Can You Hear Me Now?
Today I read Psalm 28, and one line immediately caught my attention: "If you remain silent, I will be like those who go down to the pit."
There’s something incredibly human about the fear of being ignored. David, the author of this psalm, is calling out in desperation—not just for help, but for acknowledgment. The pit he mentions feels like more than a poetic image of death. It reads like isolation. Oblivion. Being unseen.
Ghosted by the Divine (Or Anyone, Really)
I don’t think you have to be religious to recognize that feeling. Most people, at some point, have reached out—to a friend, a parent, a partner, even just to the universe—and been met with silence. The absence of a response can feel more unbearable than an outright no. Silence leaves space for doubt. Did they hear me? Do they care? Does it matter?
David doesn’t mask this discomfort. He doesn’t turn it into something noble or stoic. Instead, he pleads: hear me, respond to me, don’t let me fall into that darkness where I don’t matter. It’s an unfiltered cry for connection.
No Platitudes, Just Panic
What stands out to me is that this kind of honesty is preserved in a sacred text. Psalm 28 doesn’t offer easy answers or theological explanations. It’s just raw communication. A voice hoping someone—anyone—is on the other side listening.
The psalm eventually turns to gratitude. David says his cries have been heard. He moves from fear to confidence, from pleading to praise. But I don’t want to skip too quickly past the silence. Because that’s the part I think a lot of people get stuck in. And it’s not always followed by resolution.
The Dreaded Dots: Waiting for a Reply
There’s a tension here that I find familiar: the space between expression and response. Between needing connection and not being sure it will come. It shows up in prayer, but it also shows up in text messages that never get a reply. In long pauses during difficult conversations. In crowded rooms where no one makes eye contact.
Reading this psalm made me wonder: how do we keep speaking when we’re not sure anyone is listening? Is it enough to speak for our own sake, to name what hurts or what we hope for, even if we never hear an answer? Or is the silence itself a kind of answer?
David's honesty gives me permission to sit with those questions without trying to wrap them up neatly. Maybe that's the value in these ancient songs—not that they solve anything, but that they echo what it's like to be human.