Learning His Trust
Walking with God When the Way Isn’t Clear
There’s a kind of disorientation that doesn’t come from crisis or sin, what we now comfortably term moral failure. It comes from the absence of clarity. You’re still praying. Still attending church. Still doing what you know to be right. But it’s all wrapped in a kind of subtle fog. The sense of intimacy you once had with God—the closeness, the awareness, the warmth, the answers usually delivered right on time— it all feels dulled. You’re not walking away, but you’re also not entirely sure where you’re going. In my life, I have often labeled this anxiety in the doctor's office or over drinks with friends. But, even that word doesn't seem to really capture it. Lack of reassurance from God, when it comes to life's direction, can be very disorienting.
It’s in seasons like this that quiet fears begin to rise in me. Maybe you'll recognize a few:
Did I mishear something?
Did I take an unholy exit?
Is this distance from God my fault?
Am I lost because I've lost his approval?
When life becomes spiritually quiet, we start treating the silence like a riddle we’re supposed to solve. And in a culture that forces certainty and visibility, the absence of either can start to feel like failure. Churches would be a much safer place for all of us if they paid more attention to this reality for those in the seats each week. Instead, these Christian spaces reward fresh revelation, emotional connection, and breakthrough stories— stories that make the big screens on the big stages documenting the people of big faith. It’s no wonder that when we can’t feel God, we begin to question ourselves.
But this is where we have to be careful. Because in the silence, we are especially vulnerable to misinterpreting God’s posture toward us, how he actually feels about us. When we get that wrong, other wrong things will surely follow.
Why We Equate Clarity With Favor
There’s a reason this pattern is so common. Most of our modern spirituality is informed by consumer-driven environments. Environments that spend a large part of their budget on felt experience. Worship is often built to create emotional movement. Preaching leans toward answers and outcomes. Testimonies focus on what “worked”.
These aren’t inherently bad things. In my own ministry, I participated in all of these things, and my desire was to help. But these efforts can create a distorted expectation: that closeness with God will always feel like clarity, inspiration, or a surge of peace.
The problem is that’s not how Scripture presents spiritual maturity. Not even close.
Think of Abraham. Called by God, given a promise, and then left to walk through long stretches of waiting and confusion. Think of Joseph, who had a vivid dream about his future, then found himself in prison, apparently forgotten. Think of David, anointed as king, then sent back to the pasture, and later forced to run for his life.
These men weren’t outside of God’s will. They were in the very center of it. And still, their path was marked not by constant affirmation, but by endurance. There is a kind of maturity that only grows in endurance. I've addressed this reality before. What I'd like to be more direct about here today is that God is not afraid to use endurance to create dependence. One may argue it's one of his most preferred methods.
Growing Up
There’s a reason God seems to speak more clearly and more often when our faith is young. Like any good parent, He meets us with gentleness and often gives us more visible signs of His care and of His plans. It’s a form of accommodation, really—meeting us where we are to help us believe we can get to where he wants us to be. But, and I want to be very clear on this, the goal of faith isn’t to remain in that early dependency. It’s to grow into someone who can walk with God without needing constant reinforcement.
That’s not cold or unfeeling. It’s love that wants to form something deeper than emotion. It’s love that wants roots.
Maybe this is what Paul was getting at when he encouraged the Corinthians:
When I was a child, I spoke like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I gave up childish ways. I Corinthians 13:11
Spiritual maturity means learning to walk without needing everything to feel profound or even resolved. It means returning to what you already know rather than always waiting for something new. It means trusting that God is present in the present, even when He seems quiet.
That’s not spiritual numbness. It’s stability. It's maturity.
Maturity is a bit of a loaded word these days. It normally surfaces when we see someone fail and the collective commentary, always from a distance of course, is that the person is immature. My question to this is, "Who isn't?" There are areas in my life that remain immature. God seems to be obsessed with pointing these area out, calling me forward, and in them looking to do His best work . We avoid the idea to our own detriment.
In their book, A Failure of Nerve, Friedman and Steinke define maturity as "the willingness to take responsibility for one's own emotional being and destiny." Excepting its lack of emphasis on the role of God in development, this is a solid definition. Spoken more directly, it would radically improve our current collective state if more men among us obsessed less on masculinity and developed a laser focus on maturity. Subsequently, the most beautiful expressions of masculinity would emerge.
Chris Bruno, in his work Man Maker Project, put it this way:
In essence, the question in the boy’s soul stems from his manhood wanting to be set free, and the initiatory rites of the father catalyze his new birth. When this occurs, the boy no longer strives for manhood but is set free to aim for maturity. Manhood is what fathers offer their sons, and maturity is what boys-turned-men give back to the world.
Fatherlessness has become the not-so-silent killer among us. It's kept us from that steady approach that knows how to hold the line even when it feels like it's not working.
Too many of us are conditioned to make permanent decisions in temporary situations, especially when they don't feel temporary. Even our language these days feels temporary. This is why voices like Eugene Peterson have had such an impact on me. They’re so very different. Listen to the way Eugene talks about Jesus' approach to proclaiming that God's actually on our side for the long haul:
The word forgiveness was often on his lips. In showing men the nature of God, he dramatically showed that forgiveness was God’s primary intention toward man. There was to be a reconciliation between God and man. God was not far off in the heavens nurturing a grudge. Divinity was not a cold principle of retributive justice. The universe was not a mechanism set up to make sure that everyone got his just deserts. Instead, God sought man out to re-create him. He dealt with the wrongs of ignorance and im maturity and rebellion with eternal love. He worked in a unifying way to heal the terrible breach that had disorganized man and creation, brought incoherence into man’s mind, and created a division between the spiritual and the physical.
That is what steady obedience sounds like, Believer. That is the language only maturity can produce.
Don’t Confuse Quiet with Correction
Here's where all this is going. One of the marks of growing in faith is this: you follow without needing immediate confirmation. One of the most damaging lies we start to believe in a season like this is that God’s silence means He’s disappointed in us—or that He’s stepping back as some kind of punishment. But this isn’t how God relates to His children. If anything, when we stumble or even fail on purpose, it activates God's heart toward us.
Correction in Scripture is clear, direct, and purposeful. God is not vague with His people. It's what we espouse while going victim, but it just isn't true. When God convicts, it’s never with confusion or shame, but with clarity and, most importantly, invitation. So if you’re walking in lock step and still experiencing a lack of clarity, it’s likely not about correction. It may simply be formation. But, that formation can't happen if you check out, roll over, and play dead, spiritually speaking.
It could be that the clarity you want would actually short-circuit the maturity God is trying to produce. And in that case, His silence isn’t neglect—it’s perfect parenting.
What If He’s Trusting You?
We rarely think of God’s silence as trust. But what if that’s exactly what it is? What if He’s not testing you to see if you’ll break, but trusting you to keep walking without constant reassurance?
When we’re young in the faith, we need guidance at every step. We ask for signs, confirmations, and feelings to help us move forward. Over time, that approach becomes immature. Like any good Father, God meets us in our immaturity. But He doesn’t intend to leave us there. Over time, He calls us into a deeper confidence, not in ourselves but in what He’s already taught us.
Sometimes, God steps back—not in absence, but in trust. Like a father taking his hand off the seat of a child’s bike, He’s not abandoning you. He’s letting you ride. Because He believes you’re ready to live what you’ve already learned.
But—and this is essential—you were never meant to ride alone. Maturity in isolation is a fantasy. These seasons require community—a circle of people who are also growing up. Take this as a gentle warning, not everyone will get it. Not every church culture will nurture this kind of trust-based discipleship. But you need people around you who will help you work faithfully when your feelings fall flat. Not fixers. Not shallow encouragers. Co-laborers. Fellow disciples who, through lived experience, know the path is long and sometimes quiet, but worth it.
Remaining
The temptation when God feels absent is to make a move. We start second-guessing everything. Maybe I misheard. Maybe I’ve outgrown this season. Maybe I need something new. And sometimes, yes, God does redirect. But often, His silence isn’t a hint that you’ve missed it. It’s an invitation to stay put and grow deeper roots.
We need mature community to remind us of this, because in isolation, restlessness gets louder. Alone, it’s easy to confuse a fading feeling with a failing God. But in authentic community, we learn to stay. We learn to name our questions without jumping ship. We learn that acceptance and feedback can cohabitate with radical honesty. We learn that perseverance isn’t the absence of doubt— the real kind actually requires it.
God isn’t measuring your love by your emotional bandwidth. He sees your heart in the places no one else does:
The quiet obedience.
The daily integrity.
The choice to remain rooted in the last thing He told you, especially when there’s no fresh revelation to replace it.
That’s not a lesser faith. That’s the kind He builds incredible things with—the kind that holds when the winds pick up, the kind that quietly reshapes families, churches, and even generations. Many times, faith looks like showing up, staying put, and not quitting. And you were never meant to do that alone.
So stay with Him. And stay with others who are learning to do the same—people who won’t shame your questions, who know that silence isn’t the end of the story, and who are committed to becoming more like Jesus, especially when it feels like He’s unaware.
Keep reminding one another that even when you can’t hear Him clearly, you can still walk with loyalty. And that’s all He needs to grow something deep in you.