshapes our hearts and deepens our trust in God’s love. And just as Aaron and Hur held up Moses’ arms, we too rely on one another in our community of faith to keep praying, believing, and hoping together.
Listen to homily here:
Some years ago, I read a book called Silence by Shusaku Endo, a Japanese author. I found it quite challenging, a difficult read. Some of you might be familiar with it or have seen Martin Scorsese’s recent film adaptation. The story traces the lives of Jesuit missionaries in 17th-century Japan, a time of severe persecution against Christians. Two young missionaries set out for Japan after hearing that their mentor, a priest who had gone there years before, had renounced his faith. Deeply troubled, they travel in search of him, hoping to learn what became of him and why.
Without revealing too much, the story raises the very tension that echoes in today’s Gospel—the struggle of prayer and faith when God seems silent. The heart of Silence lies in that haunting question: how can one continue to believe in a loving God who does not intervene? How can one pray when heaven appears mute?
Even centuries later, faith and prayer remain difficult for many. Faith, especially today, can be misunderstood or even misused. Some see faith as a tool for power or wealth. We think of figures who exploit belief for personal gain or of moments in history when religion was manipulated for political ends. To illustrate, imagine a leader in a powerful nation publicly aligning with influential Christians. Some citizens might celebrate, others might question the sincerity of that leader’s motives, especially if their actions seem inconsistent with the Gospel. I’m not speaking of a modern leader, but of Emperor Constantine in the fourth century.
Constantine’s mother was a devout Christian, yet his own life remained marked by violence and ambition. Near the end of his life, he was baptized, but his faith journey left many uneasy. Some Christians rejoiced that persecution had ended; others feared the faith was being diluted. It was in this moment that men and women fled to the desert to live radical lives of prayer and simplicity—the beginnings of monastic life. They longed to recover the heart of faith. Their question is still ours: how do we believe in a loving God who sometimes feels absent?
Prayer, too, is a struggle. In Silence, when the missionaries finally meet their mentor, he confesses, “I prayed so much for the people I served, but God did not answer. God was silent.” Many of us have felt the same. We pray for healing, for peace, for change—and nothing seems to happen. Others dismiss prayer as a substitute for action. We hear phrases like “thoughts and prayers” after tragedy and wish that words were joined with deeds. Yet even amid these tensions, the Gospel today reminds us that faith and prayer are not mere practices but relationships.
Faith is rooted in a person—Jesus Christ. To believe is to trust that in Jesus, God became human and revealed both who God is and who we are meant to be. Faith means choosing to live in relationship with Christ, to become more like him here and now. Prayer is the living conversation that flows from that relationship. In prayer, we speak and listen, we share silence, we let his Word shape us.
The Curé of Ars once told of an elderly man who prayed for long hours in church. When asked how he did it, the man replied simply, “I look at him, and he looks at me.” That quiet exchange captures what prayer truly is—love meeting love. Prayer may not always change our circumstances, but it always changes us.
In today’s parable, Jesus tells of a judge who yields only because a widow’s persistence wears him down. If even an unjust judge listens, how much more will our loving Father hear us? God answers every prayer, though often in ways that surprise us. Sometimes prayer must first enlarge our hearts before they can receive what God wants to give. I once noticed waves breaking again and again against a rock wall. Over years, those waves had carved out a hollow, even a cave. Persevering prayer works the same way: over time it shapes and softens our hearts until grace can enter.
And we are not alone in that work. In the first reading, Moses grows weary as he prays for victory over the Amalekites. When his arms begin to fall, Aaron and Hur stand beside him and hold them up until the battle is won. That image beautifully captures the gift of community. Our faith is sustained not just by our own effort but by those who pray with us and for us.
When we come to Mass, we come as that community. We lift one another’s arms in prayer. We help one another to stay faithful. In this holy place, we are surrounded by others who support us, encourage us, and remind us that we are never alone. So let us renew our dedication to faith and to prayer, grounding our hearts once more in Jesus Christ. May we persevere in trust, knowing that even in silence, God listens, and even in struggle, God is near.
