Closer to us than we want him to be

Closer to Us Than We Want Him to Be

Many would prefer to keep God at a safe distance.

We push Him into the far reaches of the cosmos — the Watchmaker God, the abstract Principle, the distant Being who sets things in motion and then steps aside. Even sophisticated language about science, randomness, or autonomy can serve the same purpose: creating space between ourselves and the unsettling nearness of God.

But the God revealed in Jesus Christ refuses to remain distant.

He draws closer than we are comfortable with.
Closer than our arguments.
Closer than our defenses.
Closer than our carefully maintained independence.

The Christian God is not content to remain an idea. He enters history, takes flesh, and walks among us. He is born in poverty, lives hidden for years, and ultimately gives Himself over to suffering and death. This is not the behavior of a distant deity. This is the posture of a God who desires communion.

Yet it is precisely this closeness that troubles us.

A distant God can be discussed.
A distant God can be managed.
A distant God can be admired without requiring conversion.

But a God who is near — a God who knows us, sees us, and remains with us — demands something more. His presence exposes our evasions and unmasks our attempts to control our own lives. The nearness of God reveals not only who He is, but who we are.

In the Eucharist, this closeness reaches its summit.

Here, Christ does not merely speak to us or inspire us. He remains. He abides. He places Himself into our hands, onto our tongues, and into our very bodies. The Lord of heaven and earth makes Himself vulnerable — silent, hidden, and dependent upon our reverence.

This is a closeness we did not invent and cannot dilute.

The Eucharistic Lord does not stand at a distance offering advice. He draws near to heal, to sanctify, and to remain. He comes close not because we are worthy, but because we need Him. His closeness is not sentimental; it is redemptive.

And this is where resistance often arises.

It is easier to speak about God than to remain with Him.
Easier to analyze faith than to surrender to it.
Easier to admire Christ than to allow Him to dwell within us.

Yet the Christian life is not an exercise in safe distance. It is a call to abide — to remain with the One who has already chosen to remain with us.

The closeness of God is not an idea to analyze, but a presence to receive.

If we find ourselves uneasy with how near God has come, it may be because His nearness asks for trust rather than control, surrender rather than strategy. Still, He does not withdraw. He waits — patiently, quietly — closer to us than we want Him to be, and closer than we could ever deserve.