To attempt is a kind of progressive desperation. A running; an exhaustive flight. It is to look for him in the destructive forces of the world; expecting his voice to stand out against the eternal tinnitus caused by the maelstroms, swirling and parading, one after another, past our mountains of thoughts.
God is in the whispers, in the quiet, in the cave; there when the torrents cease, and there at the letting go. He is in the opposite of thinking and objective observation, he is inside; he is “the God of the belly”, as CS Lewis states. He flips our hearing and our vision. He dislocates our hip. We are suddenly outside looking in.
You don’t see and think your way to faith:
“Faith comes by hearing the word of God.”