The "gods" who converse not with mortals.

Have you ever prayed to something that couldn't hear you? Not in the obvious sense, of course. Most of us would never admit to bowing before a statue or lighting incense to an idol carved from stone.

But consider this: when the diagnosis came, when the marriage fractured, when the account balance dropped below what the bills demanded, when the child would not come home, to whom did you turn first? Not in your Sunday-morning best, but in the raw, unguarded moment when the fear tightened around your chest?

Whatever answered that question first, that is your god. And if it did not answer at all, then you have discovered something very old and very important about the difference between the God of the Bible and every other god humankind has ever invented.

 

A King, a Dream, and a Silence

The second chapter of Daniel opens with one of the strangest scenes in all of Scripture. Nebuchadnezzar, king of Babylon, the most powerful man in the known world, has been troubled by dreams. He summons "the magicians, the enchanters, the sorcerers, and the Chaldeans" (Daniel 2:2) and demands that they tell him not only the meaning of his dream but the dream itself. He will not describe it. They must produce both the vision and its interpretation, or they will be "torn limb from limb" and their houses "laid in ruins" (Daniel 2:5).

The response of these wise men is remarkable. They protest that no king has ever made such a demand, and then, in a moment of unintended theological confession, they say something profound:

"The thing that the king asks is difficult, and no one can reveal it to the king except the gods, whose dwelling is not with mortals." (Daniel 2:11)

Whose dwelling is not with mortals.

These are the priests and sages of the greatest empire on earth, and when pressed to the wall, when their very lives depend on the answer, they concede that the gods they serve do not converse with human beings. The gods are elsewhere. The gods are silent. The gods have their own affairs, and the desperate cries of men rise up unanswered into an empty sky.

 

The Great Confession of Every False Religion

This is not merely a footnote in an old story. This is the confession, whether spoken or unspoken, of every false god humanity has ever bowed before. The Babylonian priests said it plainly because their situation forced honesty from them. But the same silence hangs over every idol we construct.

The Psalmist knew this well: "They have mouths, but do not speak; eyes, but do not see. They have ears, but do not hear; noses, but do not smell. They have hands, but do not feel; feet, but do not walk; they make no sound in their throats. Those who make them are like them; so are all who trust in them." (Psalm 115:5–8)

Note that last line. Those who make idols become like them.

Silent. Deaf. Unresponsive to the cries of others. There is a spiritual physics at work here that we ignore at our peril: we come to resemble what we worship. If we worship a god who cannot speak, we lose the capacity to hear. If we worship a god who cannot feel, we grow numb ourselves.

But what were these Babylonian gods, really? They were projections. They were the ambitions and fears of the empire enthroned in an imaginary heaven. They were power dressed in religious clothing. And when the crisis came, they had nothing to say, because a projection cannot answer back. A mirror cannot tell you anything you do not already know.

 

Our Modern Pantheon

We are tempted to feel superior to Nebuchadnezzar's court. We do not consult astrologers before making business decisions (or perhaps some do). We do not slaughter animals to read entrails. We are modern. Enlightened. Rational.

And yet.

Consider how many of us pour out our anxiety, our hope, our identity, into political movements and personalities, believing that if only this candidate wins, if only this party takes power, if only this ideology triumphs, then justice will roll down and suffering will cease.

We invest these figures with a messianic weight they cannot possibly bear. And when they inevitably fail, when the promised kingdom does not come, we do not conclude that we have worshipped falsely. We simply find a new candidate, a new movement, a new political idol to enthrone.

But these gods, too, dwell not with mortals. They cannot speak to the ache of a mother who has lost her son. They cannot answer the terror of the man in the oncology waiting room. They cannot fill the silence of an empty house after the funeral.

Consider how many of us have made gods of our appetites.

The pleasures of food, of drink, of the body, of substance, of screen and scroll—each promises a small salvation, a moment of relief from the pressing weight of being human. And each, in its turn, grows silent when we need it most. The bottle does not comfort; it only postpones the feeling of the ache. The screen does not answer; it only distracts. The affair does not heal; it only wounds more deeply.

These gods take our offerings and give nothing back except the demand for more.

Consider, too, the more respectable idols.

Work. Achievement. The relentless striving toward success.

These are gods that even our churches sometimes bless, gods that our culture applauds. But they are gods nonetheless, and they, too, dwell not with mortals. A résumé cannot love you. A promotion cannot forgive your sins. A retirement account cannot walk with you through the valley of the shadow of death. When the crisis comes, and it will come, these gods have nothing to say.

They stand mute at the bedside.

 

The God Who Speaks

Now, against this backdrop, hear the astonishing claim of the Scriptures. The God of Israel, the God revealed in Jesus Christ, is not a god who dwells apart from mortals. He is the God who speaks. He is the God who comes.

From the very beginning we are told, "Then God said..." (Genesis 1:3). The universe itself is spoken into being. Creation is not the byproduct of divine indifference but the outflowing of divine speech.

And this speaking God does not fall silent once the work is done. He walks in the garden in the cool of the day. He calls to Abraham. He wrestles with Jacob. He appears to Moses in the flame. He thunders from Sinai and writes his laws on stone. He whispers to Elijah in a still small voice. He rouses Samuel in the night.

And when the Babylonian magicians cannot tell the king his dream, we will discover, in the very next passage, that the true God does not have this problem. He speaks to Daniel. He reveals what is hidden. "He reveals deep and hidden things; he knows what is in the darkness, and light dwells with him." (Daniel 2:22)

The climax of this revelation, of course, is the Incarnation itself. The letter to the Hebrews begins with a thunderclap: "Long ago God spoke to our ancestors in many and various ways by the prophets, but in these last days he has spoken to us by a Son." (Hebrews 1:1–2)

This is the great scandal and the great glory of the faith we profess.

Our God is not a distant power indifferent to human affairs. Our God has come among us. Our God has taken on flesh. Our God has wept at the tomb of his friend, has bled on a Roman cross, has risen in a Judean garden.

The God whose dwelling is not with mortals became the God whose dwelling is with mortals. "And the Word became flesh and lived among us." (John 1:14)

 

Listening in the Silence of False Gods

What, then, are we to do with this? How does an ancient story of a Babylonian king's dream reshape our daily lives?

Begin with an honest inventory. Ask yourself where you turn first when fear grips you. Not where you should turn, but where you actually do. Is it the news feed? The refrigerator? The bottle? The phone call to complain? The mental rehearsal of your grievances? The obsessive scrolling? Is it a lustful fantasy, either concocted by the mind or entertained through digital images?

Whatever it is, name it. Because you cannot repent of an idol you refuse to see.

Then notice its silence. Sit with the fact that when you have turned to this god in the past, it has not answered. It has soothed, perhaps, for a moment. It has numbed. It has distracted. But it has not answered the deep question your soul was actually asking.

It has not once told you, "You are known. You are loved. You are not alone."

Third, practice turning toward the God who speaks before you turn toward the gods who do not. This is not a matter of feeling spiritual. It is a matter of habit. When the anxiety rises, before you reach for the phone, breathe a single sentence toward heaven. "Lord, I am afraid." "Lord, help me." "Lord, speak."

You will be surprised how often, in the quiet you have made, something does indeed come. Not always words. Sometimes a peace. Sometimes a memory of Scripture. Sometimes only the awareness that you have been heard. But something.

Because our God is not the god of Nebuchadnezzar's magicians. Our God converses with mortals.

Fourth, cultivate silence. This may seem counterintuitive. If God speaks, should we not be listening? Yes, and this is precisely why the noise of our lives must be quieted. The false gods speak loudly and constantly. The true God often speaks in a whisper. You will not hear him over the din of the pantheon of smart phones, televisions, tasks-to-do.

Set aside time each day, even ten minutes, to sit in silence with the Scriptures open before you. Do not demand a word. Simply be available for one.

Finally, remember that the God who spoke to Daniel and who spoke through his Son still speaks today. In the Scriptures. In the sacraments. In the poor. In the still, small voice within the chambers of a quiet heart. He has not fallen silent. He never will.

The gods who cannot speak to men are still with us, still demanding worship, still offering their empty promises. But another voice is calling, and it has been calling since before the world began.

The magicians of Babylon confessed that their gods dwelt not with mortals. Ours does. So why not listen?