When God Feels Silent: Wrestling With Our Hidden God

“Truly with you God is hidden, the God of Israel, the savior.” Isaiah 45:15

There are seasons when prayer feels like speaking into the wind — when words fall heavy and still, and heaven seems to hold its breath. And yet, beneath that silence, something in me knows He is there. Not gone. Not absent. Just hidden.

Isaiah calls Him “the hidden God” — not because He withdraws in indifference, but because He conceals Himself in love. Hiddenness is how He saves, how He sanctifies, how He teaches the heart to see what the eyes cannot. He is not far; He is forming us in the quiet.

It is the continued silence that feels like invitation — to grow in patience, in trust, in surrender. But sometimes it feels almost playful, as though God is standing just behind a door, quiet but unmistakably near. I know He’s there. I can feel it. I call out — “Are You there?” Silence. Again — nothing. By the third time, I’ve had enough. I charge through the door, ready to grab hold of Him, to prove I can reach Him if I try hard enough.

And there He is — calm, steady, smiling. Not startled by my outburst, not offended by my impatience. He simply meets me with the warmth I was too restless to wait for. In an instant, the heat of striving turns to the blush of humility. My certainty softens into surrender. And once again, He has taught me — not through words, but through love.

The silence doesn’t end the relationship; it deepens it. It is the silence that provokes the encounter.

The Intellect’s Need for Control

Each time this happens — my charging in, my flustered repentance, His patient smile — I see how deeply I still crave control. I want to understand before I trust, to plan before I follow. I come to God saying, “Lord, I trust You — but tell me where we’re going first.”

It’s not rebellion exactly — just the quiet illusion that I could walk more faithfully if I only knew the route. But faith doesn’t bloom in understanding; it grows in surrender. The map is not the point — the hand that leads is.

The longer I follow Him, the more I see how dependent I am on feeling certain before I act. And when that certainty is stripped away, I finally meet myself — proud, anxious, small — and I meet Him again, patient and unhurried.

St. John of the Cross wrote that faith begins where understanding ends. In the dark night, God takes from us even the light of spiritual comfort — not to punish, but to purify. He wants our love to be real, not rented from emotion or reason. When I can no longer feel Him or figure Him out, He invites me to simply remain — to trust that His silence is not absence, but nearness too deep for sound.

The Dark Night as Invitation

I used to think dryness in prayer meant something was wrong — that I had failed, that God had stepped back, tired of waiting for me to get it right. Now I see it differently. The silence isn’t His absence; it’s His nearness in disguise.

When God hides, it is not to abandon but to refine. Like fire tempering metal, His silence burns away what cannot last — my dependence on clarity, my appetite for control, my need to feel loved in order to believe I am loved. He is teaching me to love Him for Himself, not for the feelings He gives.

This is the hidden mercy of the dark night — the quiet work of purification. Love stripped to its essence. Faith stretched past comfort into trust. Hope surviving without proof.

In that darkness, St. John of the Cross says, the soul learns to rest in nada — nothing but God Himself. The light of understanding is gone, but the Presence remains. He hides not to distance Himself, but to draw us into the depths where sight cannot reach, where only love endures.

Wrestling in the Night

The dark night is not stillness; it’s struggle. It is the soul grappling with the hidden God — reaching, straining, refusing to let go until the blessing comes. Like Jacob at the riverbank, we wrestle through the long night with the One we cannot see. Our prayers become breathless: “I will not let You go unless You bless me.”

And He lets us wrestle. Hour after hour, year after year, He permits our striving — not because He is overpowered, but because He is patient. He knows the labor itself is a kind of love, the soul’s clumsy way of staying close in the dark.

Then, at dawn, He shows His strength — with a touch, a wound, a flash of light that undoes us. It’s not the blessing we demanded, but the one we needed. Like St. Teresa of Ávila’s heart pierced by love, the wound reveals both His power and His tenderness. The blow humbles, but it also heals.

When the night finally breaks, we rise limping — changed, marked, renamed. The wound becomes remembrance: of the mercy that wrestled us into surrender, and of the God who hid Himself only to be found.

When You’ve Had Enough

I still find myself struggling with this again and again. I know the truth, but I don’t always believe it. I know He is near, yet I still reach for proof. There are days when I wait in the silence with patience and peace — and days when I’ve simply had enough.

If you find yourself there too, don’t be afraid. God is not fragile. He can handle your fire. Be humble when you can, patient when grace allows — but when your heart burns too fiercely to stay still, charge straight toward Him.

He doesn’t want lukewarm souls. Direct the heat of your restlessness toward Him — even if it feels reckless. You will lose, and it will hurt, but that loss is love’s victory. Because the moment you start wrestling, you are already in His arms.

St. Teresa of Ávila used to laugh at God’s playfulness — scolding Him one breath and adoring Him the next. That is the freedom of love: to be real, to be small, to be held even in the struggle. So laugh, wrestle, weep, pray — but do not walk away. The God who hides Himself is never far. He’s waiting just behind the door, smiling.