This morning, while reading in Habakkuk and Numbers 20, I was struck by how familiar both scenes felt. Different people, different moments in history—but the same kind of pressure, the same weight on the soul. And as I read, it was impossible not to see our own time reflected back at us.
Habakkuk is watching his nation come apart. He sees violence in the streets, corruption in leadership, and justice twisted until it no longer resembles justice at all. Laws exist, but they no longer protect what is right. Truth is shouted down, arguments never end, and the righteous feel outnumbered and unheard. Everywhere he looks there is conflict—people angry, divided, and unwilling to listen. Habakkuk does not soften his words. He looks at God and asks how long this can go on, why evil seems unchecked, and why misery appears to be winning. It sounds uncomfortably close to the world we wake up to every day—headlines filled with outrage, neighbors divided, families fractured by politics and ideology, violence normalized, and justice questioned depending on who you are or where you stand.
Moses, in Numbers 20, is facing a different angle of the same storm. He is not watching society unravel from a distance—he is carrying it on his shoulders. His sister Miriam has just died, a loss deeply personal and impossible to separate from his calling. She was there at the beginning, watching over him as a baby, helping shape the course of his life. Before he can grieve, Moses is surrounded by nearly two million exhausted, frightened, and angry people. They are thirsty, uncomfortable, and nostalgic for a past that was never truly good. They complain loudly, accuse freely, and blame Moses for their hardship, even though God has been faithful at every step. The noise never stops. The pressure never lifts. And eventually, Moses absorbs what is around him. His anger boils over, and in one moment, frustration speaks louder than faith. God tells him to speak to the rock—but Moses strikes it instead. Water still flows, but the moment is damaged. The miracle happens, yet the opportunity to honor God fully is lost.
Both men were under immense strain. Both lived in hard times. But their responses took them in very different directions. Habakkuk brought his fear, confusion, and frustration to God and stayed there long enough to be changed. Moses carried the anger of the people until it came out through him.
By the end of his book, Habakkuk has not seen conditions improve. Violence has not vanished. The future is still uncertain. Crops may fail. Fields may sit empty. Livestock may disappear. Yet he makes a decision that redefines everything: even if nothing around him changes, his trust will not move. He declares that he will rejoice in the Lord anyway, that God Himself—not circumstances—will be his strength. The promise does not erase the pain, but it gives it meaning.
We are living in a moment much like theirs. We are surrounded by noise, division, outrage, and constant pressure to react. We are told every day what to fear, who to blame, and why everything is falling apart. It is easy to grow angry, impatient, and sharp-edged. It is easy to let the atmosphere shape our spirit. But as we step into this next year, the question before us is not whether the times will get easier. The question is whether we will respond like Habakkuk—or like Moses in that moment of exhaustion.
This year must bring a change in us. We must decide now that anger will not lead our obedience, that fear will not dictate our faith, and that frustration will not silence our worship. We must settle it in our hearts that even if the news remains troubling, even if the culture grows louder and harsher, even if answers are slow in coming, we will stand firm.
Habakkuk teaches us that faith is not denial—it is defiance. It looks at reality and still chooses God. As we move forward, let our declaration be clear and settled:
Even though the world shakes, we will rejoice.
Even though answers delay, we will remain faithful.
Even though the times are hard, the Lord is our strength.