Homilies
Trinity Sunday
Holy Spirit take my words and speak to each of us according to our needs
“My way is hidden from the Lord, and my right is disregarded by my God.”
Those words from the Book of Isaiah don’t sound like someone speaking with a triumphant faith. They sound like a sigh. A quiet, weary conclusion that someone reaches when life has pressed too hard on them for too long. It might also sound all too familiar for us too.
They are the words of people who feel overlooked, worn down, perhaps even forgotten. Isaiah first spoke these words to a people in exile, They were displaced, uncertain, and struggling to see where God was in the midst of their hardship. But they could just as easily be spoken today: by someone living with chronic illness, someone carrying responsibilities that never seem to ease, or by someone quietly wondering whether their prayers are even heard.
“My way is hidden…”. A woeful lament, but notice what the prophet does next. He does not rebuke harshly. He does not dismiss the feeling. Instead, he gently invites a deeper remembering: “Have you not known? Have you not heard?” In other words: Do not forget who God is. This invitation, to find the answer inside yourself, is one of the foundations of coaching even today.
“The Lord is the everlasting God, the Creator of the ends of the earth. He does not faint or grow weary; his understanding is unsearchable.”
We know what it is like to grow weary. That much is certain. Bodies tire, minds falter, spirits grow thin. Even “youths,” Isaiah says, the very symbol of strength, will stumble and fall, eventually. But God does not.
This is not just a statement about power, it is a statement about faithfulness. God does not lose interest. God does not become distracted. God does not grow tired of caring. God is steadfast and unchanging.
And so the heart of the promise is this: “He gives power to the faint, and strengthens the powerless.”
God meets us not after we have gathered ourselves together, not when we have regained control, but precisely in the moment when we know we cannot carry on alone.
And then comes that extraordinary image: “They shall mount up with wings like eagles; they shall run and not be weary; they shall walk and not faint.”
It is a beautiful vision, conjuring a solid, strong image—but we must hear it carefully and correctly. It is not a promise of constant soaring, as though faith lifts us permanently above struggle. Eagles do not live endlessly in the sky; they rest, they wait, they depend on currents of air which they did not create.
And that is exactly Isaiah’s point: “Those who wait for the Lord shall renew their strength.”
Not those who strive endlessly. Not those who rely on their own reserves. But those who learn to wait; to trust, depend, and to receive.
And that waiting is not passive. Just as I mentioned in a previous sermon about Jesus’ time between death and resurrection, not being passive – he was harrowing Hell! It is not giving up. It is an active, choosing to turn toward God, again and again, especially when we are tempted to believe that we can rely on ourselves.
There is also a second danger in this passage, and although it is quieter, it is just as real as the previous despair. It is the danger of thinking that when we are strong, we are strong by ourselves and do not need God.
When life is going well, when we are running and not weary, walking and not fainting, it is very easy to assume that this is our own doing. Our discipline. Our resilience. Our capability. We may even attribute it to our faith, as though faith itself were something we have achieved for ourselves.
But Isaiah gently interrupts that illusion. “Those who wait for the Lord shall renew their strength.” Not generate it. Not own it. But, receive it.
So whether we feel exhausted or energised, struggling or thriving, the truth remains the same: the strength is not ours to begin with. And if we forget that, we risk trusting the gift more than the giver.
We also risk building our lives on something that will, sooner or later, give way. Because, as Isaiah reminds us, even the young grow weary. Even the strong fall.
Which is why we are called to humility both in weakness and in strength. When we are weary, we are invited to trust God. When we are strong, we are invited to remember God. We can see this lived out clearly in the Gospel accounts of the life of Jesus.
In Jesus Christ we encounter not only divine power, but full humanity. He knew tiredness. He slept in a boat in the midst of a storm. He sat, weary and thirsty, by a well. He experienced hunger in the wilderness, thirst on the cross, and deep anguish in the garden.
Take a moment to consider the Temptation of Jesus. After forty days of fasting, Jesus is physically depleted. And in that moment, the tempter comes with a suggestion that sounds almost reasonable: Take control. Use your power. Provide for yourself. Turn those stones into bread!
But Jesus refuses. He chooses not to rely on himself in isolation, even though he could. Instead, he entrusts himself to the Father: “Man shall not live by bread alone…”
Or again, the Agony in the Garden of Gethsemane. We see him overwhelmed, not with physical exhaustion alone, but with sorrow and dread.
“My soul is overwhelmed…” He says
And what does he do? He prays. He waits. He surrenders. “Not my will, but yours be done.” This is what it means to wait on the Lord, not passivity, but deep, costly trust.
Again and again, the Gospels show Jesus withdrawing to pray; early in the morning, after long days, in quiet places. In his humanity, he lives not by self-sufficiency, but by continual dependence on the Father.
This is how he renews his strength. And if Christ himself lived this way, we should be cautious about imagining we can do otherwise.
The contrast is striking when we think of Simon Peter. On the night before the crucifixion, Peter is full of confidence: “Even if all fall away, I will not.” It sounds strong, almost admirable, even. But it is strength assumed to be his own. And within hours, it collapses.
Peter’s failure is not weakness, it is misplaced confidence. Later, after the resurrection, he becomes a different kind of man: still bold, but now dependent, prayerful, and aware that his strength is sustained by God.
And this pattern repeats in the wider story of the Church. Think of Paul the Apostle, once Saul. A man of learning, conviction, and fierce self-assurance. He believed he was serving God and did so with all the force of his own strength. Until that moment on the Damascus road, when everything is undone. He is struck down. Blinded and reduced to dependence. The one who thought he saw clearly must now be led by the hand.
And in that breaking down, something new begins. Saul becomes Paul; not weaker, but transformed. Later, he went on to write, “When I am weak, then I am strong.” Because he has learned that true strength is not self-generated, but given.
Or consider Mary Magdalene. A woman whose life had known deep struggle, yet who becomes one of the most faithful followers of Christ. She remains at the cross when others flee. She goes to the tomb in the quiet darkness of morning. And there, she encounters the risen Lord, becoming the first to proclaim the good news. Her confidence is not rooted in her past, nor in her own strength, but in the transforming grace of God.
Or take Florence Nightingale, labouring tirelessly in the harsh conditions of the Crimean War. Her endurance did not come from endless reserves of energy, but from a deep sense of calling and dependence on God.
Or Desmond Tutu, standing against injustice with courage and hope, not because he never grew weary, but because he trusted in a strength beyond his own.
In each of these lives, we see the same truth: not self-made resilience, but God-given renewal.
And so the question for us is not simply whether we are tired. It is also whether we know where our strength comes from. When we are weary, do we turn honestly to God? When we are strong, do we remember him—or quietly move on as though we no longer need to wait?
Because Isaiah’s promise is not reserved for one kind of moment in life. It is not only for the exhausted, nor only for the faithful. It is for all who learn to wait on the Lord. And that waiting may look very ordinary. It may be a simple, honest prayer: “Lord, I am tired.” It may be choosing patience instead of frustration. It may be resting when we need rest, trusting that the world does not depend entirely on us. It may be giving thanks in moments of strength, remembering the source.
“They shall run and not be weary… they shall walk and not faint…”
Sometimes faith feels like soaring and sometimes it is simply putting one foot in front of the other. But in all of it, we are sustained not by our own strength, but by God’s. So if today you feel hidden, take heart: God sees you. If today you feel weary, take heart: God strengthens you. And if today you feel strong, take care and give thanks because that strength, too, is a gift.
“Those who wait for the Lord shall renew their strength…”
May we be people who wait; in weariness, with honesty; in strength, with humility; and in all things, with trust.
And in God’s time, we will find ourselves lifted, not by our own effort, but by his grace. Amen