For the life of me I cannot avoid a sense of amusement of our searching for proofs of God. To whom am I proving that He exists? To me? To you? Will what convinces me be proof to you? If not, does that mean He can exist for one of us but not for the other? That was the fluid truth and anachronistic thinking of the hippy-dippy days, but in truth it is rather ludicrous.
To prove the existence of God, objectively, is a complex proposition, and not due to the unimaginable vastness of the subject, or of the poverty of my own mind, but because of the deceptive qualities of what we call proof. Proof, it must be remembered, is simply that which convinces one. If I’m convinced God exists, it has then been proven. But that leaves the heart unsettled. I want you to be convinced, too, partly to assure myself that my searching has not been in vain, and partly to share that experience of discovery with others.
Ultimately, though, I have to admit I would be much more satisfied if I could discover that He knows that I exist. Assuming God to be an omniscient, omnipresent, omnipotent Being, then He could not not know all about me, far more than I do, including my own doubts. I also find it hard to believe such a Supreme Being could condescend to even think, much less care, about me. Yet somehow I think He does that, too, because I see evidences of that fact everyday.
Meanwhile, outwardly He remains Aslan-like, a bit smug, able to vaporize me with one breath of anger or totally engulf me with the brightness of His smile. The King of the Jungle doesn’t have to prove Himself to anyone.
