God’s Silence, Our Questions

[Shylynne]

I was reading a book by Max Lucado today, and came to this passage, it`s message is too good not to pass on...

God’s Silence, Our Questions

HE WAS a child of the desert. Leathery face. Tanned skin. Clothing of animal skins. What he owned fit in a pouch. His walls were the mountains and his ceiling the stars.

But not anymore. His frontier is walled out, his horizon hidden. The stars are memories. The fresh air is all but forgotten. And the stench of the dungeon relentlessly reminds the child of the desert that he is now a captive of the king.1

In anyone’s book, John the Baptist deserves better treatment than this. After all, isn’t he the forerunner of the Christ? Isn’t he a relative of the Messiah? At the very least, isn’t his the courageous voice of repentance?

But most recently that voice, instead of opening the door of renewal, has opened the door to his own prison cell.

John’s problems began when he called a king on the carpet.

On a trip to Rome, King Herod succumbed to the enticements of his brother’s wife, Herodias. Deciding Herodias was better off married to him, Herod divorced his wife and brought his sister-in-law home.

The gossip columnists were fascinated, but John the Baptist was infuriated. He pounced on Herod like a desert scorpion, denouncing the marriage for what it was—adultery.

Herod might have let him get away with it. But not Herodias. This steamy seductress wasn’t about to have her social climbing exposed. She told Herod to have John pulled off the speaking circuit and thrown into the dungeon. Herod hemmed and hawed until she whispered and wooed. Then Herod gave in.

But that wasn’t enough for this mistress. She had her daughter strut before the king and his generals at a stag party. Herod, who was as easily duped as he was aroused, promised to do anything for the pretty young thing in the G-string.

"Anything?"

"You name it," he drooled.

She conferred with her mother, who was waiting in the wings, then returned with her request.

"I want John the Baptist."

"You want a date with the prophet?"

"I want his head," replied the dancer. And then, reassured by a nod from her mother, she added, "On a silver platter, if you don’t mind."

Herod looked at the faces around him. He knew it wasn’t fair, but he also knew everyone was looking at him. And he had promised "anything." Though he personally had nothing against the country preacher, he valued the opinion polls much more than he valued John’s life. After all, what’s more important—to save face or to save the neck of an eccentric prophet?

The story reeks with inequity.

John dies because Herod lusts.

The good is murdered while the bad smirk.

A man of God is killed while a man of passion is winking at his niece.

Is this how God rewards his anointed? Is this how he honors his faithful? Is this how God crowns his chosen? With a dark dungeon and a shiny blade?

The inconsistency was more than John could take. Even before Herod reached his verdict, John was asking his questions. His concerns were outnumbered only by the number of times he paced his cell asking them. When he had a chance to get a message to Jesus, his inquiry was one of despair:

"When John heard in prison what Christ was doing, he sent his disciples to ask him, ‘Are you the one who was to come, or should we expect someone else?"’

[Shylynne]

cont`d...

Note what motivated John’s question. It was not just the dungeon or even death. It was the problem of unmet expectations—the fact that John was in deep trouble and Jesus was conducting business as usual.

Is this what messiahs do when trouble comes? Is this what God does when his followers are in a bind?

Jesus’ silence was enough to chisel a leak into the dam of John’s belief. "Are you the one? Or have I been following the wrong Lord?"

Had the Bible been written by a public relations agency, they would have eliminated that verse. It’s not good PR strategy to admit that one of the cabinet members has doubts about the president. You don’t let stories like that get out if you are trying to present a unified front.
But the Scriptures weren’t written by personality agents; they were inspired by an eternal God who knew that every disciple from then on would spend time in the dungeon of doubt. Though the circumstances have changed, the questions haven’t.

They are asked anytime the faithful suffer the consequences of the faithless. Anytime a person takes a step in the right direction, only to have her feet knocked out from under her, anytime a person does a good deed but suffers evil results, anytime a person takes a stand, only to end up flat on his face. . . the questions fall like rain:

"If God is so good, why do I hurt so bad?"
"If God is really there, why am I here?"
"What did I do to deserve this?"
"Did God slip up this time?"
"Why are the righteous persecuted?"

In his book Disappointment with God, Philip Yancey quotes a letter that articulates the problem of unmet expectations in all its excruciating reality. Meg Woodson lost two children to cystic fibrosis, and her daughter’s death at age twenty-three was particularly traumatic. The following words speak of her pain and doubt as she struggled to cope with what happened:

I was sitting beside her bed a few days before her death when suddenly she began
screaming. I will never forget those shrill, piercing, primal screams. . . It’s against this background of human beings falling apart. . . that God, who could have helped, looked down on a young woman devoted to Him, quite willing to die for Him to give Him glory, and decided to sit on His hands and let her death top the horror charts for cystic fibrosis deaths.3

Does God sometimes sit on his hands? Does God sometimes choose to do nothing? Does God sometimes opt for silence even when I’m screaming my loudest?

* * * * * * *

Some time ago, I took my family to the bicycle store to purchase a bike for five-year-old Jenna. She picked out a shiny "Starlett" with a banana seat and training wheels. And Andrea, age three, decided she wanted one as well.

I explained to Andrea that she was too young. I told her she was still having trouble with a tricycle and was too small for a two-wheeler. No luck; she still wanted a bike. I explained to her that when she was a bit older, she would get a bike, too. She just stared at me. I tried to tell her that a big bike would bring her more pain than pleasure, more scrapes than thrills. She turned her head and said nothing.

Finally I sighed and said this time her daddy knew best. Her response? She screamed it loud enough for everyone in the store to hear:

"Then I want a new daddy!"

Though the words were from a child’s mouth, they carried an adult’s sentiments.

Disappointment demands a change in command. When we don’t agree with the One who calls the shots, our reaction is often the same as Andrea’s—the same as John’s. "Is he the right one for this job?" Or, as John put it, "Are you the one? Should we look for another?"

Andrea, with her three-year-old reasoning powers, couldn’t believe that a new bike would be anything less than ideal for her. From her vantage point, it would be the source of eternal bliss. And from her vantage point, the one who could grant that bliss was "sitting on his hands."

John couldn’t believe that anything less than his release would be for the best interest of all involved. In his opinion, it was time to exercise some justice and get some action. But the One who had the power was "sitting on his hands."

I can’t believe that God would sit in silence while a missionary is kicked out of a foreign country or a Christian loses a promotion because of his beliefs or a faithful wife is abused by an unbelieving husband. These are just three of many items that have made their way onto my prayer list—all prayers that seem to have gone unanswered.

Rule of thumb: Clouds of doubt are created when the warm, moist air of our expectations meets the cold air of God’s silence.

If you’ve heard the silence of God, if you’ve been left standing in the dungeon of doubt, then understand this: Perhaps it isn’t that God is silent. Perhaps, like John, you’ve been listening for the wrong answer. John had been listening for an answer to his earthly problems, while Jesus was busy resolving his heavenly ones.

That’s worth remembering the next time you hear the silence of God.

If you’ve asked for a mate, but are still sleeping alone. . . if you’ve asked for a child, but your womb stays barren. . . if you’ve asked for healing, but are still hurting. . . don’t think God isn’t listening. He is. And he is answering requests you are not even making.

Saint Teresa of Avila was insightful enough to pray, "Do not punish me by granting that which I wish or ask."4

The apostle Paul was honest enough to write, "We do not know what we ought to pray for."5

The fact is, John wasn’t asking too much; he was asking too little. He was asking the Father to resolve the temporary, while Jesus was busy resolving the eternal. John was asking for immediate favor, while Jesus was orchestrating the eternal solution.

Does that mean that Jesus has no regard for injustice? No. He cares about persecutions. He cares about inequities and hunger and prejudice. And he knows what it is like to be punished for something he didn’t do. He knows the meaning of the phrase, "It’s just not right."

For it wasn’t right that people spit into the eyes that had wept for them. It wasn’t right that soldiers ripped chunks of flesh out of the back of their God. It wasn’t right that spikes pierced the hands that formed the earth. And it wasn’t right that the Son of God was forced to hear the silence of God.

It wasn’t right, but it happened.

For while Jesus was on the cross, God did sit on his hands. He did turn his back. He did ignore the screams of the innocent.

He sat in silence while the sins of the world were placed upon his Son. And he did nothing while a cry a million times bloodier than John’s echoed in the black sky: "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?"6

Was it right? No.
Was it fair? No.
Was it love? Yes.

In a world of injustice, God once and for all tipped the scales in the favor of hope. And he did it by sitting on his hands so that we could know the kingdom of God.

[Shylynne]

Seeing God Through Shattered Glass


THERE IS a window in your heart through which you can see God. Once upon a time the window was clear. Your view of God was crisp. You could see God as vividly as you could see a gentle valley or hillside. The glass was clean, the pane unbroken.

You knew God. You knew how he worked. You knew what he wanted you to do. No surprises. Nothing unexpected. You knew that God had a will, and you continually discovered what it was.

Then, suddenly, the window cracked. A pebble broke the window. A pebble of pain.

Perhaps the stone struck when you were a child and a parent left home—forever. Maybe the rock hit in adolescence when your heart was broken. Maybe you made it into adulthood before the window was cracked. But then the pebble came.

Was it a phone call? "We have your daughter at the station. You’d better come down."

Was it a letter on the kitchen table? "I’ve left. Don’t try to reach me. Don’t try to call me. It’s over. I just don’t love you anymore."

Was it a diagnosis from the doctor? "I’m afraid our news is not very good."

Was it a telegram? "We regret to inform you that your son is missing in action."

Whatever the pebble’s form, the result was the same—a shattered window. The pebble missiled into the pane and shattered it. The crash echoed down the halls of your heart. Cracks shot out from the point of impact, creating a spider web of fragmented pieces.

And suddenly God was not so easy to see. The view that had been so crisp had changed. You turned to see God, and his figure was distorted. It was hard to see him through the pain. It was hard to see him through the fragments of hurt.

You were puzzled. God wouldn’t allow something like this to happen, would he? Tragedy and travesty weren’t on the agenda of the One you had seen, were they? Had you been fooled? Had you been blind?

The moment the pebble struck, the glass became a reference point for you. From then on, there was life before the pain and life after the pain. Before your pain, the view was clear; God seemed so near. After your pain, well, he was harder to see. He seemed a bit distant . . . harder to perceive. Your pain distorted the view—not eclipsed it, but distorted it.

Maybe these words don’t describe your situation. There are some people who never have to redefine or refocus their view of God. Most of us do.

Most of us know what it means to feel disappointed by God.

Most of us have a way of completing this sentence: "If God is God, then . . ." Call it an agenda, a divine job description. Each of us has an unspoken, yet definitive, expectation of what God should do. "If God is God, then. . ."

- There will be no financial collapse in my family.

- My children will never be buried before me.

- People will treat me fairly.

- This church will never divide.

- My prayer will be answered.

These are not articulated criteria. They are not written down or notarized. But they are real. They define the expectations we have of God. And when pain comes into our world—when the careening pebble splinters the window of our hearts—these expectations go unmet and doubts may begin to surface.

We look for God, but can’t find him. Fragmented glass hinders our vision. He is enlarged through this piece and reduced through that one. Lines jigsaw their way across his face. Large sections of shattered glass opaque the view.

And now you aren’t quite sure what you see.

The disciples weren’t sure what they saw, either.

Jesus failed to meet their expectations. The day Jesus fed the five thousand men he didn’t do what they wanted him to do.

The Twelve returned from their mission followed by an army. They finished their training. They recruited the soldiers. They were ready for battle. They expected Jesus to let the crowds crown him as king and attack the city of Herod. They expected battle plans . . . strategies . . . a new era for Israel.

What did they get?

Just the opposite.

Instead of weapons, they got oars. Rather than being sent to fight, they were sent to float. The crowds were sent away. Jesus walked away. And they were left on the water with a storm brewing in the sky.

What kind of Messiah would do this?

[Shylynne]

Note carefully the sequence of the stormy evening as Matthew records it:

Immediately Jesus made the disciples get into the boat and go on ahead of him to the other side, while he dismissed the crowd. After he had dismissed them, he went up on a mountainside by himself to pray. When evening came [emphasis mine], he was there alone, but the boat was already a considerable distance from land, buffeted by the waves because the wind was against it.1

Matthew is specific about the order of events. Jesus sent the disciples to the boat. Then he dismissed the crowd and ascended a mountainside. It was evening, probably around 6:00 P.M. The storm struck immediately. The sun had scarcely set before typhoon-like winds began to roar.

Note that Jesus sent the disciples out into the storm alone. Even as he was ascending the mountainside, he could feel and hear the gale’s force. Jesus was not ignorant of the storm. He was aware that a torrent was coming that would carpet-bomb the sea’s surface. But he didn’t turn around. The disciples were left to face the storm…alone.

The greatest storm that night was not in the sky; it was in the disciples’ hearts. The greatest fear was not from seeing the storm-driven waves; it came from seeing the back of their leader as he left them to face the night with only questions as companions.

It was this fury that the disciples were facing that night. Imagine the incredible strain of bouncing from wave to wave in a tiny fishing vessel. One hour would weary you. Two hours would exhaust you.

Surely Jesus will help us, they thought. They’d seen him still storms like this before. On this same sea, they had awakened him during a storm, and he had commanded the skies to be silent. They’d seen him quiet the wind and soothe the waves. Surely he will come off the mountain.

But he doesn’t. Their arms begin to ache from rowing. Still no sign of Jesus. Three hours. Four hours. The winds rage. The boat bounces. Still no Jesus. Midnight comes. Their eyes search for God—in vain.

By now the disciples have been on the sea for as long as six hours.

All this time they have fought the storm and sought the Master. And, so far, the storm is winning. And the Master is nowhere to be found.

"Where is he?" cried one.

"Has he forgotten us?" yelled another.

"He feeds thousands of strangers and yet leaves us to die?" muttered a third.

The Gospel of Mark adds compelling insight into the disciples’ attitude. "They had not understood about the loaves; their hearts were hardened."2

What does Mark mean? Simply this. The disciples were mad. They began the evening in a huff. Their hearts were hardened toward Jesus because he fed the multitude. Their preference, remember, had been to "send the crowds away."3 And Jesus had told them to feed the people. But they wouldn’t try. They said it couldn’t be done. They told Jesus to let the people take care of themselves.

Also keep in mind that the disciples had just spent some time on center stage. They’d tasted stardom. They were celebrities. They had rallied crowds. They had recruited an army. They were, no doubt, pretty proud of themselves. With chests a bit puffy and heads a bit swollen, they’d told Jesus, "Just send them away."

Jesus didn’t. Instead, he chose to bypass the reluctant disciples and use the faith of an anonymous boy. What the disciples said couldn’t be done was done in spite of them, not through them.

They pouted. They sulked. Rather than being amazed at the miracle, they became mad at the Master. After all, they had felt foolish passing our the very bread they said could not be made. Add to that Jesus’ command to go to the boat when they wanted to go to battle, and it’s easier to understand why these guys are burning!

"Now what is Jesus up to, leaving us out on the sea on a night like this?"

It’s 1:00 A.M., no Jesus.

It’s 2:00 A.M., no Jesus.

Peter, Andrew, James, and John have seen storms like this. They are fishermen; the sea is their life. They know the havoc the gale-force winds can wreak. They’ve seen the splintered hulls float to shore. They’ve attended the funerals. They know, better than anyone, that this night could be their last. "Why doesn’t he come?" they sputter.


Finally, he does. "During the fourth watch of the night [3:00 to 6:00 A.M.] Jesus went out to them, walking on the lake."4

Jesus came. He finally came. But between verse 24—being buffered by waves—and verse 25—when Jesus appeared—a thousand questions are asked.

Questions you have probably asked, too. Perhaps you know the angst of being suspended between verses 24 and 25. Maybe you’re riding a storm, searching the coastline for a light, a glimmer of hope. You know that Jesus knows what you are going through. You know that he’s aware of your storm. But as hard as you look to find him, you can’t see him. Maybe your heart, like the disciples’ hearts, has been hardened by unmet expectations. Your pleadings for help are salted with angry questions.

This  is for you if the pebble of pain has struck the window of your heart, if you’ve known the horror of looking for God’s face and seen only his back as he ascends a mountainside.

When you can’t see him, trust him. The figure you see is not a ghost. The voice you hear is not the wind.

Jesus is closer than you’ve ever dreamed.

[Shylynne]

He Speaks Through the Storm

"I had heard about you before, but now I have seen you."1

IT ALL HAPPENED in one day. One day he could choose his tee time at the nicest golf course in the country; the next he couldn’t even be the caddie. One day he could Lear jet across the country to see the heavyweight bout at the Las Vegas Mirage. The next he couldn’t afford a city bus across town.

Talk about calm becoming chaos. . .

The first thing to go is his empire. The market crashes; his assets tumble. What is liquid goes dry. What has been up goes down. Stocks go flat, and Job goes broke. There he sits in his leather chair and soon-to-be-auctioned-off mahogany desk when the phone rings with news of calamity number two:

The kids were at a resort for the holidays when a storm blew in and took them with it.

Shell-shocked and dumbfounded, Job looks out the window into the sky that seems to be getting darker by the minute. He starts praying, telling God that things can’t get any worse . . . and that’s exactly what happens. He feels a pain in his chest that is more than last night’s ravioli. The next thing he knows, he is bouncing in an ambulance with wires stuck to his chest and needles stuck in his arm.

He ends up tethered to a heart monitor in a community hospital room. Next to him lies an illegal immigrant who can’t speak English.

Not, however, that Job lacks for conversation.

First there is his wife. Who could blame her for being upset at the week’s calamities? Who could blame her for telling Job to curse God? But to curse God and die? If Job doesn’t already feel abandoned, you know he does the minute his wife tells him to pull the plug and be done with it.

Then there are his friends. They have the bedside manner of a drill sergeant and the compassion of a chain-saw killer. A revised version of their theology might read like this: "Boy, you must have done something really bad! We know that God is good, so if bad things are happening to you, then you have been bad. Period."

Does Job take that lying down? Not hardly.

"You are doctors who don’t know what they are doing," he says. "Oh, please be quiet! That would be your highest wisdom."2


Translation? "Why don’t you take your philosophy back to the pigpen where you learned it."

"I’m not a bad man," Job argues. "I paid my taxes. I’m active in civic duties. I’m a major contributor to United Way and a volunteer at the hospital bazaar."

Job is, in his eyes, a good man. And a good man, he reasons, deserves a good answer.

"Your suffering is for your own good," states Elihu, a young minister fresh out of seminary who hasn’t lived long enough to be cynical and hasn’t hurt enough to be quiet. He paces back and forth in the hospital room, with his Bible under his arm and his finger punching the air.

"God does all these things to a man—twice, even three times—to turn back his soul from the pit, that the light of life may shine on him."3

Job follows his pacing like you’d follow a tennis player, head turning from side to side. What the young man says isn’t bad theology, but it isn’t much comfort, either. Job steadily tunes him out and slides lower and lower under the covers. His head hurts. His eyes burn. His legs ache. And he can’t stomach any more hollow homilies.

Yet his question still hasn’t been answered:

"God, why is this happening to me?"

So God speaks.

Out of the thunder, he speaks. Out of the sky, he speaks. For all of us who would put ditto marks under Job’s question and sign our names to it, he speaks.

- For the father who holds a rose taken off his son’s coffin, he speaks.

- For the wife who holds the flag taken off her husband’s casket, he speaks.

- For the couple with the barren womb and the fervent prayers, he speaks.

- For any person who has tried to see God through shattered glass, he speaks.

- For those of us who have dared to say, "If God is God, then ...," God speaks.

He speaks out of the storm and into the storm, for that is where Job is. That is where God is best heard.

God’s voice thunders in the room. Elihu sits down. Job sits up. And the two will
never be the same again.

"Who is this that darkens my counsel with words without knowledge?"4

Job doesn’t respond.

"Brace yourself like a man; I will question you, and you shall answer me."5

"Where were you when I laid the foundations of the earth? Tell me, if you know so much."6

One question would have been enough for Job, but it isn’t enough for God.

"Do you know how its dimensions were determined and who did the surveying?" God asks. "What supports its foundations, and who laid its cornerstone, as the morning stars sang together and all the angels shouted for joy?"7

Questions rush forth. They pour like sheets of rain out of the clouds. They splatter in the chambers of Job’s heart with a wildness and a beauty and a terror that leave every Job who has ever lived drenched and speechless, watching the Master redefine who is who in the universe.

Have you ever once commanded the morning to appear, and caused the dawn to rise in the east? Have you ever told the daylight to spread to the ends of the earth, to end the night’s wickedness?8

God’s questions aren’t intended to teach; they are intended to stun. They aren’t intended to enlighten; they are intended to awaken. They aren’t intended to stir the mind; they are intended to bend the knees.

Has the location of the gates of Death been revealed to you? Do you realize the extent of the earth? Tell me about it if you know! Where does the light come from, and how do you get there? Or tell me about the darkness. Where does it come from? Can you find its boundaries, or go to its source? But of course you know all this! For you were born before it was all created, and you are so very experienced!9

Finally Job’s feeble hand lifts, and God stops long enough for him to respond. "I am nothing—how could I ever find the answers? I lay my hand upon my mouth in silence. I have said too much already."10
God’s message has connected:

- Job is a peasant, telling the King how to run the kingdom.

- Job is an illiterate, telling e. e. cummings to capitalize his personal pronouns.

- Job is the bat boy, telling Babe Ruth to change his batting stance.

- Job is the clay, telling the porter not to press so hard.

"I owe no one anything," God declares in the crescendo of the wind. "Everything under the heaven is mine."11

Job couldn’t argue. God owes no one anything. No explanations. No excuses. No help. God has no debt, no outstanding balance, no favors to return. God owes no man anything.

Which makes the fact that he gave us everything even more astounding.

[Shylynne]

cont`d...

How you interpret this holy presentation is key. You can interpret God’s hammering speech as a divine "in-your-face" tirade if you want. You can use the list of unanswerable questions to prove that God is harsh, cruel, and distant. You can use the Book of Job as evidence that God gives us questions and no answers. But to do so, you need some scissors. To do so, you need to cut out the rest of the book of Job.

For that is not how Job heard it. All his life, Job had been a good man. All his life, he had believed in God. All his life, he had discussed God, had notions about him, and had prayed to him.

But in the storm Job sees him!

He sees Hope. Lover. Destroyer. Giver. Taker. Dreamer. Deliverer.

Job sees the tender anger of a God whose unending love is often received with peculiar mistrust. Job stands as a blade of grass against the consuming fire of God’s splendor. Job’s demands melt like wax as God pulls back the curtain and heaven’s light falls uneclipsed across the earth.

Job sees God.

God could turn away at this point. The gavel has been slammed, the verdict has been rendered. The Eternal Judge has spoken.

Ah, but God is not angry with Job. Firm? Yes. Direct? No doubt. Clear and convincing? Absolutely. But angry? No.

God is never irritated by the candle of an honest seeker.


If you underline any passage in the Book of Job, underline this one: "I had heard about you before, but now I have seen you. "

Job sees God—and that is enough.

But it isn’t enough for God.

The years to come find Job once again sitting behind his mahogany desk with health restored and profits up. His lap is once again full of children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren—for four generations!

If Job ever wonders why God doesn’t bring back the children he had taken away, he doesn’t ask. Maybe he doesn’t ask because he knows that his children could never be happier than they are in the presence of this One he has seen so briefly.

Something tells me that Job would do it all again, if that’s what it took to hear God’s voice and stand in the Presence. Even if God left him with his bedsores and bills, Job would do it again.

For God gave Job more than Job ever dreamed. God gave Job Himself.

[Whitehorse]

What sweet posts! Thank you!

[sincereheart]

*sniff* That was beautiful! Thanks for sharing that!

[Shylynne]

Welcome!

I know this message is long, but so worth the time it takes to read!

Jesus is closer than you’ve ever dreamed.  

[Whitehorse]

Absolutely!

[LMarsh]

Thanks Shy.  I finally had some time to read it.  Who hasn't questioned these things in life.  I don't know how many times I have turned to Job to remind myself of Who God Really Is and his caring of us is beyond our understanding.
God Bless,
LMarsh

[Shylynne]

I love this...

It’s 1:00 A.M., no Jesus.

It’s 2:00 A.M., no Jesus.

Finally, "During the fourth watch of the night [3:00 to 6:00 A.M.]

Jesus came. He finally came !

Psa 130:6  My soul waiteth for the Lord more than they that watch for the morning: [I say, more than] they that watch for the morning!

I`m reminded here of the story of Jacob in Gen 32:26.  Jacob, wrestled all night, but as dawn was breaking, cried out, ‘I will not let Thee go, except Thou bless me.’  And then it was that the great healing, helping, transforming power of God came into the poor wrestler’s soul, and  the answer was, ‘Thy name shall be called no more Jacob, but Israel: for as a prince hast thou power with God and with men, and hast prevailed.’  

Luk 18:1  And he spake a parable unto them [to this end], that men ought always to pray, and not to faint;
Luk 18:2  Saying, There was in a city a judge, which feared not God, neither regarded man:
Luk 18:3  And there was a widow in that city; and she came unto him, saying, Avenge me of mine adversary.
Luk 18:4  And he would not for a while: but afterward he said within himself, Though I fear not God, nor regard man;
Luk 18:5  Yet because this widow troubleth me, I will avenge her, lest by her continual coming she weary me.
Luk 18:6  And the Lord said, Hear what the unjust judge saith.
Luk 18:7  And shall not God avenge his own elect, which cry day and night unto him, though he bear long with them?
Luk 18:8  I tell you that he will avenge them speedily.

Isa 40:31  But they that wait upon the LORD shall renew [their] strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary; [and] they shall walk, and not faint.

When God is silent - persevere!
The answer is closer than you ever dreamed!