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Are we leaving voicemails to God?

First published in Sight Magazine under ‘This Life’ column, 3 December 2025

This Life: Are we leaving voicemails to God?

ARE WE LEAVING VOICEMAILS TO GOD?

“Then you will call on me and come and pray to me, and I will listen to you. You will seek me and find me when you seek me with all your heart. I will be found by you,” declares the Lord. – Jeremiah 29:12-14

I recently contacted a relative to pay condolences. We had not spoken for a while, so it felt awkward to phone out of the blue.

In my Lebanese culture, I was haunted by the Arabic adage Ain al mahzoun dai’a. It literally translates as “the eye of the bereaved is narrow”. In practice, this means that the mourner’s eyes are sharp and harsh. They notice everything, including who was absent.

Sending a ‘message’ could be (perceived as) disrespectful, so I hit the ‘call’ button. When it rang out and reached voicemail, I must confess my relief.

Then my conscience was pricked by pangs of guilt: do I sometimes treat my daily prayers like ritual voicemails?

Before I sleep, I kneel by my bedside and face the Divine Mercy image of Jesus. I follow a threefold prayer routine that I taught my children: thanks…sorry… please…

But at the end of the prayer, there is no pause or listening. With the sign of the cross, I virtually hang up…on God!

This does not feel like a two-way conversation with “Our Father who art in Heaven”. It feels more like a routine payment of a regular contribution to my spiritual superannuation, hoping for a return on that investment when darkness envelopes me or at the hour of our death.

If my prayer transaction can be reduced to a voicemail machine, how would it feel if God treated me with automated busy-ness?

“Hey Siri/Alexa/Google, call God.” After the ringtone, it offers all languages.

“Thank you for calling heaven’s hotline. Please select one of the following four options: Press 1 for a miracle. Press 2 for appointments. Press 3 for forgiveness. Press 4 for gratitude. Press 5 to leave a voicemail. To hear these options again…We are busy taking other calls…Your call is important to us…Your expected wait time is…To use our virtual assistant…”

Some angelic choir fills the void while I am on hold, fuming.

“I don’t want to leave a voice message! I need to talk to a real person! Not to some artificial…”

Sounds familiar?

But it is the antithesis of our faith and Scriptures that our loving Father could ever treat us with such disdain.

In my advocacy work, I have sought private audiences with CEOs, politicians, celebrities and bishops. I wait in queue, “put it in writing”, endure screening, then am allocated a time-limited appointment at a predestined location, which could be cancelled at short notice.

But God has no appointment secretary. His door and heart are always open as He will “neither slumber nor sleep” (Psalm 121:4). He even “knows what you need before you ask Him” (Matthew 6:8).

He imposes no time limit on my appointment, has reception from any location, does not charge for global roaming, and keeps our conversations private.

He never narrows His eyes when I call him out of the blue.

Perhaps this is a wake-up call worth sharing. Perhaps we all reduce prayer to a routine or ritual rather than the more important r-word: Relationship.

I have learnt to pause, be still, and know that God answers my prayers in his own way, in his own time. But as the Prophet Elijah found, God’s voice may not be dramatic and instant: “After the earthquake came a fire, but the Lord was not in the fire. And after the fire came a gentle whisper…Then a voice said to him…” (I Kings 19:11-13).

That’s the best bit: pausing to listen to that whispering voice.

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Not drowning, praying

First published in Sight Magazine, 28 May 2025
https://sightmagazine.com.au/this-life/this-life-not-drowning-praying/

“‘Lord, if it’s you,’ Peter replied, ‘tell me to come to you on the water.’
‘Come,’ he said.
Then Peter got down out of the boat, walked on the water and came toward Jesus. But when he saw the wind, he was afraid and, beginning to sink, cried out, ‘Lord, save me!’ – Matthew 14:22-33 (NIV)

I recently challenged myself to swim to the yellow buoys which were about 500 metres off the beach, marked ‘no boats’.

At first, I kept my eyes fixed on those yellow triangles as they gradually enlarged in my view. As I approached my goal, the sound of my human paddles increased in pitch like pebbles on a lake. I tried to fix my gaze until the rising waves obscured the bopping triangles.

“Perhaps this is what happened to Peter when he attempted to walk on water to the beckoning hand of Jesus, his senses initially over-ridden by his rock-solid faith.”

I became disoriented. Panic set in and fear flooded my focus. There are no lifeguards on this beach. What if I get a cramp? What if I scream out to the nearest boats but my voice is drowned out by their motors?

Perhaps this is what happened to Peter when he attempted to walk on water to the beckoning hand of Jesus, his senses initially over-ridden by his rock-solid faith. A wave may have slapped Peter, shifting his gaze to his sinking body. Panicky Peter was rescued, but not without another slap “you of little faith – why did you doubt?”

My own confidence also wavered as I tried to splash away all the fears with different swimming strokes. The dog paddle was pathetic in the growing current so I switched to breaststroke where my whip kick could propel me faster, like a frog. But I was gulping too much water with each plunge so I geared up to freestyle.

My fear of submerging my head strained my neck and I could feel my body tensing. I gave up on the triangles, flipped over and resorted to back stroke so I could breathe. I gazed up at the cirrocumulus cloud formation above me, resembling fish scales, a mirror image above me of the sea beneath me.

Why am I here? I am not a boat, dog, frog or fish!

I tried deep breaths to arrest the accelerating palpitations. I turned my gaze to the eternal sky beyond the temporary passing clouds. In a surreal moment, everything seemed to move in slow motion.

Without thinking, my arms floated outwards and my legs stopped kicking. Without thinking, my shallow breathing became deeper. Without thinking, I assumed the position of absolute surrender – the crucifix.

Then it dawned on me: the only position that saved my life and conquered my fear in the water was the crucifix – the symbol of my faith.

After I regained my breath and my perspective, I reached my triangular milestone. But this was now incidental to the real epiphany. The symbol that claimed the last breath of Jesus at the crucifixion is now a symbol that restores our breath and indeed saves our life.

Joseph Wakim is an author (Australian Christian Book of the Year finalist) and independent columnist (UN Association Media Award finalist). He loves bringing a Middle Eastern cultural lens to insights on Jesus.