Dryness in Prayer Makes the Noblest Prayer
What would St. Francis de Sales say to someone who keeps getting discouraged in prayer because they feel nothing is happening?
Prayer is the foundation of the interior life. Everything else—reading scripture, meditation, even being truly present at mass—builds on it. Jesus prayed constantly, not because he was God, but because he was man. That’s how important prayer is.
One of the biggest struggles in prayer is that sense of “nothing is happening.” You sit down, you try to focus, but your heart feels empty, your mind is distracted, and it seems like God is silent. Believe me, I know how discouraging that is. Most of us have been there. But the good news is, this isn’t a new problem. Saints dealt with the same dryness, often for long periods of time. And they left us a lot of encouragement about it. St. Francis de Sales in particular had a very gentle way of reminding people that prayer isn’t measured by feelings or consolations—it’s measured by fidelity, trust, and perseverance.
What would St. Francis de Sales say to someone who keeps getting discouraged in prayer because they feel nothing is happening?
“The best prayer is not that in which we have most consolation, but that in which we have most resolution.”
— Spiritual Conferences, Conference II
Don’t be surprised if your prayer seems empty or fruitless.. It’s one of the most common trials in the interior life. We often have a false idea that prayer necessarily brings sweetness. That’s actually not true. Sometimes prayer feels laborious and burdensome, or downright irritating. Other times it can feel like we’re resting in God’s hands. And still other times—rare, but they happen—we may feel like we’re floating above the clouds. But the sweetness that God sometimes grant’s to the pray-er is not the point of prayer, but only an exceptional gift.
“If, while making prayer, no consolation comes, or if we feel a great repugnance to prayer, let us not be disturbed; but let us with a calm perseverance remain before God… for it is not upon our consolations that the profit of prayer depends, but upon our perseverance.”
— Treatise on the Love of God, Book VI, Ch. 12
So What is the Point?
Prayer doesn’t consist in feeling, but in willing. If you set yourself before God with faith, humility, and perseverance—even if all your faculties seem dry and distracted—you are praying well. If you’re paying attention to your prayer, and not just reciting it, you’re giving God his due, and you are in direct contact with His power. And that power has effect, even if it isn’t sensual or emotional. It bears fruit that you don’t feel but gradually begin to perceive.
“Do not lose your courage in considering your own imperfections, but instantly set about remedying them. Every day begin the task anew, and do not give up if you become subject to it throughout your life.”
— Introduction to the Devout Life, Part I, Ch. 5
St. Francis wrote, “Do not lose courage in considering your own imperfections…but instantly set about remedying them—every day begin the task anew.” (Introduction to the Devout Life, Part I, ch. 5). The same applies to prayer. Every day start again, without discouragement. The act of prayer, and the act of returning to it, even in dryness (particularly in dryness) is an act of love, trust and devotion. To pray in dryness is to pray with faith, without “reward”, only to please God, and in recognition of your own lowliness as someone who needs to maintain regular contact with the God who created you. To persevere in prayer without consolation is to love Him for Himself, not for His rewardss. It’s the noblest prayer of all.
My Take
(These last segments will be reserved for paid subscribers, but I wanted to make this first one available to everybody)
When my prayer or meditation is dry, I try to persist anyway; giving God what he deserves rather than looking for consolation that is undeserved. I try to be attentive to the words I’m saying—I say them with attention, as if I’m adding my signature to declaration someone else wrote and better men have cosigned; my voice to someone else’s song. Even if my heart is not in it, my mind will be. And I say the words earnestly. God will do with it what He will.
This’ll Sound Weird, but...
Sometimes my prayer doesn’t involve words or scripture. Sometimes it’s just a “felt” prayer. Whatever might otherwise come out of my mouth, I simply “feel” it instead, and offer what I’m feeling, without words. They may pass as images or ideas in my mind and my heart add tone and color.
If something especially stands strong, I focus on that. I “feel it” to God (Rather than tell it) for a moment or two, and then I speak and verbalize what I’m feeling. Then that becomes the continuation of my prayer.
I started praying this way some time ago when I had more to say to God than I could put into words, or into even an extended period of prayer. I grew to enjoy it at particular times—sometimes in panic or anger, and other times in tenderness and peace.
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This came at an opportune time
Amen, thank you for this reflection—it was a gift to be able to read it. I really resonated with what was available to read and with your point about perseverance in dryness. During a time of deep struggle for years in the psychiatric hospital, I went through seasons of both consolation and heavy desolation, and I came to see that what makes us children of God is not what we feel in prayer, but our obedience—remaining faithful to His Word no matter the season of the soul.
Psalm 1 reminds me that the blessed man is like a tree planted by streams of living water, while the chaff drifts aimlessly. In dryness, it’s easy to feel like chaff, but fidelity roots us in Christ, and even when unseen, that prayer bears fruit.
By the way—would you ever consider making all of your articles free to access, with perhaps a simple “buy me a coffee” link for those who want to support? I think it would remove a barrier of entry for people who sincerely want to grow in holiness and become saints. I would already be doing something like this myself if I could, but by law (as I’m still in psychiatric care, though thankfully healing and recovering), I’m not allowed to have extra income or outside financial sources yet and I barely making ends meet with the state allowances gives me each month.
Also—would you be open to me writing some companion essays in the future, riffing on and doing a bit of exegesis on your pieces at Saint Foundry? For example, on this article about dryness, I’d love to explore Psalm 1–2 that I read and know by heart alongside your insights, and show how they help us stay grounded in revelation even when prayer feels dry and barren.
I share this because I see your work is a real blessing—a seed already planted—and I believe that opening it fully and letting it flourish, while allowing others to build on it, could help even more people encounter Christ through it. I also really appreciated the dream you mentioned in your last podcast—it struck me as genuine and honest, and I want to support that because you point to Jesus. You have also a gift for communicating and articulating these truths so well and talking on the fly without a script.
On my end, I move and learn more slowly. The powerful dopamine blockers I have to take daily flatten my mind into a kind of “standby” baseline. Everything takes extra effort and willpower, like wading through molasses, and I need frequent rest just to keep going. Because of that, I’ve developed my own way of working: I transcribe what I can into notes, and then I use ChatGPT to help me shape those notes into articles. Over time I’ve built up a kind of database of books and reflections this way. It’s my way of articulating what I’ve seen, heard, and learned, even if it takes me longer—and sometimes it even helps me reach deeper insights.
(This message itself was written with the help of ChatGPT, based on what I wanted to say, because my mind often feels silent and blank, and I struggle to find and arrange words on my own. When I do speak at a normal pace, it’s usually because I’m following a sort of mental script that i have rehearsed countless times and use it during the day. But when real conversation requires improvisation, I slow to a crawl—and that’s when people often grow tired, impatient, or frustrated with me.)