Today’s readings are about perseverance — not the patience of waiting in a queue, but the endurance of faith that keeps going when life gets heavy.

Moses on the hilltop.
Aaron and Hur holding up his arms.
And a widow who refuses to stop knocking at a judge’s door.
Three pictures, one message: keep praying, even when you’re tired.

In the first reading, Israel is at war.
While Joshua leads the army below, Moses stands on the hill with his staff raised high. As long as his hands are lifted in prayer, God’s people prevail.
But when his arms grow heavy, the enemy gains ground.

So Aaron and Hur step in.
They don’t replace him — they hold him up.
They stand one on either side and steady his hands until the sun sets and the victory is won.

It’s a beautiful picture of what prayer really is.
It’s not a solo performance; it’s a shared work.
When one believer grows weary, another quietly lifts them.
When one person’s faith falters, the faith of the Church carries them through.

That’s why we pray together at Mass — not just beside each other, but for each other.
When you come here on a Sunday, you might not realise it,
but your very presence may be holding up someone else’s arms.
Someone tired, someone grieving, someone struggling to believe.
You are Aaron or Hur for them.

And when your own arms grow heavy, the Church will hold you up.
That’s what it means to belong to the Body of Christ.

We don’t often talk about Aaron and Hur, but without them, Moses could not have prayed.
They remind us that encouragement is a form of prayer.
When you comfort someone who is weary,
when you remind them that God still listens,
you are holding up their arms.

The Church is full of quiet intercessors like that —
people who never make a speech but who keep others going.
Parents praying for their children, a carer praying for the sick,
a parishioner praying for someone who’s drifted away.
They are the strength behind the story.

Sometimes, the holiest thing you can do is simply hold another person up.

In the Gospel, Jesus gives us the widow — a picture of faith that refuses to give up. She’s poor, powerless, ignored,
but she keeps returning to the judge again and again until he finally gives in.

And Jesus says, “If even an unjust judge can be moved by persistence, how much more will your Father in heaven respond to His chosen ones who cry out to Him day and night?”

The widow’s prayer is not polite or comfortable; it’s desperate and determined.
She doesn’t stop because she believes someone is listening.
That’s faith — not feelings, but determination born of trust.

You and I are called to pray like that widow:
not only when we feel holy,
but when heaven seems silent.
Faith doesn’t mean never getting tired — it means not stopping even when we are.

There are days when you are Moses —
you can pray, and others depend on you.
Your prayer keeps the battle going for your family, your parish, your community.
You intercede, you bless, you carry.

There are days when you are Aaron or Hur —
your task is to encourage, to support, to stand quietly beside someone else’s struggle.
Your prayer is to be there.

And there are days when you are the widow —
tired, pleading, wondering if your prayer still matters.
It does.
Even your sighs count.
Even your silence counts.
For God hears not the noise of our words but the persistence of our hearts.

Every Mass brings all three together.
At the altar, Christ is Moses — the great intercessor whose arms are stretched wide on the Cross.
The Church is Aaron and Hur — holding up His sacrifice through the ages.
And we are the widow — bringing our needs, our sins, our hopes, again and again before the Lord who hears.

That’s why we pray for the living and the dead, for our world and our parish,
for those who ask and those who don’t know how to ask.

Because prayer is not about persuading God; it’s about participating in His mercy.
When you pray for someone, you stand between heaven and earth and hold open a channel of grace.
When you stop, that channel narrows.
So keep it open. Even when the news is bleak.
Even when your family seems unmoved.
Even when you feel nothing.
Keep your hands raised — because grace is working in ways you cannot see.

At the end of the Gospel, Jesus asks,
“When the Son of Man comes, will He find faith on earth?”
He isn’t looking for spectacular achievements;
He’s looking for people who are still praying.
People who haven’t given up on hope.
People whose hands may tremble but are still lifted to heaven.

The Church is kept alive by that kind of faith —
the faith of the widow, the strength of Aaron, the endurance of Moses.

So let’s keep our arms raised together.
Some of you are Moses: pray boldly.
Some are Aaron or Hur: hold others up.
Some are the widow: keep knocking on God’s door.

Because behind every miracle there is persistence;
behind every saint there is struggle;
and behind every prayer, there is the promise that God hears.

“Pray always,” says Jesus, “and never lose heart.”
And if your arms grow weary — don’t worry. We’ll hold them up for you.

When your strength runs out, the Church will carry you.
When your hope flickers, Christ will lift you.
And when you pray — even faintly, even tiredly —
heaven will listen.