If we accept that there are realities beyond our direct perception, then faith in God becomes a hypothesis worthy of serious consideration, rather than an absurdity.
One of the most interesting arguments for the existence of God came from a physics-loving student: if the universe could have 11 dimensions, as some theories suggest, and we only have access to four, then it is not at all absurd to think that there is a reality here next to us that we cannot perceive.
We experience the world in three spatial dimensions (length, width, and height) and one temporal dimension. This is all that our senses and biological structure allow. However, the fact that we cannot perceive anything beyond this framework does not mean that it does not exist. In physics, we often talk about invisible things whose existence is deduced from the effects they produce. We cannot see them directly, but we can understand them through the traces they leave behind.
If we apply this concept to theology, it provides a beautiful perspective on faith. God could be present in the same reality in which we live without being perceived by our senses or the instruments of conventional science.
Thus, the idea of a “hidden God” takes on an epistemological meaning, linked not to God’s actual presence, but to our ability to perceive it. If we accept that the universe may contain levels of reality beyond our direct perception, why should the idea of an invisible God be more difficult to accept than radio waves or dark matter?
Ants can only perceive humans in fragments
David Attenborough, the explorer who narrated the documentary series Planet Earth, provided a simpler example in an interview. Speaking about the world of ants, he said that if a human were to intervene in an anthill, the ants would be unable to comprehend this intervention as part of a coherent explanation of reality. The presence exists, but it is not intelligible to them.
The idea of a hidden God was discussed in Christian theology long before modern theories about extra dimensions emerged. The French thinker and mathematician Blaise Pascal said that a religion which does not affirm that God is hidden is false. For Pascal, the lack of overwhelming evidence was not a flaw, but rather the very condition that makes faith possible. If God were completely obvious and demonstrable, there would be no freedom of choice or inner tension in the search.
Before Pascal, the prophet Isaiah wrote, “Truly you are a God who has been hiding Himself” (45:15). Therefore, concealment is not a problem of faith; it is neither an error nor a weakness of faith, but rather seems to be part of the way in which God reveals Himself.
Hidden does not mean absent
This raises a more direct—and perhaps more uncomfortable—question: what kind of religion do we actually practise? Is it one that demands clear, measurable evidence? Or one that reduces God to a set of moral rules or useful support? Or do we accept that faith is lived in a diffuse light, where God’s presence is revealed with patience and discernment?
The hidden God is not an absent God. Rather, we can describe Him as a God who does not want to be reduced to something obvious, indisputable, or demonstrable like a laboratory fact. The difference between absence and discretion is significant.
Two passages in the Bible highlight this tension. In Exodus 33:20, God tells Moses, “You cannot see my face, for no one can see me and live.” The message is powerful: there is a distance between the fullness of God and the fragility of humanity. A direct, total encounter would overwhelm us.
In contrast, John 14:9 tells us that Jesus said to Philip, “Anyone who has seen me has seen the Father.” Here, things seem to come closer together. God is no longer merely inaccessible; He becomes visible in human form, in a way that we can understand and accept.
Both statements form part of the same scripture. On the one hand, God remains beyond our ability to comprehend; on the other, He reveals Himself to us in a way that we can understand.
In the midst of suffering
We can know these things, we can recall them from memory and explain them theologically. Yet knowledge does not shield us from moments of crisis.
When we experience deep suffering, we are not able to respond with well-formulated definitions. Harmonising doctrines does not come naturally to us. Instead, we ask ourselves: Where is God? If He is here, why does He not intervene? If He has shown Himself before, why is He silent now?
When we experience pain first-hand, the “hidden God” cannot simply be a theological concept. The fact that questions about God’s existence, presence, and support arise precisely in difficult moments reveals something important: we desire a clear, visible presence that intervenes immediately. When this presence does not manifest itself as expected, the temptation to question everything becomes almost inevitable.
However, there is an even more challenging aspect of divine concealment to accept. Not only is God beyond what we can perceive, but He also seems to hide in the very things we would not associate with Him. This contradiction lies at the heart of the theology of the cross. In Bondage of the Will, the Reformer Martin Luther wrote: “Faith has to do with things not seen (Hebrews 11:1). Hence in order that there may be room for faith, it is necessary that everything which is believed should be hidden. It cannot, however, be more deeply hidden than under an object, perception, or experience which is contrary to it.”
This logic remains uncomfortable. In 1 Corinthians 1:21, the Apostle Paul speaks of the “foolishness of the message of the cross”. The world, with all its wisdom, did not recognise God when He revealed Himself. We expect strength, clarity, and visible glory. Instead, glory is hidden in a wounded body.
This is why the paradox becomes clear: faith is strongest when there is no visible confirmation. In a sense, this means perceiving and believing in a reality that does not present itself through spectacular evidence. Trust is manifested precisely because it has no immediate external support.
Suffering is not a virtue
The same logic applies to the problem of suffering. God reveals Himself through the suffering of the Son, and we often encounter Him through our own suffering. This can lead to the dangerous temptation of turning pain into a virtue. However, this would be a serious mistake. Suffering remains evil. The fact that God can work through it does not make it good in itself. Sacralising it gives it a value it does not have.
Salvation does not arise from our wounds. It is linked to the suffering of the Saviour, not our ability to endure. Consequently, any attempt to fully explain suffering risks justifying it. Scripture does not offer a straightforward explanation of evil, either. In 2 Thessalonians 2:7, Paul uses the expression “the secret power of lawlessness.” Evil is real and acts, but ultimately remains a secret.
How do we relate to a secret that hurts?
In his book The Elusive Presence, the French theologian Samuel Terrien discusses the spiritual experience of Job, the biblical figure who protests, questions, and cries out in pain, sees no hope beyond the grave and yet continues to speak to God.
The Book of Job centres on a mature form of faith, caught between rebellion and refusal to let go. Its message is that the hidden God is found through confrontation. In other words, remaining faithful can mean continuing to speak, even when you are hurt.
Job’s cry (7:21) is one of piercing sincerity: “Why do you not pardon my offenses and forgive my sins? For I will soon lie down in the dust; you will search for me, but I will be no more.” It is not a beautifully worded prayer. It is neither balanced nor pious. On the contrary, it is an expression of raw pain because he is suffering from illness, his children have died, his reputation has collapsed, and his friends suspect him. Yet, despite this disaster, Job does not cry out into the void. He does not cry out into an indifferent universe. He calls on God, even if the answer is delayed.
The paradox is powerful: Job asks God for explanations, yet he does not remove Him from the equation. He pours out his anguish before God, and it is precisely this almost violent sincerity that constitutes an acknowledgement. Only a real God can be accused with such intensity.
When the answer comes in Job 40:8, God does not provide a detailed explanation of suffering; instead, He asks the man: “Would you discredit my justice? Would you condemn me to justify yourself?” God responds by putting things into perspective because it is not only Job’s suffering that is at stake, but also humanity’s tendency to judge God in order to defend its own concept of justice.
The lenses of the soul
Sometimes, when we say that God is absent, it is because we are overwhelmed by the evil around us and within us, and this conclusion seems inevitable. But perhaps the question should be reversed: is it His absence that blinds us? Or are the effects of sin distorting our vision?
This tension also features in the film The Man Who Knew Infinity, which is based on the life of the Indian mathematician Srinivasa Ramanujan.
The relationship between the mathematician and his British mentor, G. H. Hardy, brings together two opposing worldviews: strict rationalism and deeply personal faith. At one point, Hardy describes himself as what some would call an atheist. Ramanujan responds with disarming simplicity: “No, sir. You believe in God, you just don’t think He likes you.” This reply offers a delicate perspective on the elusive nature of God. Sometimes, the boundary between faith and unbelief lies in our own perception of a distant, cold, or uninterested God. We cannot speak of unbelief when we do not deny His existence but merely doubt that we are desired by Him. It is important to be precise with our terminology.
In the life of Job, who cries out from the ashes, and in the words of Ramanujan, who speaks of a personal God, we can glimpse the same dramatic theme. The divine presence is neither obvious nor easy to dismiss. The hidden God remains in dialogue, even when that dialogue sounds like an accusation. The fact that we still talk to Him, even in protest, may be a sign that the relationship has not been broken.
Revelation pierces prejudice
Terrien observes that it is precisely this insistence on maintaining dialogue that enables revelation. Job discovers a God who does not operate according to a simple logic of merit, whereby good is automatically rewarded and evil immediately punished. This encounter only becomes possible when Job abandons the idea that the relationship with God is a contract: “I do good; You protect me”.
A similar scene appears in the Book of Genesis, in the episode where Jacob wrestles with an angel at night. He emerges from the confrontation wounded and limping, but also changed. “I saw God face to face,” he says. This experience does not leave him untouched, it leaves him marked and changed. For Terrien, this paradoxical presence of a God encountered precisely during times of crisis, at night, and in times of uncertainty, is a theme that runs throughout Scripture.
Neither Job nor Jacob receives a clear answer to the question “Why?” The ultimate cause of suffering remains hidden. Instead, both receive something else: a repositioning of their position before God and a new meaning to their relationship with Him. The same pattern emerges in the interpretation of Christ’s crucifixion. The cross does not offer a straightforward explanation of evil. However, it shows that God does not remain distant from human suffering, but takes it upon Himself.
The biblical approach is surprisingly realistic. It does not provide a comprehensive theory of evil or answer every question. However, it teaches us how to live within the mystery. The faith that we strive to preserve and nurture begins precisely here: with the conviction that God is present, even when all signs suggest otherwise. Hiding does not mean disappearing. Sometimes, in the silence, a deeper understanding is being prepared that forces us to revise our image of God and of ourselves.
In the pivotal scene of Interstellar, Cooper enters a tesseract, a space where time can be observed and traversed as a dimension. From within that strange place, he realises that the clues sent in the past had an author: himself. Love is no longer just an emotion; it becomes a kind of connection that traverses dimensions and time.
This image serves as a metaphor: that which appears chaotic, meaningless, or abandoned from one perspective can gain coherence from another. From within our limitations, many things appear as silence and absence. However, if reality extends beyond our field of perception, then what we perceive as “hiding” could simply be the difference between our perspective and a dimension we cannot yet see.