Increase our Faith

It’s the cry of the apostles in our Gospel reading today from Luke, and I suspect it’s a cry that is familiar to many of us. We look at the challenges in our world, the turmoil in our communities, the brokenness in our own homes and relationships, and we think, “If only I had more faith, I could handle this. If only I had more faith, I could make a difference. Lord, increase my faith!” It’s an honest, heartfelt plea that we make when we feel we are not up to the task.

The disciples certainly felt this way. They had been with Jesus for years. They had seen miracles, heard his teachings on forgiveness and radical love, and understood that the mission of Jesus was meant to transform everything—their homes, their social relations, their entire world. And faced with this monumental calling, they felt their own resources were lacking. They needed more, they desired more.

But Jesus’s response is fascinating. He doesn’t grant their request directly. He doesn’t wave a hand and give them a spiritual power-up. Instead, he tells them two seemingly disconnected stories. First, he gives them a familiar image: “If you had faith the size of a mustard seed, you could say to this mulberry tree, ‘Be uprooted and planted in the sea,’ and it would obey you.”

This is the second time Luke has used the mustard seed image. Jesus isn’t saying their faith is too small. He’s saying the amount of faith isn’t the point. By picking the smallest of seeds, he’s telling them it doesn’t take very much faith to do incredible things. The issue isn’t the quantity of their faith; it’s the use of their faith. They don’t need more faith; they need to act on the faith they already have. They need to trust that the work they do right here, right now, on behalf of God’s kingdom, truly matters.

Then, the script flips entirely. Jesus launches into a parable about the power dynamics of a Roman household, an image of a master and a slave. We need to tread carefully here. Slavery in any form is an exploitive system, a wound on human history that persists today in human trafficking and the abuse of the marginalized. Jesus is not praising or replicating this system. We are cautioned from reading these verses in isolation. Instead, Jesus is using a common, everyday example his listeners would immediately understand to make a very specific point about the work we do. The master comes in from the field and expects the slave to do their job—to prepare the meal and serve it—before tending to their own needs. The master doesn’t heap praise on the slave for simply doing what was expected.

On the surface, this sounds harsh, even demeaning. But Jesus is trying to shift the disciples’ perspective. Their problem isn’t a faith problem; it’s an internal motivation problem. They’re looking for a feeling of adequacy before they act. Jesus is telling them to simply get on with the work of the kingdom.

And this brings us to the most misunderstood verse in the passage. Jesus concludes by saying that when they have done all they were commanded, they should say, “We are worthless slaves; we have only done what we ought to have done.” That word, “worthless,” or achreios in the Greek, can make us recoil. But biblical scholar Kenneth Bailey offers a profound insight. The root of the word is chreios, which is about need—”that which should happen or be supplied because it is needed.” The prefix ‘a’ negates it. So, a-chreios doesn’t have to mean “unprofitable” or “worthless.” It can mean “without need.”

What if Jesus is telling his disciples that their faithful service will bring them to a place of deep knowledge and gratitude, where they can say, “We are servants without need. God has given us our purpose and equipped us for it. We have only done what we were created to do.” This completely reframes the story. It’s not about being worthless; it’s about being sufficient. It’s about knowing God has given us every good thing we need to be part of His Kingdom.

In his book Outliers, Malcolm Gladwell talks about the “10,000-hour rule,” arguing that mastery comes less from innate talent and more from thousands of hours of purposeful practice. Jesus seems to be saying something similar. Discipleship is not about waiting for a sudden infusion of faith. It’s about the daily discipline of doing the work—praying, forgiving, serving, loving. Our lives as followers of Christ are made up in the trying.

This is precisely the struggle we see in our reading from the prophet Habakkuk. He cries out to God from the midst of chaos and injustice: “O Lord, how long shall I cry for help, and you will not listen?” He sees a world where God’s people are not holding up their end of the covenant. They know what to do, but they are not doing it.

And what is God’s response? It’s not an immediate fix. It’s a vision and a command: “Write the vision; make it plain… For there is still a vision for the appointed time… If it seems to tarry, wait for it; it will surely come.” And then, the foundational statement: “the righteous will live by their faith.”

The righteous will live by their faithfulness, by their steady, active trust in God’s vision, even when they can’t see the immediate results. Like the disciples, the people of Habakkuk’s time had what they needed. They had the vision. They had the covenant. They had sufficient faith. They just needed to start living it. They needed to do the work.

So what does this mean for us, here and now? It means that when we cry out, “Increase our faith!” Jesus is already responding, “Use the faith you have.” You have enough. God has already prepared you, provided for you, and sent you out. You are not worthless; you are servants without need, fully equipped for the task at hand.

Our calling is not to wait until we feel perfectly faithful, but to act into our faith. It is to serve, to love, and to work for justice, not for a reward or a thank you, but because it is what we were created and called to do. It is in the steady, daily practice of our discipleship that our faith is expressed, and the work of the kingdom is done.

So let us stop worrying about the size of our faith. Let us, instead, take the mustard seed we’ve been given and get to work.

Amen.