By Bonita J. Robinson
Yesterday, I got a revelation of who God is—and surprisingly, it came through reading Elie Wiesel’s Night. I am reading it with my Honors English II students; it’s not a book where I went in search of spiritual clarity. That didn’t stop God from revealing insight. Elie’s story captures the gross sufferings of Jews at the hands of Nazi Germany. His experiences raise questions about whether God sees or whether God cares. In the abyss of deep despair, God is suddenly silent.

There’s a moment in every believer’s journey when God seems quiet. For me, it feels personal. And if we’re honest, it shakes us. We try to find Him in the ways we were taught—through prayer, worship, scripture—but none of it seems to land. Our parents, pastors, and communities taught us to expect God in a particular form, and when He doesn’t show up in that way, it can feel like abandonment.

But here’s what I’m learning: His silence doesn’t mean He’s left. It doesn’t mean that we’ve done something wrong or that we are out of order. It doesn’t mean that we are being punished or forsaken. It means He’s trusting us to remember what He’s already said and done.

Elie’s story gave me clarity. In Night, he entered the camps with the kind of faith that had been carefully cultivated by teaching and also by tradition. He desired a deeper understanding of God. But under the crushing weight of surviving that version of desire, faith exhausted itself. And eventually it became too much of a burden for him to carry it and the atrocities. Sometimes, the traditions of expectation become almost as burdensome as the trial itself. What ultimately happened to Elie was that, during the holiest of Holy Days, he stopped waiting for the tradition to produce the miracle he and so many like him needed. He did the unthinkable. He denounced his faith, deemed God a liar, stood in his loneliness, and pursued surviving.

And I get it. I haven’t faced anything like what Elie experienced, not even close. But I know what it’s like to search for God in the middle of pain and feel met with silence. Wondering if my faith is broken or if I’m just not trying hard enough took its toll. I am embarrassed to admit that during turbulent times in my life, I’ve stood as the accuser and cast God as the accused. But maybe the silence is where the more profound truth lies.

God told Elijah I am not in the wind, earthquake, or the fire. Elijah learned that God’s voice wasn’t in the loud or the dramatic, but in the whisper—that small, still voice. Maybe in those desert places, God is asking us to be still. To trust. To remember.

Because here’s the truth: God sees us stronger than we see ourselves. We must be cautious here as well, in how we define strength. We are so quick to stand ten toes down, as they say, and fight– then we are to stand still and see the Salvation of the one true God. Reflecting on those moments when we feel most alone, He’s the closest; He’s giving us the space to walk out our faith. It’s not the borrowed faith of our teachers or parents, but the rooted and tested kind that grows in silence.

I believe Elie’s survival wasn’t just a matter of human will. Something greater was holding him up—even if he couldn’t name it then. And that’s what I’m holding onto, too: that even when I feel alone, I’m not. Even when I can’t hear Him, He’s near.

So if you’re in a silent season right now, I just want to tell you, you’re not forsaken. God’s inviting you to seek His direction in a new way. God is still God, and you are still His. And one day, maybe not today, but eventually, you’ll look back and realize He was walking with you the whole time, encouraging you to be patient and resilient in your journey of faith.

That’s the kind of faith I want. Not the kind that needs constant noise, but the kind where I can walk quietly and still believe, feeling inspired and uplifted by the transformative power of faith.