Habakkuk 1:3

Letters to the Faithful - Habakkuk 1:3

Berean Standard Bible

Why do You make me see iniquity? Why do You tolerate wrongdoing? Destruction and violence are before me. Strife is ongoing, and conflict abounds.

King James Bible

Why dost thou shew me iniquity, and cause me to behold grievance? for spoiling and violence are before me: and there are that raise up strife and contention.

-----------------------------

To the cherished family of faith, called out of darkness into unfading light, yet walking for a little while through streets that groan under the weight of wrong, grace and unshakable peace be yours in fullest measure.

I write as one who stands in the same tension that troubles many of you—a tension carved by the collision of what we know God to be and what we presently see in the world around us. We look upon cruelty perpetrated without shame, systems that grind the voiceless into silence, marketplaces where lies trade at premium, and even among those who bear the name of Jesus we witness strife sown like seed. Our hearts echo the ancient lament: “Why am I made to witness so much injustice? Why does violence stroll unrestrained while righteousness seems relegated to the margins?” These questions are neither new nor irreverent; they spring from a spirit that refuses to call darkness light and refuses to numb prophetic nerves. They arise from that holy ache implanted by God Himself—the ache that dares to wrestle for clarity rather than surrender to cynicism.

Many in our generation have chosen flight in the face of such dissonance. Some retreat into escapism—hollow laughter, glowing screens, curated feeds that distract but never satisfy. Others retreat into fatalism—muted hopes, truncated prayers, an unspoken pact that the world will proceed from bad to worse and we may as well conserve our compassion. Still others retreat into bitterness—every headline feeding the inner verdict that God either sleeps or shows favoritism. To each of these paths, I raise a loving protest: the people of the risen Christ cannot afford the luxury of disengagement. We are called not to escape the tension but to inhabit it with faith, hope, and sacrificial love.

But how? How do we bear continual sight of injustice without sliding into despair? How do we remain tender without becoming naïve, and courageous without becoming harsh? The ancient prophet models an audacious starting point: he brings the troubling vision back to God—and refuses to let go until he receives an answer. He protests not as a skeptic but as a covenant partner, confident enough in divine faithfulness to question its present appearance. This, beloved, is the passport out of paralyzing doubt: approach your Father not with polite resignation but with honest lament anchored in covenant trust. He welcomes the questions that arise from loyalty. He even ordains them, knowing that such wrestling stretches our capacity to receive deeper revelation.

Yet lament is never our destination; it is a corridor. Having poured out our bewilderment, we must wait in attentive silence until the Spirit baptizes us again in a vision of God’s unblurred throne. There, we come to see that divine justice is neither slack nor forgetful. It moves upon a timetable calibrated to eternal wisdom. The delay that offends our sense of urgency is, in truth, mercy giving space for repentance, weaving a tapestry whose finished beauty we cannot yet discern. Such understanding does not erase the ache, but it anchors it in hope.

With hope rekindled, we rise to holy participation. We refuse to watch passively for God to act; we act because God watches. Each deed of truth spoken to power, each burden lifted from the oppressed, each prayer groaned in secret for the perpetrators of violence—these are not token gestures. They are prophetic signposts announcing that the kingdom already at work in us will one day flood the earth. The cynic asks, “What difference can one life make?” The disciple answers, “Enough for heaven to notice and multiply.” Remember, injustice compounds by accumulation of small compromises; so righteousness accumulates by faithful obedience in unseen corners.

I charge shepherds of congregations: guard your pulpits from despair and platitude alike. Preach with tears in your eyes and fire in your bones. Teach the people to lament deeply and labor diligently. Resist the temptation to entertain when they need equipping. Resist the appeal for neutrality when they need moral clarity. Give them, not slogans, but a theology robust enough to stand when the foundations shake.

I charge intercessors hidden in the watchtowers: do not abdicate your post because the night feels endless. Your petitions are unseen scaffolding under future deliverance. Heaven marks the hours you spend wrestling for neighborhoods that forget you exist. The sudden turns of history often trace their origin to anonymous saints who refused to allow violence the last word in their prayer vocabulary.

I charge every son and daughter of God: remain soft. The love that has kept you thus far is the love destined to flow through you into every sphere—workplace, kitchen table, public square. Cultivate eyes that notice small mercies in bleak landscapes. Let them become your daily manna. Cherish corporate worship as rehearsal for the day when justice and praise will interlock forever. Let generosity be your protest against greed, hospitality your protest against alienation, steadfast joy your protest against despair.

Finally, fix your whole hope on the perfect Judge who once hung unjustly on a cross and rose to inaugurate irreversible restitution. If that risen Savior has pledged to set all things right, then every apparent triumph of evil is at most provisional. Let this assurance embolden you: Nothing you do in obedience to Christ is wasted, even if newspapers ignore it and halls of power scorn it. The God who keeps account of sparrows retains each tear you shed and will convert it into future joy.

Therefore, stand firm and stand tender. Carry the questions honestly, but never alone. Weep freely, but always unto the Lord. Work fervently, but in the strength He supplies. And may you know, even in the rubble of injustice, the companionship of the One who bore our griefs and will one day wipe away every tear.

------------------------------

O Lord, righteous and sovereign King, who sits enthroned above all nations and watches over all the earth, we come before You in reverence and burdened honesty. You who see the end from the beginning, whose wisdom surpasses the depth of oceans and whose justice never fails, incline Your ear to the cries of Your people. We do not approach You with presumption but with brokenness, for we are surrounded by scenes that weary the soul and vex the heart. The streets cry out with bloodshed, violence parades without shame, and injustice appears to prosper without interruption. Strife multiplies, contentions fester, and the righteous are often silenced while the wicked are exalted. How long, O God, must we watch with open eyes the unraveling of righteousness in our midst?

You have called us to be salt and light, a holy people in the midst of crookedness, yet the darkness often seems overwhelming. We watch as the innocent are oppressed and the powerful scheme without remorse. We observe truth cast aside in the public square and integrity mocked in favor of gain. We behold our cities fragmented by violence, our nations stirred by hatred, our communities frayed by division, and our families battered by cycles of bitterness. O Lord, why must we see these things? Why is our spirit made to endure the sight of corruption and cruelty, and why does evil seem to march unrestrained?

Yet in this place of deep lament, we turn to You—not in despair, but in trust. For even when our eyes are clouded by sorrow and our hearts grieved by injustice, we know You remain holy, wise, and just. You are not unaware of our anguish, nor are You indifferent to the cries of the oppressed. You are not late as we measure time, but patient, giving space for repentance, even as we ache for resolution. You are the same God who hears from heaven, who sees what man hides in darkness, and who will not allow evil to endure forever unchallenged.

Lord, have mercy upon us. Forgive us for our complicity, for our numbness, for the times we have turned away when we should have stood. Forgive us for the moments we prioritized comfort over courage, reputation over righteousness, passivity over prophetic witness. Forgive Your Church for every silence that allowed injustice to grow unchecked, for every compromise that dulled the clarity of truth, for every division we have tolerated in Your name that grieves Your Spirit. Cleanse us, O God, not only from the evil we condemn but also from the apathy we harbor.

Grant us the grace to lament righteously, to grieve with hope, and to confront evil with purity. May our tears not lead to bitterness but to deeper intercession. May our questions not become accusations, but bridges to intimacy with You. Teach us to carry the burden of the world not as those crushed beneath its weight, but as those yoked with Christ, whose burden is light because it is born in the strength of love. Stir within us the resolve to stand in the gap—not as spectators, but as intercessors; not as mere critics, but as vessels of healing and truth.

We ask You, Holy One, to raise up in this generation a people who will not grow weary in doing good. Form within us the character of perseverance, the eyes of discernment, and the voice of compassion wedded to truth. Where injustice reigns, raise prophets who will not flinch. Where violence festers, raise peacemakers who do not fear conflict but face it with courage anchored in grace. Where confusion abounds, grant Your Church clarity—clarity not born of ideology, but of communion with Your heart. Let our pulpits thunder with holy conviction, our altars overflow with sincere repentance, our streets echo with acts of justice and mercy carried out in the power of Your Spirit.

Lord, look upon the afflicted. Stretch out Your hand to comfort the grieving, to rescue the oppressed, to humble the proud, and to restrain the wicked. Establish the work of righteousness in our governments, our institutions, our families, and our churches. Let justice roll down not just in word, but in deed. Let the knowledge of Your truth not be confined to sacred spaces but overflow into broken systems and wounded places. Let the name of Jesus be lifted not only in our songs but in our service, not only in our doctrines but in our deeds.

And when the questions arise again—as they surely will—when we cry, “Why do You allow such suffering?”—remind us that You are not absent, that You have drawn near in the person of Your Son, who bore injustice to bring justice, who endured violence to establish peace, who suffered alone that we might never be forsaken. Let the cross be our compass when the world makes no sense, and let the empty tomb be our assurance that evil will not have the final word.

You are the God who sees. You are the God who acts. You are the God who saves.

So we wait with expectation. We labor with hope. We weep with faith. We walk in love. And we trust that You will, in due season, make all things right.

Until that day, keep us faithful. Keep us humble. Keep us aflame with holy love.

In the mighty and merciful name of Jesus, we pray. Amen.