I still clearly remember evenings kneeling by my bed. Outside, it was dark; inside, the room was silent. I had prayed, brought my concerns before God, just as I had been taught. And then I waited. For an answer, a feeling, a certainty. Anything. But there was nothing. Only the silence, which suddenly felt heavy and cold. It was like talking to a wall.
Anyone who honestly tries to live with God probably knows this feeling. It's profoundly unsettling. We read about people in the Bible who hear God’s voice, who feel his presence. But for us? Emptiness. The thought creeps in: Am I doing something wrong? Am I not good enough? Or even worse: Is there no one there at all?
This silence isn't a theological theory; it's an existential experience. It shakes the very foundations of our faith. And that's precisely why we must talk about it. Not with simple formulas or pious platitudes, but with the same honesty with which this silence confronts us.
It was just silent
At first, it’s just a quiet unease. Morning prayer feels a little mechanical. The words in the Bible remain letters on the page; they no longer reach the heart. We blame it on stress, fatigue, or distraction. We try to concentrate harder, pray louder, read the Bible longer. But the distance only seems to grow.
The condition becomes a permanent state. Conversation with God turns into a monologue. It’s like calling a friend, but the line is dead. You keep talking for a moment, unsure if the connection is just temporarily broken, but eventually, you hang up because you feel foolish. Many of us, in such phases, hang up internally. They stop praying because it feels pointless.
This spiritual dryness is painful. It isolates us. We see other Christians who seem to live effortlessly in their relationship with God, and we feel like imposters. We smile in church, but inside, everything screams. The hunger for God is there, but the table seems empty.
And then I saw him on the cross
For years, in these moments, I looked at myself. I searched for my own faults, tried to force a breakthrough through greater effort. Until I understood that I was looking in the wrong direction. My gaze was fixed on my feeling of abandonment, not on the one who was truly abandoned.
Jesus Christ hung on the cross. He, who had lived in eternal, undivided communion with the Father, took my sin and yours upon himself. And in that moment, the incomprehensible happened: the communion broke. The Father turned his face away from the Son, who was made sin. And Jesus cried out into the darkness:
"About three in the afternoon Jesus cried out in a loud voice, 'Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani?' (which means 'My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?')" (Matthew 27:46 NIV)
This was not a perceived distance. This was real, actual separation. Jesus endured the deepest godforsakenness a human can ever experience, so that we would never have to experience it again. So, when we feel abandoned by God, we are in the place that Jesus suffered through for us. He is not a distant God who doesn't understand our struggle. He is the God who knows this struggle in its most terrible form himself. Our perceived silence is a place of encounter with him, who endured absolute silence.
What the wilderness does to us
God's silence is rarely a sign of his absence, but often an invitation into the wilderness. And the wilderness is an important place in the Bible. It is the place where all distractions fall away. It is the place where we have nothing left to hold onto but God himself.
As long as we feel God, as long as we receive emotional confirmation in our faith, there is a danger that we will cling to feelings and not to God. We become dependent on spiritual experiences. But God wants us to be dependent on him. In his wisdom, he sometimes leads us into dryness so that our faith may be purified.
In silence, we are forced to decide. Do I believe what God says about himself in his Word – that he is faithful, that he loves me, that he is always with me? Or do I believe my fluctuating feelings, which are hot today and cold tomorrow? A faith that survives these wilderness times is a strong faith. It is no longer built on sand, but on the rock – on Christ and his Word.
Your body prays with you
There is something that is far too rarely said in religious circles: how your body feels often reflects how your connection to God feels. We are not spirits who coincidentally inhabit a body. God created us as a whole – body, soul, and spirit. And these three are not separate from each other.
If you haven't slept enough for weeks, if you're exhausted, if your body is under constant stress, if you're ill, if you're burdened with worries, guilt, unresolved conflicts, or old hurts – then that changes how you perceive God. Not because God has withdrawn. But because the receiver is burdened. Elijah, after his greatest spiritual victory, was so utterly spent that he wanted to die. And God? He didn't preach to him. He let him sleep and gave him food. Twice. Only then did the conversation come, and then in a still, gentle whisper (1 Kings 19).
This is not a side issue; this is pastoral care from God himself. Sometimes the emptiness in prayer is not a spiritual problem, but a problem of exhaustion. Sometimes it is a sign that we are burdened with something we have never brought before him – a grudge, an addiction, a fear, a lie we carry with us. The burden doesn't dampen God's voice; it dampens our hearing.
"Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest." (Matthew 11:28 NIV)
Therefore, it is worth asking honestly, before we condemn ourselves spiritually: How is my body doing? Am I sleeping? Am I eating? Am I moving? Am I carrying something with me that I have never spoken about? Is there someone I need to forgive? Very often, God's supposed silence clarifies itself precisely there – not through more spiritual effort, but through rest, honesty, and order in one's own life.
Because one thing is important: God is never silent. He is not moody, not fickle, not here one moment and gone the next. He speaks, he is present, he sustains. It is always just a question of connection. And the connection is rarely disturbed by him – it is disturbed by what gets in the way on our end. The good news is: precisely that can be resolved. Not by striving, but by bringing everything to him, even our weariness, even our body, even what we are ashamed of.
A few steps in the dark
So, what do we do practically when prayer feels empty? It's not about finding a technique that makes God speak again. It's about standing firm in trust, even when we feel nothing.
Stay in conversation. Even if it feels like a monologue. Be honest with God. Tell him you feel nothing. Lament your distress to him. The Psalms are full of such honest, sometimes angry prayers. God can handle our lament. A sigh, a "Lord, help me," is a prayer that reaches his heart.
Cling to his Word. Even if it feels dry. The Bible is not primarily a book of feelings, but a book of truth. It is the anchor in the storms of our soul. Read the stories of his faithfulness. Read the promises he has given us in Christ. Your faith is nourished by this truth, not by your emotions.
"Jesus Christ is the same yesterday and today and forever." (Hebrews 13:8 NIV)
Do not hide. Silence makes us lonely, and the enemy wants us exactly there: alone in the dark. Seek conversation with a mature Christian you trust. Share your struggle. You will realise you are not alone. The communion of saints is there for us to support and carry each other, especially when one of us is weak.
Silence is part of the journey. It is painful, but it is not the end. Christ is with us in the silence. He holds our hand, even when we don't feel his touch. And in the end, the path through the wilderness often leads to a deeper, firmer, and more honest relationship with the God who, in silence, is not absent, but close to us in a way that our feelings often cannot grasp.