I still vividly remember evenings kneeling by my bed. Outside, it was dark; inside, the room was silent. I had prayed, brought my requests before God, just as I’d 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 as if I were 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 sense 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 perhaps 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 put it down to stress, tiredness, or distraction. We try to concentrate more, pray louder, read the Bible longer. Yet 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 only to find the line dead. You keep talking for a moment, unsure if the connection is just briefly interrupted, but eventually, you hang up, feeling foolish. Many of us, during such phases, inwardly hang up. We stop praying because it feels pointless.
This spiritual dryness is painful. It isolates us. We see other Christians seemingly living effortlessly in their relationship with God, and we feel like impostors. We smile in church, but everything inside screams. The hunger for God is there, but the table seems bare.
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, unbroken communion with the Father, took my sin and yours upon himself. And in that moment, the unthinkable 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, lema sabachthani?’ (which means ‘My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?’)” (Matthew 27:46)
This was not a perceived distance. This was real, actual separation. Jesus endured the deepest alienation from God that any 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 cling to 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 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 a period of dryness so that our faith may be purified.
In the silence, we are forced to choose. 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.
A few steps in the dark
So, what do we actually do when prayer feels empty? It’s not about finding a technique to make God speak again. It’s about standing firm in trust, even when we feel nothing.
Keep talking. 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 an 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)
Don't hide. Silence makes us lonely, and the enemy wants us precisely 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 one another, 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 the silence, is not absent but close to us in a way that our feelings often cannot grasp.