Years ago, when I was leading a customer service department at a newspaper, I used to tell my team something that always surprised them: “I would rather have a customer call angry than have one who silently cancels.”
An angry customer is still engaged.
They still care enough to reach out.
They still want the relationship to work.
But a silent customer — the one who quietly walks away without a word — that’s the one you’ve truly lost. Because silence means disconnection. Silence means they’ve given up.
I’ve thought about that a lot over the years, especially when I read Psalm 42. Because the psalmist is not calm, collected, or cheerful. He’s overwhelmed. He’s hurting. He’s confused. But he’s still talking to God. He hasn’t silently canceled the relationship. And that alone is a powerful picture of faith.
Not perfect faith.
Not polished faith.
But faith that refuses to disengage.
The writer of Psalm 42 says, “My soul is downcast within me.” He feels forgotten and shaken. He says, “Your waves and breakers have swept over me,” describing life crashing in from every direction. But instead of letting the waves define who God is, he brings his fear and confusion straight to God.
That’s something many of us struggle with. When life gets heavy, it’s easy to let our pain tell us who God is. It’s easy to assume that if we feel overwhelmed, God must be far away. But the psalmist does something different. He names his feelings honestly, but he doesn’t let them become the whole story.
He keeps talking to God.
He keeps reaching.
He keeps holding on.
One of the most important truths in this psalm is something the writer never says directly, but shows in every verse: we are all holding onto something. When life gets hard, we reach for something to steady us — our emotions, our own strength, the approval of others, the stories we tell ourselves, or the distractions that help us escape for a moment. But none of those things can carry the weight of a human soul.
That’s why the psalmist keeps turning back to God. He calls God “my Rock” — in Hebrew, El Sali. It’s a name that means stability, safety, and strength. In the ancient world, a rock wasn’t a pebble. It was a massive cliff — a place you could hide, a place that didn’t move when everything else did.
So the psalmist is making a choice:
I will not anchor myself to the waves. I will anchor myself to the Rock.
And that choice changes everything.
There’s a moment in the New Testament where a father brings his suffering son to Jesus and says, “I believe; help my unbelief.” It’s not a confident prayer. It’s not a triumphant prayer. It’s the prayer of someone who is exhausted and afraid, but still reaching for God. Jesus receives that prayer. And that matters, because many of us think faith has to be strong to count. But Scripture shows us something different: faith that trembles is still faith. Faith that struggles is still faith. Faith that comes with questions is still faith. What matters is that we bring it to God.
Even Jesus prayed this way. In the Garden of Gethsemane, He said, “My soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death.” He asked the Father if there was another way. He brought His anguish honestly, without hiding or pretending. And He stayed in the conversation. If Jesus — the Son of God — prayed that honestly, then there is room for us to do the same.
The psalmist ends with a line that feels like a deep breath: “Hope in God, for I shall again praise Him.” He’s not saying everything is fixed. He’s not saying the storm is over. He’s saying, “I know who my God is, and I know this won’t be the end of my story.” That’s the heart of this psalm. Not that life is easy. Not that faith is simple. But that God is steady, even when we are not.
God is not shaken by what shakes you.
God is not confused by what confuses you.
God is not moved by what overwhelms you.
He is El Sali — the God who is your Rock.
Maybe you’re reading this from a place of exhaustion. Maybe life has been harder than you expected. Maybe you’ve been carrying more than you can say out loud. If that’s you, hear this: you are not standing in the storm alone. El Sali — your Rock — is steady beneath your feet. You don’t have to be strong. You don’t have to have the right words. You don’t have to pretend you’re okay. You can lean toward the One who is strong for you.
The same God who held the psalmist in his despair…
the same God who met the father in Mark 9…
the same God who strengthened Jesus in Gethsemane…
is holding you now.
And because He does not move, you can have real hope — not the kind you have to manufacture, but the kind that comes from being held by the God who will not fail you.
El Sali — God my Rock.
The One who holds me when I cannot hold myself.
Please help me share the good news of Jesus and how He can change your life, and our world!
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