Watch this message from Pastor Lauderdale on YouTube.
Scripture: 1 Samuel 1:1–22 (KJV)
Some wounds do not bleed where people can see them. Some pain hides behind a smile, behind a Sunday outfit, behind a worship song, behind a “God is good” when your heart is barely holding together. This cry out to God sermon from 1 Samuel 1 reminds us that God hears the cries we cannot even put into words.
I’m reminded of a young man that almost every one of us has heard of. His name was Jarrid Wilson. He was thirty years old. He was a pastor in California. He had a beautiful wife. He had two young sons. He had a thriving ministry, a massive social media following, and a smile that could light up any room he walked into.
He wrote books about mental health and the love of God. He started a ministry specifically to help people who were struggling with depression and suicidal thoughts. He stood in pulpits and told hurting people that they were not alone. He told them that God saw them. He told them that their pain was real and that help was available.
And on September 9, 2019, Jarrid Wilson took his own life. The same day, he had officiated a funeral for a woman in his congregation who had died by suicide.
I need you to sit with that for a moment. Because the man who was telling the world that silent pain is dangerous was himself carrying a silent pain so deep that nobody around him could see it. He was posting scriptures. He was preaching sermons. He was counseling broken people. He was showing up every single Sunday. And the whole time, underneath the platform, underneath the ministry, underneath the smile, there was a wound. A real wound. A wound that had never been fully brought into the light.
His wife said afterward, “He fought hard against his own darkness.”
Here it is — your generation is the most connected generation in human history. You have more followers, more friends, more likes, more comments, more group chats, and more ways to communicate than any generation that has ever lived. And yet your generation is the loneliest generation on record. The most anxious. The most medicated. The most likely to smile for the camera and cry in the car on the way home.
You know how to filter a photo. But you have not learned how to filter out the pain.
You know how to craft a caption. But you cannot find the words for what is actually happening inside of you.
You know how to show up for everybody else. But you have not shown up for yourself in a very long time.
And so you do what Jarrid did. What so many do. You carry it quietly. You perform publicly. You post the highlight reel while the behind-the-scenes footage is breaking you apart. And the church walks right past you because you look like you have it all together.
But God did not bring you here to perform. God brought you here to be healed.
I want to talk to somebody today about your silent cries from deep wounds. Somebody say, “God hears me.”
The Bible says in 1 Samuel 1:2–7 that Elkanah had two wives: Hannah and Peninnah. Peninnah had children, but Hannah had no children. And every year, when they went up to worship and sacrifice unto the LORD of hosts in Shiloh, Peninnah provoked Hannah sore because the LORD had shut up her womb. Therefore, Hannah wept and did not eat.
Now before we go any further, I need to make sure we do not read past this woman’s pain. We have a tendency in the church to rush straight to the miracle and forget that somebody was dying on the way there. So let us slow down. Because Hannah has something to say to every hurting heart.
Before we go into the body of this message, we need to talk about pain.
When most people hear the word pain, they think of something physical. A broken arm. A hospital room. A bad diagnosis. But there is a kind of pain that does not show up on any X-ray. There is a kind of pain that you cannot put in a cast or treat with medication. It is the pain that lives in your soul.
It is the pain that wakes you up at three o’clock in the morning and sits on the edge of your bed and stares at you. It is the pain of a dream that died. The pain of a marriage that collapsed. The pain of a child who walked away. The pain of years of trying and still coming up empty. The pain of being in a room full of people and feeling completely and utterly alone.
Here it is — pain is not merely physical suffering. Pain is the soul’s language when words fail. It is what happens when what you are experiencing is simply too heavy to be put into a sentence. And so your soul cries in ways that your mouth cannot articulate.
Many of us have been walking around with open wounds that we have plastered over with activity, with busyness, with church attendance. We are singing on the worship team but bleeding underneath the surface. We are teaching Sunday School but falling apart in the car on the way home. We have become masters of the sacred mask.
I want you to notice something as we look at this text. Because the people in this story process pain in three very different ways.
There are people like Hannah who withdraw. When the pain gets too heavy, they get quiet. They pull away from the table. They stop eating. They stop engaging. They go internal. The Bible says Hannah sat at the banquet but could not touch the food. The grief had stolen her appetite for everything.
Then there are people like Peninnah, Hannah’s rival, who perform. The Bible says Peninnah provoked Hannah year after year. But what was really happening with Peninnah? She had children, yes. But she did not have what Hannah had. She did not have the fullness of Elkanah’s heart. And so she performed cruelty to mask her own insecurity.
Some people lash out at others because their own wounds are too deep to address. Here it is — performing pain looks like arrogance on the outside. But beloved, arrogance is almost always just an unhealed bruise dressed up in confidence.
And then there are those who simply pretend. They look fine. They sound fine. They say, “I am blessed and highly favored,” and they mean it theologically. But experientially? They are crumbling on the inside.
But God is not fooled by performance.
Look at the text. Verse six says, “And her adversary also provoked her sore, for to make her fret, because the LORD had shut up her womb.” And verse seven says, “And as he did so year by year, when she went up to the house of the LORD, so she provoked her; therefore she wept, and did not eat.”
I need you to feel the full weight of Hannah’s situation. This is not a moment of mild inconvenience. This is years of accumulated pain. Hannah was pressed on every single side.
She was pressed by biology. The womb was closed. And in that culture, a closed womb was not simply a medical condition. It was a social death sentence. It meant shame. It meant whispers. It meant that people looked at you sideways and quietly assumed that God must be displeased with you.
She was pressed by her rival. Peninnah provoked her sore. Year after year. Every time they went up to the house of the LORD, Peninnah made sure Hannah felt the wound again. Some of the pain in your life has not only been intense. It has been persistent.
And then she was pressed by her husband’s love. Elkanah loved Hannah genuinely. He gave her a worthy portion. He said to her in verse eight, “Am not I better to thee than ten sons?” And Elkanah meant every word.
But beloved, sometimes the people who love you the most cannot fix what is broken inside of you. Sometimes your closest, most devoted relationships are simply not equipped to address what only God can touch.
But I want you to notice something that Hannah never does in this entire passage. Hannah never stops going to the house of the LORD. The text says it was year by year. Which means every year, in spite of the pain, in spite of the provocation, in spite of coming up empty again and again, Hannah kept going back to the place of worship.
She had not lost her direction even though she had lost her joy.
Here it is — being pressed does not mean being abandoned. Being pressed does not mean being disqualified. Being pressed does not mean the promise is dead. The olive does not release its oil until it is pressed. The grape does not produce wine until it has been crushed. And the saint does not discover the depth of God’s faithfulness until they have been pressed to the very edge of their own strength.
You are pressed, but you are not powerless. You still have a prayer. You still have access to the throne room of Heaven. You still have a God who has not moved one inch from His sovereign position.
Now watch what happens. Verse nine says, “So Hannah rose up after they had eaten in Shiloh, and after they had drunk.” I need you to linger on those three words: Hannah rose up.
She had been sitting in her sorrow. She had been pressed down under the weight of her pain. But at some point, in the middle of her grief, she made a decision that would change the entire trajectory of her life. She rose up.
She went to the temple. And the Bible says in verse ten, “And she was in bitterness of soul, and prayed unto the LORD, and wept sore.” This is the turning point of the entire narrative. Hannah is weeping. Hannah is bitter in soul. And she is doing both of these things while praying unto the LORD.
Do not rush past the theology of this moment.
Here it is — Hannah did not clean herself up before she came to God. She did not wait until she had a better attitude. She did not postpone her prayer until she could arrive with proper composure and a good church face. She came bitter. She came broken. She came weeping sore. She came to God exactly as she was.
And then in verse eleven she made a vow. Hannah made an offering before she had a blessing. She promised what she did not yet possess. She planted a seed in the middle of her winter. That is the kind of bold, reckless, trusting faith that gets Heaven’s full attention.
And look at verse thirteen: “Now Hannah, she spake in her heart; only her lips moved, but her voice was not heard.” The prayer was rising from a place beyond her lips. It was coming from a depth that language could not reach. She was pouring her soul out before the LORD.
Eli the priest thought she was drunk. He said, “How long wilt thou be drunken? put away thy wine from thee.” And Hannah answered, “No, my lord, I am a woman of a sorrowful spirit: I have drunk neither wine nor strong drink, but have poured out my soul before the LORD.”
I want to preach from those seven words: I have poured out my soul.
That word pour is not a gentle word. A pour is not a drip. A pour is not a slow trickle. A pour is an intentional, complete, deliberate emptying. Hannah came to that altar and held absolutely nothing back. Every year of provocation, every silent tear in the night, every unanswered prayer, every public humiliation — she poured it all out at the feet of the LORD of hosts.
Here it is — your pour is not a sign of weakness. Your pour is a prophetic act of faith. Because you cannot pour into something you do not trust to hold what you are releasing. When Hannah poured out her soul before the LORD, she was declaring, “I trust You enough to give You what I cannot carry anymore.”
God is not like Eli. God will not misread your desperation for dysfunction. God knows the difference between a broken woman and a desperate one. Pour out the grief. Pour out the confusion. Pour out the years of waiting. Pour out the silent cries. Because God’s hands are more than large enough to hold everything you have been too afraid to release.
You are not pitiful for weeping before the LORD. You are powerful. The pour always precedes the promise. It happened for Hannah. And it will happen for you.
Verse nineteen says, “And they rose up in the morning early, and worshipped before the LORD, and returned, and came to their house to Ramah: and Elkanah knew Hannah his wife; and the LORD remembered Hannah.”
Four words: The LORD remembered Hannah.
I want you to sit with those four words for just a moment. The LORD, the sovereign, all-knowing, all-seeing, ever-present, never-sleeping God of the universe, remembered Hannah. Not forgot her. Not overlooked her. Not delayed because of disinterest or divine distraction. Remembered.
Which means that even in the silence, even in the years of waiting, even in the seasons where it seemed like Heaven had gone completely quiet on her situation, God had Hannah on His mind. God had her name in His plans. God had her situation in His sovereign hand. She was never off His radar. Not for one single moment.
And verse twenty tells us that Hannah conceived, bore a son, and called his name Samuel, saying, “Because I have asked him of the LORD.” Samuel means “heard of God.” Every single time Hannah called that boy’s name, she was testifying. She named her miracle after the moment that God stopped being silent about her situation.
She turned her answered prayer into a walking, breathing, living testimony.
Here it is — somebody has been crying in secret for a long time. And God is getting ready to answer you in public. Because the LORD remembered Hannah. And the LORD has not forgotten you.
Your wound was real. Your wait has been long. Your silence has been faithful. And your God, the same God who opened Hannah’s womb, the same God who heard her cry from the depths of her soul, has remembered your name.
The promise is still on its way. And it is coming right on time.
Hannah came into that temple weeping. Pressed. Bitter in soul. Silent. Empty. But Hannah did not leave the same way she came. Look at verse eighteen: “And her countenance was no more sad.” Before she ever conceived, before she held that promised child in her arms, something changed in Hannah’s face.
The pour had produced a peace. The surrender had produced a shift. She went from barren to bearing. She went from weeping to worshipping. She went from silent cries to a public song.
Here it is — what God births out of your pain will always produce more worship than your comfort ever could. It takes a wound to produce that kind of worship. It takes a silent cry to produce that kind of song.
If you have been pressed, you are not powerless. Keep going back to the house of the LORD. If you have been pouring, you are not pitiful. Every silent prayer, every tear-soaked pillow, every moment on your knees — God received every single word. If you have been waiting on a promise, you are not forgotten. The LORD remembered Hannah. And the LORD remembers you.
Here it is — God is acknowledging your pain right now. He sees the wound you have never shown anyone. He heard the cry you never made out loud. And He is faithful, sovereign, and present in this place.
I need to take you to one more scene. Because Hannah’s story is powerful. But there is a story that is even greater. There is a wound that is even deeper. And it happened on a hill called Calvary.
Jesus Christ, the Son of the Living God, was arrested in a garden where He had been sweating drops of blood. Even before the cross, He was already pressed. He prayed, “Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me.” That was a silent cry from a deep wound. The wound of carrying every sin, every shame, every secret sorrow of every human being who would ever live.
They beat Him. They crowned Him with thorns. They nailed Him to a cross. And at the ninth hour, Jesus cried, “My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?” Then He bowed His head and gave up the ghost. Saturday came. And it was silent. It looked like the wound had won.
But here it is — Sunday morning came! The same God who remembered Hannah remembered His Son. Death could not hold Him. The grave could not keep Him. He got up with all power in His hands. And because He got up, every silent cry you have ever cried has already been answered at the cross.
He was pressed so you would never be crushed. He poured out His blood so your pour would never be wasted. And He rose so that you could rise — from your pain, from your silence, from your wound.
I want every person carrying a silent wound to stand in faith. Not out of pretense. But as a pour. As a declaration that you trust God to hold what you are finally releasing.
Somebody is crossing over. From pressed to promise. From barren to bearing. From silent cries to a public testimony.
He heard your cry. He remembered your name. He has been faithful all along.
Your silence has been heard. Your wound is being healed. And your Samuel — your miracle with your name on it — is coming forth.
To God be all the glory.
If you are carrying thoughts of suicide or self-harm, please do not carry that pain alone. Call or text 988 in the United States to reach the Suicide & Crisis Lifeline. Help is available right now.
Contact us to speak with a pastor who cares about you. We want to see your face in this place!
