The Voice, the Years, and What God Showed Me
By B.V. Thomas
The Hermeneutical Quill
The Garden
It was late evening. The outside had grown dark, and the house was quiet in the way that only evenings can be — that particular stillness where the noise of the day has finally run out of things to say.
I was strolling and praying, as I often did in those days. And as I prayed, there was one thing on my lips — the same thing that had been on my lips for years. Anoint me, Lord. Anoint me, Lord. Simple words. Earnest words. The kind of words that come not from the mind but from somewhere deeper — from a hunger you cannot fully explain and cannot silence, no matter how long it goes unanswered.
I had been asking for a long time.
Then it came.
The only way I can describe it is this: it was as though the entire atmosphere was about to crash upon me. Like a bolt driven straight into the spine. It was not a voice audible to anyone else in the room — it was not that kind of sound. It was the kind that bypasses the ears entirely and goes straight to the core of your being, to the deepest recesses of who you are, the place where no human voice has ever reached. And in that place, it spoke with unmistakable clarity:
“You don’t know what you are asking for.”
I froze. It took me some time to come off that experience. My flesh was shaken — there is no other word for it. Anything that proceeds from God lands on the flesh like terra-strike. The spirit-man receives it immediately and understands — but the flesh must process the impact, and that processing takes time.
I want to say something about that voice, because I believe it will help someone reading this. I have come to understand, through years of walking with God, that the Father speaks differently than the Son. When Jesus speaks, He speaks with a tenderness that is unlike anything else — gentle, piercing in its own way, but tender. The Father possesses a uniqueness that many are not accustomed to — a weight, a thunder, a depth that can feel terrifying to the flesh even when it is, at its core, the loving reproof of a Father. Hebrews 12:5 speaks of this — the Lord’s discipline, the reproof He gives to those He loves. My flesh, in those early days, would respond to correction with anger and offense. But now I know how to receive it. And I thank God for every correction, because without them I would not have come far enough to speak of any of this.
That evening, what I received was not a rebuke in the punishing sense. It was a redirection. A loving Father saying to His child — not yet. And not like that. You do not yet understand what you are reaching for.
What I Was Really Asking For
I must be honest about the environment that shaped my asking — because I do not think my hunger was unusual. I think it was the natural hunger of a sincere believer shaped by a church culture that had, perhaps unknowingly, narrowed the anointing into something it was never meant to be.
From the time of my regeneration, I had been surrounded by a world in which the anointing was something you could see — it was on the platform, it was in the title, it was in the atmosphere that gathered around certain ministers. And I wanted it. Not from a wrong motive — at least not entirely. There was a genuine call of God embedded within my spirit, a deep longing that I could not explain and could not satisfy with anything the established church offered me. My colleagues had settled — into pastorates, into prophetic ministries, into the familiar structures of institutional church life. And I could not settle. Something within me refused to be satisfied with what was on offer. I had to sever myself from those environments to pursue an inner hunger and thirst that they could not recognise, let alone feed. To them, I must have appeared as a disquieted, dissatisfied individual seeking something that did not exist — or that lay beyond the boundaries of what one was supposed to pursue.
But here is what I did not yet understand in those years of asking: I was asking for something I had already partly received — and asking for it in a form shaped more by what I had seen in church culture than by what the Scriptures actually teach.
There was, for instance, the matter of tongues. From the very early days of my regeneration, I had felt strange syllables surfacing to my lips. I could not explain it. I was part of a Pentecostal environment and had heard others speak in tongues — but I reasoned away what was happening within me, rather than yielding to it like a child. My logic and my pride kept me from receiving what the Spirit was already giving. It was only much later in life that I understood — I had possessed the gift of speaking in tongues for my personal edification all along. My own ignorance had kept me asking God for something He had already given me.
This is precisely what the Father was addressing in that single sentence spoken into my spine on that dark evening. You don’t know what you are asking for. Not because the asking was evil — but because the one doing the asking did not yet understand what he already possessed, nor the true nature of what he was reaching toward.
The Price of the Lonely Road
There is a price to pursuing the deep things of God that no one adequately prepares you for.
It is not merely the sacrifice of comfort or reputation, though those are real. It is the loneliness. The specific, singular loneliness of a person who has heard something others have not heard, seen something others have not seen, and cannot un-hear or un-see it. You find yourself on a road that is genuinely narrow — not narrow in the sense of moral respectability, which many travel, but narrow in the sense that very few are walking it with you, and some of the fiercest opposition comes from within the church itself.
What shocked me was the opposition. The amount of resistance that arose from within traditional church structures — for not remaining within their established boundaries of thought and doctrine — was astounding to me. I had not known that the pursuit of truth could make you enemies of people who claimed to love the same God. Walking through that season was, in ways I will not detail here, a walk through fire. I survived it only because the Lord preserved me.
But I want to say this plainly, for the sake of the person reading who is in their own version of that fire: the purging is not punishment. It is preparation. The Lord was doing in me, through those years of opposition, loss, and pruning, what He needed to do before He could entrust me with what I had been asking for. He was not withholding — He was building the vessel. New wine requires a new bottle — Mark 2:22. My flesh, with all its wounds and offenses and ungoverned reactions, was not yet a vessel fit to carry what He intended to pour.
Offense, I came to understand, is the single greatest opponent of the anointing. Not persecution from outside. Not the devil’s direct assault. Offense — that internal wound that hardens the heart, that turns the attention inward, that makes the vessel brittle and prone to fracture. The Lord, in His mercy, removed me from the environment that was feeding the offense and led me to a lonelier place to purge what needed to be purged — so that when He anointed me again, the vessel would hold.
That road cost me more than I can put into words here. I will only say that the losses according to the flesh were real and grievous. But as Paul said — all things I count as loss, as dung, compared to what I have gained: the knowledge of Christ my Lord, and the knowing of my Heavenly Father. I am only here, speaking of these things, by the sheer grace of God.
What the Lord Gave Instead
The shift, when it came, was not sudden. It was progressive and consistent — the slow, steady work of a Spirit who never wastes a yielded heart.
I cannot tell you exactly when it began. But I can tell you the conditions under which it came: total availability. A soul that had finally stopped bargaining and simply said — here I am. All of me. Whatever You want to do. I had been through enough fire by then to have no remaining ambition for anything other than God Himself. And it was in that place of full surrender that the Spirit began to move.
There were specific moments of breakthrough that I will carry for the rest of my life. Moments when I could literally feel the anointing flowing through me — not as an emotion, not as a worked-up religious feeling, but as a tangible, weighty reality. I remember when I first felt a spirit of the world leave me — the lightness that followed, the clarity, the sense that something that had been occupying space within me for years had finally vacated. You would have to experience it to understand the weight of what I am saying. The natural mind cannot process these things — 1 Corinthians 2:14. They belong to a different order of knowing.
And then came the fruit. People were drawn. Hands laid in the Spirit led to deliverances. Miracles followed. The reality of what I had been asking for all those years was beginning to manifest — not as I had imagined it, not on a platform with all eyes watching, but in the quiet, intimate, sovereign moments that God orchestrates when a vessel is finally ready.
But even then, the journey was not finished. There were setbacks. Moments where the flesh rose up and the grace was grieved. I share this not to discourage but to be honest — because the testimony that only presents the victories and omits the stumbles is not a testimony at all. It is a performance.
And performances do not set people free.
The Lord is patient. He does not discard a vessel because it cracked in the fire. He repairs it and puts it back in. And the second time around, having passed through more refining than the first, the vessel holds more.
What I Learned About Spiritual Hunger
One of the most important things this long journey taught me is this: spiritual hunger is not a natural appetite. It is cultivated. And it deepens precisely as you feed it.
The word of God is not a book you read — it is a seed you sow into your spirit. Every time you sit with the Scriptures in genuine seeking, you are not merely accumulating information; you are investing in a harvest. The returns do not always come immediately. But they come. They that sow in tears shall reap in joy — Psalm 126:5. The years of groaning, of asking without receiving, of wrestling without resolution — they were not years of emptiness. They were years of sowing. And the harvest of understanding that has come since those years is worth every tear that preceded it.
Do not despise the season of asking. Do not despise the silence. Do not mistake the Father’s redirection for His rejection. The voice that told me you don’t know what you are asking for was not a door closing. It was a map being redrawn. He was not saying — you cannot have this. He was saying — you do not yet understand what this is. And until you understand what it is, you cannot steward what it demands.
That is the grace beneath the rebuke. That is the love inside the thunder.
What This Means for You
I have shared these things not to draw attention to my own journey but because I know there is someone reading this who is in the middle of their own version of it. The long season of asking. The silence that feels like rejection. The road that grows lonelier the further you walk it. The opposition you never expected from the directions it came from.
You are not forgotten. You are not failing. You are being formed.
The anointing you are reaching for — if your hunger is genuine and your heart is surrendered — is not being withheld from you. It is being prepared for you. And more than that, it is being prepared in you. God does not pour His fullness into an unready vessel. Not because He is reluctant, but because He loves you too much to waste what He intends to give.
Keep eating the word. Keep yielding to the fire. Keep your heart soft toward correction — especially when correction comes in thunder. The Father’s reproof is among the most precious gifts He gives. Only a fool receives it lightly. And only a fool rejects it entirely.
The road is lonely. But it is not empty. He is on it with you. And what He has ahead for the yielded, purged, and sanctified heart is worth every step of the journey that preceded it.
You don’t know what you are asking for. No. Not yet. But you will.
A Note to the Reader
This article is the second in a trilogy. It follows “The Anointing Belongs to You: Unveiling the True Significance of Anointing and Baptism with the Holy Ghost” and is completed by “Two and Yet One: Understanding the Distinction Between the Holy Ghost and the Holy Spirit.” Each article can be read independently, but together they form a complete exploration of the anointing, the Holy Ghost, and the full spiritual inheritance available to every believer in Christ.
© B.V. Thomas | The Hermeneutical Quill
“Unlocking Insights, One Quill Stroke at a Time.”
