A Sermon for the Nineteenth Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 24C)
October 19, 2025
Text: Luke 18:1-8
Now, O Lord, take my lips, and speak through them. Take our minds, and think through them. Take our hearts, and set them on fire. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.
Last weekend, our family went up to Auburn to celebrate Jude’s 14th birthday, and even though the football game didn’t turn out how we hoped, we had a great time visiting with family.
On Sunday morning, Chelsea and I went to worship at St. Dunstan’s—the church that meant so much to us during our college years.
It’s also the church where I was confirmed, where Chelsea and I were married, and where both of our kids were baptized.
It’s the place where I first learned what it meant to belong to a community of faith and where I began to understand that church is more than just a building—it’s a family.
On Sunday morning, when we walked through those big red doors of the church, I was immediately taken back and struck by how alive everything felt.
People were laughing and greeting one another at the door, and when we stepped into the nave, nearly every seat was filled.
The choir was singing with such joy, and you could feel the Holy Spirit moving in that place and a sense that people were genuinely glad to be there.
It hasn’t always been easy, though.
There was a time when there was a lot of uncertainty about the future of St. Dunstan’s—especially a few years ago, when the Bishop of Alabama made the decision to change it from a student chapel to a parish church.
When that happened, the congregation had to learn how to sustain itself financially without the ongoing support of the diocese.
After the former priest retired, they went for a long stretch without a rector.
Finances were extremely tight.
And people wondered whether or not they could keep the doors open.
It was a difficult and uncertain time for that little church.
But through it all, there was always a faithful group of people—some of the same faces I saw last weekend—who refused to give up.
They kept showing up to church. They prayed. They served.
They believed that God still had work for them to do.
And because of their persistence—because of their faithfulness—St. Dunstan’s didn’t just survive.
It has grown and flourished.
When I stood there in that familiar place last Sunday—surrounded by all those people—I couldn’t help but think, “This is what faithfulness looks like.”
For a hundred years, St. Dunstan’s has been rooted in downtown Auburn. And because of the faithfulness of the people there—and the grace of God—it’ll continue to be a place of welcome and hospitality, a place where all are invited to experience the love of God in Christ Jesus for years to come.
Thinking about St. Dunstan’s reminded me so much of our own story here at St. Mary’s.
When I arrived a few years ago, I heard stories about our own season of uncertainty—especially during the pandemic and that long period of transition before I was called to be your rector.
Attendance was down.
People were tired.
There were questions about the future.
But just like those faithful parishioners at St. Dunstan’s, there were people here who refused to give up.
Because they believed in this parish.
They believed in its mission and the work that God was calling us to do, not only for ourselves but for the good of our community.
And because of their persistence, St. Mary’s has not only survived—it too has grown and flourished, and we continue to serve our community in beautiful ways that glorify God and share the love of Christ with others.
So, the word I want us to focus on today—the word I want us to hold on to—is persistence.
In our Gospel reading from Luke, Jesus tells a story about persistence—a story about not giving up, even though that would be the easy thing to do.
There are two characters in this story—a widow and an unjust judge.
The widow keeps coming to the judge, day after day, pleading for justice.
We don’t know exactly why.
Jesus doesn’t give us any details about the widow and her desire for justice, but we do know that she had no power of her own.
In the time of Jesus, widows were among the most vulnerable members of society.
They had no legal standing, no influence, no money to bribe a judge or hire a lawyer.
And yet this widow refuses to be silent.
She keeps coming to the judge, asking for justice. She won’t take “no” for an answer.
And finally, the judge—who doesn’t fear God or care about anyone else—gives in, not because he suddenly wants to do the right thing, but because he’s worn down by this persistent widow.
Now…it’s easy to misunderstand this parable.
At first, it almost sounds like Jesus is saying that if we just keep pestering God and praying hard enough, God will eventually give us what we want—like the judge in our story.
But, that’s not what Jesus is saying here.
He isn’t comparing God to the unjust judge—he’s actually showing the contrast between them.
Jesus says, if even a corrupt and uncaring judge can eventually be moved to act, how much more will a loving and faithful God hear and respond to the prayers of his people?
The point Jesus is trying to make is that we don’t have to wear God down with our prayers.
We don’t have to worry about whether or not God is listening.
God is faithful.
Our persistence in prayer doesn’t change God’s heart.
It changes ours.
It teaches us to put out trust in God—to trust that God’s timing is better than our own and that, even when God feels silent, it doesn’t mean he’s left us.
God is there, even in those moments when it’s hard to see clearly what God is doing.
Luke tells us at the beginning of our lesson that Jesus shared this story “so that we might always pray and not lose heart.”
That’s important for us to remember.
Because when life feels uncertain and we start to lose hope, prayer is what keeps us grounded in the love of God, who promises to be with us through it all.
But, there are times when that kind of faith is hard to hold onto, and many of you know exactly what I’m talking about.
Maybe you’ve been in a long season of grief after the loss of someone you love and you wonder if the pain will ever end.
Maybe you’ve been in a season of disappointment or failure when plans have fallen through, when prayers seem to go unanswered, when the future feels unclear.
Maybe you’ve struggled with doubt, wondering if God is really listening, or even real.
Those are the moments when it’s hardest to pray.
But they’re also the moments when prayer matters most.
Because prayer isn’t about getting the results we want. It’s about staying in relationship with the one who loves us.
When we keep praying—even when the words feel empty—we’re putting our trust in God.
We’re saying, “God, I still believe you’re here and that you love us more than we can imagine.”
That’s what it means to “pray always and not lose heart.”
It’s a kind of faith that isn’t flashy or dramatic. It’s steady, enduring, sometimes quiet, but always faithful.
That’s what I was reminded of at St. Dunstan’s last weekend, and it’s what I see here at St. Mary’s.
Churches go through seasons, just like people do.
There are times of abundance and times of uncertainty.
There are times when everything feels exciting and alive and times when we wonder what the future holds.
But what sustains us through those seasons isn’t programs or budgets or the number of people in the pews.
It’s faith.
It’s the persistent faith of people who keep showing up, day after day, month after month, year after year—
Those who show up when it would be so much easier to stay home.
Those who serve, even when they’re tired;
Those who give, even when times are tight;
Those who love, even when it’s hard.
Faith like that changes a church, and it can change the world.
God honors that persistence, and he works through it, even when we don’t see it happening in the moment.
The story of St. Dunstan’s—and our story here at St. Mary’s—are living testimonies to that truth.
Sometimes we think of faith as something that has to be big or heroic.
But most of the time, faith looks a lot more like the persistent widow in Jesus’ story.
It looks like showing up one more time to pray.
It looks like offering forgiveness one more time.
It looks like serving one more meal at Rice and Beans, or making one more visit to someone in need, or offering one more word of hope when you’re not sure it’ll make a difference.
That’s the kind of faith Jesus calls us to—a faith that holds on to hope, even when the answers to our prayers don’t come quickly or the outcome isn’t what we hoped for.
God is with us in the long seasons of waiting. God hears the prayers we barely manage to whisper. God holds us when our strength runs out.
Maybe today, you find yourself in a season of uncertainty.
Maybe you’ve been praying for something for a long time—for healing, for reconciliation, or even for a clear sense of purpose—and you find yourself tired and frustrated.
Maybe you’ve wondered if faith even matters anymore.
If that’s where you are, remember this—
God hasn’t forgotten you.
God isn’t distant or uncaring like the judge in our story.
God is closer than your next breath.
So, keep praying.
Keep showing up.
And keep trusting that the one who created you and loves you beyond all measure is still at work in your life and will never let you go.
Amen.
The Rev. Eric Mancil 