You cry out in the silence, and it is good that you do, for the cry itself is the work of faith. Do not let the quiet of heaven deceive you, God is never more present than when He seems to hide His face. He permits the stillness not to abandon you, but to strengthen the sinews of your soul. For if He always answered with signs and wonders, reason would have its proof, and faith would wither. But now, when you cannot trace His hand, yet still cling to His promises, then you show what metal your trust is made of.
You ask forgiveness for days of doubt, and rightly so, for doubt is the poverty of faith. But see the kindness of the Lord: He rebukes the tempest-tossed heart not to cast it off, but to stretch out His hand. Peter began to sink when he looked at the wind, not because the wind had grown stronger, but because his faith had grown weak. Yet the same Lord who permitted the wind also caught him. So it is with you. The silence is not a sign of His absence; it is the wind that blows while He holds you, teaching you that no harm can come when faith stands firm.
Do you not see what strength this requires? To believe when nothing is visible is a far greater labor than any bodily fasting or toil. The philosophers, for all their wisdom, stumble at creation from nothing, yet accept far greater mysteries barehanded. You, on the contrary, have God’s own word, and that word is surer than the ground beneath your feet. Did Abraham stagger at the promise, though nature offered no hope? He gave glory to God, and faith made him strong. So you, when the silence presses in, give glory to God by trusting not what you see, but what He has spoken.
And do not imagine that faith is a small thing, needing no effort. It is the first and greatest work, the root from which all else springs. The Lord Himself called it a work when the crowd asked, “What must we do to work the works of God?” He answered, “This is the work of God, that you believe in him whom he has sent.” So your prayer is already a labor of faith, more precious than any offering of hands. Even when you feel barren and empty, that very reaching out is the gift of God, who wills that faith save you, not as a dead thing, but alive and laboring.
Consider the blind man. He did not reason, “Why clay? Why Siloam? Could he not have healed me here?” He went, he washed, he saw. His steadfastness, not his reasoning, opened his eyes. So with you: when injustice and pain shout so loud that heaven seems mute, do not give your ear to the clamor. The Lord who clothes the grass of the field, which is here today and gone tomorrow, will much more care for your soul, though He seem to delay.
So cry on, but let the cry be one of faith, not of despair. Love Him not only when He consoles, but when He tests, for that is the love that mirrors His own, which loves all men, even the unthankful and the evil. This love is worth more than miracles. When you pray, “Strengthen our faith,” know that He is already doing so through the very silence you lament. He works behind the scenes of your story with a wisdom too deep for you to trace now, but one day you will see. Until then, do not guide your steps by sight, but by the certainty of who He is. And when He answers, not perhaps by breaking the silence, but by unveiling afterward the work already done, you will give glory to the God who is able to do far more than all we ask or imagine.