Hollywood God
Whispers vs. Earthquakes
Sometimes, when I’m in a cloudy season of doubt and anguish. Thirsting for a cleansing downpour. I wait and wait for the deluge that simply never comes.
Meanwhile, the gentle mist and the morning dew keep showing up. Disappointingly minuscule though they might be.
There’s this short passage in 1 Kings that goes like this:
“Then a great and powerful wind tore the mountains apart and shattered the rocks before the Lord, but the Lord was not in the wind. After the wind there was an earthquake, but the Lord was not in the earthquake. After the earthquake came a fire, but the Lord was not in the fire. And after the fire came a gentle whisper.” (1 Kings 19:11-13)
A gentle whisper.
A morning mist.
Most of the time, God shows up in our lives in these subtle, small ways.
We pray for the mighty wind. We wait for the earthquake. We expect the fire.
Sometimes I wonder if the reason so many people are spiritually starving is that we’ve been sold a Hollywood version of what faith should look like.
After all, the sexiest spiritual testimonies come from the wildest stories in which people are drenched in God’s glory like a waterfall.
The prisoner changes his ways forever after a desperate prayer.
A near-death experience transforms the addict into a fervent believer.
The story about a friend of a friend whose cancer was cured.
The shack in the woods that shows up for the grieving man (Have you read that book? I saw the movie.)
Many of us are secretly waiting for our perfectly produced Hollywood earthquake, mighty wind, burning bush moment.
But I contend that most people taste the living waters of God’s presence more like a slow, leaky faucet… Drip, drip, dripping more and more love into their lives year after year.
We want some waterfall from above. But the drips of God’s presence come from the plumbing that surrounds our ordinary life.
God shows up in the friendly neighbor.
God shows up in the kind co-worker.
God shows up in the child’s eyes.
God shows up in the gentle nurse at the hospice center.
God shows up in our encounters with each other.
Every conversation I have is a drip of revelation. A drip of warm, healing, living waters. Every interaction is an unassuming spritz of eternal reassurance.
Gentle whispers. Little drips.
This passage from 1 Kings comes in the middle of one of the most dramatic, Hollywood-scale, CGI, special effects stories of the Bible. Elijah is the guy who eventually gets carried off into the sky on a chariot of fire, for Pete’s sake.
But how does God show up in this part of that wild story?
Not in blaze. Not in the thunder. Not in a howling hurricane.
In a whisper.
And I know we’d prefer the waterfall over the drips. I know Hollywood God is more exciting (and honestly requires less responsibility on our part). We’re tired. We’re desperate. The last thing we want to do is collect a dripping God in the hole-riddled buckets of our lives.
But there he is.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Encounter after encounter.
Conversation after conversation.
Frustrating human conduit after frustrating human conduit.
Pause now.
Breathe.
Notice.
Reflect on your last week. Think about the outline of your recent days.
Maybe there was no moment worth of Hollywood explosions. But were there drips?
May you walk into tomorrow with your bucket at the ready… prepared to gather the drips of God that show up in tiny encounters. The waterfall may never arrive, but the living waters are there to quench the thirst of your soul.
Amen.
QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION & CONTEMPLATION
Where have you been hoping for a “waterfall” lately?
In your faith, healing, relationships, or sense of direction—what kind of dramatic breakthrough have you been waiting for?What “drips” might you have overlooked this past week?
Small moments, quiet conversations, fleeting kindnesses, subtle comforts—where might God have been whispering instead of shouting?How have spiritual stories you’ve heard shaped your expectations of God?
Which testimonies or faith narratives have made you feel like your own experience is insufficient or incomplete?What would it look like to trust that slow, ordinary presence is enough—for now?
How might your posture toward tomorrow change if you believed that gentle drips can still quench deep thirst?