When Omnipresence Feels Like Abandonment by kirsten mcgraw
This essay explores the tension between God’s omnipresence and the felt experience of divine silence in seasons of suffering. Blending personal narrative with Scripture and theological reflection, the piece engages readers pastorally while maintaining doctrinal care, drawing on voices such as A.W. Tozer and C.S. Lewis.
I like preparing ahead of time for trips.
Some people might think that’s a bit Type-A, and they would probably be right. Nevertheless, I like planning ahead.
Knowing what’s coming around the bend gives me a sense of peace. I know when I’m leaving, what I need to bring, who’s going to be with me, and what I’m going to do once I get to my destination. There are no surprises because I know what to expect.
The knowing is what brings me comfort.
Life has a way of separating us from the knowing, though — often without our permission.
When that happens, there is at least one core question that comes to mind:
Where are You, God?
Human beings are notorious for noticing how silent the Creator is — especially when they are experiencing heartache. We know that suffering is a universal experience, and that tragedies happen irrespective of victims. It’s a hard pill to swallow that we live in a world created by a “good” God who also allows horrific things to happen. Cancer, war, abuse, division, murder, natural disasters, and so many other soul-crushing circumstances seem to happen without God’s thunderous voice putting a stop to any of it.
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What happened to the God of the Old Testament?
You know. The One who parted the sea, set plagues on the enemies of His people, delivered them into the promised land, and made it possible for mankind to have relationship with Him?
God was never silent in the Old Testament. He spoke directly to Adam, Abraham, Moses, David, and countless others. So, why would He not speak now? Why wouldn’t He do it, especially after what Jesus accomplished on the cross? If we’re living in the blessing that is salvation by grace through faith in Jesus Christ, why does God stay silent? Doesn’t He want relationship with us?
In fact, here’s an even better question:
How do I have relationship with someone who is always silent?
Without fully realizing it, I used to dwell on the same question when I was first diagnosed with cancer in 2011. As a 12 year-old and recently baptized Christian from the Bible Belt, my first priority was figuring out where God was. Cancer wasn’t something I had ever been familiar with. I had only ever previously associated it with bald heads, sad commercials, and charity fundraisers. All of a sudden, something that had once been so distant from me felt too familiar. Naturally, my first task to conquer was finding the place where I could simply be without fear trying to choke me to death. As a girl brought up by Christian parents, I chose to look for God — even though I barely knew Him at the time.
It’s almost as though my instincts were telling me that He’s where the safety is.
For months, I posted on social media — and yes, at 12, I had social media without Momma and Daddy’s permission — about my fears, worries, and my faith being placed in God. My parents, members of my church, and countless others had nuggets of wisdom they tried to pass along to me in the hopes that it would help. Everyone wanted to make sure that I had a solid foundation of faith going into my cancer journey.
Truth be told, however, when you’re faced with something as unexpected as a cancer diagnosis, there’s a state of shock that accompanies it. You aren’t really processing what’s happening. Time is just passing, and you’re watching the days tick by until you’ve received that life-saving operation or finally complete weeks of intense treatment.
Back in those days, I knew people were watching me, and I knew they’d look to me to see how I dealt with the hard questions. I came from a somewhat well-known family with two successful teachers as parents. We were part of our community, so nothing about my diagnosis was private. With eyes seemingly on me at all times, I guess part of me wouldn’t let myself feel the depression that was eating me alive. The other part of me wanted to make sure I was living a life that I thought God would be proud of; if I never doubted Him publicly, I knew I’d make it into Heaven. He’d reward me for being so committed to the narratives that “God won’t give you more than you can handle” and “I trust God, so I don’t have to worry about anything.”
If you want to know the truth, though, here it is: I’m well-versed in going through the motions and knowing what to say. I’m a lot less familiar with believing what I say when bad things happen.
I suppose that’s part of why I’m asking these questions over a decade after being healed from cancer.
I never doubted God’s existence. I still haven’t. I only ever doubted His love for me.
I doubted it because I didn’t think He cared enough to heal me. When I was diagnosed with cancer, I effectively thought His love for me left the building. When my prayers to be spared from surgery were met with silence, I felt abandoned.
That love part is a real monster to wrestle with. If I don’t believe God loves me, how can I ever place my faith in the fact that His Son’s death on the cross was for me? You can guess how the spiral went:
If I don’t matter to God, then why is Jesus’s death on the cross relevant to me? How is any of it relevant? Why does it even matter if God’s near or far if He doesn’t care?
As I’ve gotten older, I’ve begun to crack my Bible open more than a time or two. Sifting between the lies I’ve believed and the truth in Scripture hasn’t been easy. It doesn’t help that the truth hasn’t always been represented well by other imperfect, well-meaning Christians. Discerning between what I’ve been taught and what Scripture truly says has been a necessary step to see and know God’s character.
Over the years, I’ve come to know that God’s love for me is greater than the doubts in my human mind. I have limitations. He knows them. He created me knowing I’d have them.
He also knows that I’d feel the distance once I started doubting His love for me. If you’ve ever felt that stab of loneliness for reassurance of God’s love, you probably also understand how devastating His silence can be.
So — where is He?
I like to refer to people who know more than me about the Bible at times like this:
Whenever you have finitude, you have creaturehood, not God. God is equally near to all parts of His universe. We think rightly about God and spiritual things only when we rule out the concept of space altogether. God, being infinite, does not dwell in space; He swallows up all space. Scripture says, “Do not I fill heaven and earth?” (Jeremiah 23:24) and that sounds as if God were contained in heaven and earth. But God actually fills heaven and earth just as the ocean fills a bucket which has been submerged in it a mile down. The bucket is full of the ocean, but the ocean surrounds the bucket in all directions. So when God says He fills heaven and earth, He does. —A.W. Tozer, The Attributes of God
Omnipresence is a term essentially used to describe God’s physical proximity to His creation. Whereas most of us look to the ceiling, at a cross, or to the sky to talk to God, He’s actually closer to us than we even realize. A.W. Tozer’s analogy of a bucket in the ocean probably only scratches the surface of how close God truly is to us at all times.
If God is omnipresent, then why do we still feel so distant from Him when we face suffering?
Even though it isn't theologically sound to claim God has abandoned us in the wreckage, our humanity still leads us to FEEL that way. So many of the psalmists — including King David — had the same struggle.
Understanding that God is always near us doesn’t fully solve the problem of feeling His distance. Many people battle being in a room crowded with people while feeling lonelier than ever before. I know I’ve felt that way more than I care to admit.
Here’s the thing: I’m not someone who craves deep theological explanations when I’m in pain. I want to feel better. I’m not inclined to crave knowledge and facts — I just want to know how to make the pain go away.
I just want to feel the nearness of God.
What if I told you that God’s nearness does not necessarily imply our safety?
That statement sounds like it should contradict itself, but it doesn’t. God’s goodness isn’t dependent upon our safety.
Who He is remains unchanged — in fact, He’s the same as He was before He ever created you and me.
His presence remains constant despite our changing circumstances.
That might not be enough to go on for some individuals. It might sound ridiculous to others. That’s okay, though. I don’t want you to seek the sole answers to your questions from me or expect cookie-cutter resolutions.
Instead, I want to invite you to rest in the uncertainty with open hands and open minds because God is capable of far more than we often give Him credit for.
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It’s one thing to know that God is unchanging and omnipresent. It’s another to know what to do when we’re feeling distant from Him. How do we navigate the valley when we feel as though God has abandoned us?
My only answer — one that has worked for me — might be confusing to some:
Ask God the hard questions. Even when you feel absolutely nothing from Him or for Him, ask Him anyway.
Asking God questions when you already don’t feel anything sounds a bit counterintuitive, but it truly isn’t — not when we serve a God who calls us to seek Him.
Dear reader, you don’t have to be afraid to be vulnerable with God about your doubt, anger, or fear. God won’t shy away from the humanity He created. More importantly, He already knows the questions on your mind before you ever gather the courage to ask.
With unsteady hands, I’ve praised Him.
With constant doubt, I’ve taken baby steps toward Him.
I’ve asked Him harsh questions through muffled cries and a shaky voice.
I’ve said His name without ever being able to finish the question. It didn’t matter, though.
He heard me just the same.
Dear reader, He hears you, too.
—Kirsten
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I know now, Lord, why you utter no answer. You are yourself the answer. Before your face questions die away. What other answer would suffice? — C.S. Lewis, A Grief Observed
Kirsten McGraw is a creative nonfiction writer and editor whose work explores faith, rhetoric, and the search for meaning in contemporary life. A former cancer patient and counseling intern, she brings both lived experience and professional insight to her writing. Her perspective is shaped by interdisciplinary graduate study in counseling and English composition, as well as clinical experience supporting adolescents and young adults in oncology settings. Blending personal narrative with ethical inquiry and theological reflection, her work examines compassion, identity, and the cultural forces that shape meaning within the Christian walk. Rooted in her Southern heritage, she lives and writes in Alabama, where questions of faith, culture, and belonging continue to inform her work. Her essays and reflections can also be found on Substack under the pen name K.C. Branham (@kcbranham) and on Instagram at @kc_branham.
