The Wave and the Whisper

Hearing God in an Age of Silence and Suspicion

It happened during church.

Not a moment I planned for. Not something I conjured. Just there—suddenly and vividly—in my mind’s eye.

I saw a wave. But not just any wave—a tsunami. Swelling on the horizon, rising like a skyscraper tipped on its side. And in its path, a lone surfer floating on a board.

At first, the surfer panicked. He turned and paddled hard, trying to outrun it. But the effort was futile. The wave caught him. Crushed him. Swallowed him whole.

Then the scene shifted.

Same wave. Same board. Same surfer. But this time, he didn’t flee. He repositioned. He angled himself toward the surge. He waited. And at just the right moment, he stood. Balanced. Calm. Steady. He rode the chaos with grace.

This vision came to me during our Come and See series, where we’re walking through faith, doubt, and the foundations of Christianity using the Alpha framework. I was sitting quietly in the front row, listening to the message, when I found myself whispering to the Holy Spirit: What does this mean?

And what I sensed was this: there are always two responses to overwhelming force—run from it, or ride it. Panic, or prepare. Resist, or reorient.

The invitation felt clear.

And it wasn’t just for me.

It was for someone—maybe several someones—in the room.

That vision and its interpretation stayed with me as the message continued. And when the preacher left space for reflection and stillness at the end, I had a decision to make.

Do I stand up, unrehearsed and unplanned, and share what I’ve sensed from the Spirit? Or do I stay quiet, let the moment pass, and preserve the seamlessness of the service?

I’ve spent the past several years practicing the art of listening—testing thoughts, impressions, and images. Learning to discern what is from God and what is not. And this one came clearly from outside, not from within. So I walked across, whispered to Alex, the lead pastor and preacher that Sunday, that I had a word I wanted to share. He nodded.

I walked up, shared what I had seen. Passed the mic back.

Then we moved into communion. We sang. We prayed the generosity prayer. We ended with the doxology.

After the service, I stood near the front in case the word had landed with anyone. And to my quiet gratitude—but not total surprise—three individuals came forward. Separately. Each told me, in their own way, that vision was for me. Each one described, in the details they were comfortable sharing, what the tsunami meant in their life. Each one spoke of chaos, fear, and their instinct to flee—and how the image had helped them imagine another way.

The refrain from Tyler Staton’s The Familiar Stranger echoed in my mind:

“The foundation of my faith is the Bible; the shape of my faith is prophecy.”

For those three people, the Spirit’s invitation was deeply personal. All three had a solid biblical understanding of God—they each had grown up in the church. But what happened that Sunday wasn’t just doctrinal. It was intimate. God interrupted the normal flow of service to say: I see you. I know what you’re facing. And this is what I want you to know.

Each received prayer.

There was a moment where I placed a hand gently on each shoulder and simply prayed.

And in that moment, the words of Teresa of Ávila came alive:

“Christ has no body now but yours.

No hands, no feet on earth but yours.

Yours are the eyes through which He looks

compassion on this world.”

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t showy. But it was holy.

And I walked away reminded again: God is still speaking.

---

A few weeks earlier, I had been watching someone defend the cessationist position—the belief that the miraculous gifts of the Holy Spirit, including prophecy, tongues, and healing, ceased with the closing of the New Testament canon.

The argument was clean and confident:

“God used to speak. But now, He doesn’t need to. The Bible is finished. The canon is closed. The age of revelation has passed. We’re in a new dispensation now.”

And then came the usual theological gymnastics around First Corinthians—skipping over Paul’s repeated urgings to earnestly desire the spiritual gifts, especially prophecy (1 Corinthians 14v1). They twisted texts meant to offer encouragement and pastoral instruction and repackaged them as doctrinal footnotes for divine distance.

But as I listened, it struck me: this wasn’t just about Scripture. It wasn’t just about a theological disagreement. This was about lived experience and historical imagination.

Because if you’ve never experienced the voice of God—if you’ve never discerned a word of encouragement, been prompted to pray, or felt the Spirit’s quiet conviction—it makes sense that you might develop a theology that explains His silence.

Especially if your imagination has been shaped more by the Reformation than by Pentecost.

Correcting the Overcorrection

Let me be clear: the Reformers gave us an extraordinary gift.

In the 16th century, the Western Church had drifted into dangerous territory—works righteousness, spiritual manipulation, and the selling of indulgences. The voice of God had been replaced by the authority of the Church. So the Reformers did what needed to be done: they brought us back to Sola Scriptura. Back to the pages of Scripture. Back to first principles.

But like all good correctives, the Reformation came with an overcorrection.

In rejecting the abuses of medieval Catholicism, many Reformers also became suspicious of spiritual experience. They didn’t just reject indulgences—they rejected prophecy. They didn’t just reject manipulation—they rejected mysticism. In some theological circles, the Holy Spirit was quietly demoted. Prayer became formalized. Prophecy disappeared. And hearing God’s voice was reclassified as emotionalism or delusion.

The Reformation was a necessary movement. But its overcorrections are still echoing in the hearts and minds of those who believe God no longer speaks.

But the Story Isn’t Over

If you step back and look at the larger narrative—from Genesis to Revelation—you’ll see something striking:

God has always been speaking.

He is a relational Being. A speaking God. From the garden to the prophets, from Jesus’ baptism to the early church, from Pentecost to Patmos—God communicates.

And not just biblically. Historically too.

The church fathers wrote about prophecy and healing. The desert mothers and fathers practiced deep discernment in the wilderness. There are records of visions, dreams, words of knowledge, and the operation of the gifts throughout the early and medieval Church—not just in the apostolic age. Yes, the excesses came (they always do), but the flame never went out.

To say that prophecy and tongues simply ceased is to ignore not just Scripture, but history.

And that brings us to the present.

Discernment in an Age of Suspicion

We live in a time of deep spiritual suspicion.

Many have been burned by charismatic chaos, manipulated by so-called prophets, or disillusioned by the theatrics of televangelism. Others simply grew up in environments where the Spirit was sidelined, and the gifts were quietly filed under “things God used to do.”

That’s why I find Tyler Staton’s The Familiar Stranger so helpful.

Tyler doesn’t just make a case for hearing God. He offers a path of discernment, humility, and spiritual maturity. He reminds us that prophecy is not about performance—it’s about presence. It’s about listening well, testing what we hear, and growing in our capacity to recognize the voice of the Shepherd.

He tells the story of Simon the Sorcerer—a man who tried to buy the power of the Spirit. Who saw God as a mechanism, not a Person. Who mistook magic for intimacy. And Tyler’s warning is one we all need to hear: the gifts of the Spirit are not formulas to master. They are invitations into relationship.

God is not a machine.

C.S. Lewis makes the same point in his essay The Efficacy of Prayer:

“If it were absolutely ‘certain’ that every request would be granted, prayer would become a machine… God would become not a lover, but a cosmic vending machine.”

That line has stayed with me—because it names the temptation so many of us face: to reduce God to technique, to control, to certainty.

If I listen, God will speak.

If I ask, God will answer.

But that’s not how this works.

The living God cannot be reduced. He is not programmable. He is not passive. He is personal.

The gifts are not about power; they are about proximity.

Discernment is not just a spiritual gift—it’s a way of life. It’s about being near enough to God that even His silence speaks volumes. It’s about becoming familiar with His presence—so that we’re not dependent on fireworks or theatrics to know He is near.

The Invitation

So here’s my gentle encouragement—to the cessationist, the skeptical, the burned-out charismatic, or the spiritually curious:

Take a step back. Zoom out.

Look not just at a handful of verses, but at the whole sweep of Scripture.

Look not just at your denomination, but at the global Church.

Look not just at the abuses of the gifts, but at the beauty and health that still exists among those who steward them wisely.

And if you find yourself longing to hear God—not in a sensational way, but in a relational way—know this:

That desire is holy.

That desire is not in vain.

God is still speaking.

The question is:

Will we listen?

Will we ride the wave?