If the telephone rang right now it would scare him to death, so intent is he on his thoughts. God knows what I should do He knows everything. His will is perfect. But how do I know what His will is? Silently he prays, God, what do you want me to do? Tell me, please.
The vaulted doors of heaven seem locked and double-bolted, impenetrable. “Please,” he mutters at his desk. “I desperately want to know. I need to know.”
He can almost hear God saying, “Nope. Not today. Not going to do it. I know and have my plans for you, but that information is unavailable.”
So he searches his Sunday School memories and quiet time insights for a scripture. Something to enlighten him—something to appropriate and use as leverage on the Almighty, believing that God may not honor him with an answer, but He has to honor His Word. There’s more than one way to skin a cat.
“Ah, yes. Yes. I’ve got it,” he declares. In barely audible muttering, he recounts, “There was a fellow in the Bible who ran out of bread to make midnight sandwiches for his house guests. Desperate, he went to his friend’s place to bum a few slices. He eventually got the bread, but only because he persisted long enough to wear his sleepy buddy down.”
Leveraging fresh resolve from Scripture, and increasing impatience, he forges ahead. His neck is bowed and his jaw is set on finding God’s will. None of this permissive will versus divine will, he thinks. I won’t settle for anything short of God’s divine will.
Days pass and the decision-making deadline approaches. Whereas initially his intensity was fueled with frustration, now there is another factor. Fear. What am I going to do? I don’t want to miss God’s will, he thinks. “And what will my fate be if I mess up?” he blurts out, thinking of the misfortune that will be his if he misses God’s best.
Reverting to saner rationale—or is it rationalization—he contemplates, But how am I supposed to know what God wants me to do if He won’t tell me? “Lord God, can’t you just give me a simple yes or no?” He had long since dispensed with anything other than close-ended questions for his evasive deity. “I know you have the answer. Why don’t you give me your thumbs up or down so I can get on with my life? It’s going to reflect poorly on both of us if I make a mistake.” That felt manipulative, but given what was at stake it also felt justified.
Nothing. Not a word. Not a sign. Not a sound.
But what about the quiet revelation of God--like a breeze? That's next up.