the silence of god
“This is God’s Word on the subject: “As soon as Babylon’s seventy years are up and not a day before, I’ll show up and take care of you as I promised and bring you back home. I know what I’m doing. I have it all planned out - plans to take care of you, not abandon you, plans to give you the future you hoped for. When you call on me, when you come and pray to me, I’ll listen. When you come looking for me, you’ll find me. Yes, when you get serious about finding me and want it more than anything else.” (Jeremiah 29:10-13)
The Israelites could be excused for thinking God would deliver them from their enemies’ hands. Here they were in Babylon’s capture, and they were wondering whether God would save them. God’s message was this: I will bring you back home. I will take care of you. I will show up and execute plans for good.
But not before you learn to live 70 years under Babylon’s captivity. Until then, make best of your circumstance. Until then, I will not save.
We love quoting these verses as ones that point to God the Deliverer. To the One who is always Present. The Good-Hearted with plans of hope for us. But these feel-good sentences are sandwiched in between two sobering realities. That Israel had to endure oppression, depression, abandonment. And that even if they walked through this, the true question was: How serious are you about finding Him, more than anything else?
The last three weeks have been sad. A cloud of stasis hanging over, standing on the edge of depression. I look around at the very real problems of the friends around me, and wonder: Does He care? Is this God I’ve been professing for so long, whom I worship, unable to really help us in our time of distress and need? Why does it feel so often that we’re left fending for ourselves and each other against the lies and deception thrown at our souls? Where is God?
I’m understanding that the God I’ve created may not be the God out there. I want Him to answer, to deliver me from my sin like a superhero, to conquer my inner demons, lift my head. I want Him to speak loudly, clearly, dispel all my fears and doubts away. What I don’t want is, at this present moment, for God to be silent. Even if He is.
This is the part of the Walk no one tells you about. The part where God, it seems, has abandoned you. Where when you wait to hear a still small voice, and hear nothing but the raging beating of your own heart. When God doesn’t deliver you from Babylon’s hands. At least, not yet.
And yet, the incredible truth is that, even in my apparent desire to hear Him, I’m not that serious about it. I still turn to the toys of this world to distract me, still lean on short-term pleasures, on finding solace in creations of this world. I don’t want God more than anything else. Not even close. I want God’s miracle touch to make things better so I can go back to playing my own games of independence and self-delusion. I love what God can do for me more than the Walk itself.
The silence of God is painful. So painful. But maybe it’s needed. Because when He is silent, I stop seeking Him to find what’s in it for me. I don’t wait for that miracle touch, that band-aid answer to prayer, that saving grace so I can live life my way. I just want to know who God is. I give up my vain imaginations and seek Him with a greater, more raw, less controlled portion of my heart.
At this moment, I’m nowhere near. I don’t really need God. But I’m slowly getting there. Because I know I’m incapable of walking alone. Because I need to overcome my fear of fully trusting God. Once and for all.
God, who are you? If this is a season of silence, so be it. If I am to be stripped of all self-created idols, then that’s the pain I’m feeling. Father, I can’t hear you. But I all I want is for you to just lead me.
Amen.
