Fear isn’t a polite visitor. It doesn’t knock. It kicks the door down at 3:00 AM when you’re staring at the ceiling, wondering how you’re going to pay the rent or if that weird spot on your arm is actually something terrifying. You’re shaking. Your heart is doing that weird fluttering thing. And in that vacuum of peace, the biggest question of all usually pops up: where’s God when I’m scared? It’s a gut-wrenching thought because, if He’s supposed to be everywhere, why does it feel like you’re the only person in the room?
Honestly, the feeling of divine absence is one of the most common human experiences, yet we talk about it like it’s a failure of faith. It isn’t. Even the people who wrote the Bible—the "pros" of spirituality—felt this exact same way. They screamed at the sky. They asked why God was sleeping on the job. If you feel like you’re yelling into a void, you’re actually in very good company.
The biology of fear and the silence of heaven
When your amygdala hijacks your brain, your "higher" thinking—the part of you that remembers theology and Sunday School verses—basically goes offline. It’s hard to feel "spiritual" when your body is flooded with cortisol and adrenaline. This is why the question of where’s God when I’m scared feels so urgent; your body is screaming that you are in danger, and your spirit is looking for a protector who seems to have stepped out for a coffee break.
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Theologians and psychologists often look at this through different lenses, but they land in a similar spot. C.S. Lewis, famously writing in A Grief Observed after his wife died, described God’s absence not as a locked door, but as a "silence that is not necessarily a refusal." He realized that when we are in a state of high-pitched panic, we might be the ones who are "un-helpable" in that moment because we are too frantic to perceive anything other than our own heartbeat.
Fear narrows our vision. It’s like looking through a straw. You see the monster, the bill, the diagnosis, or the rejection, but you lose the peripheral vision that shows you the rest of the room—including the presence of the Divine.
Why doesn't He just stop the scary thing?
This is the sticking point. If God is there, why is the "scary thing" still happening? It’s a fair question. We want a God who functions like a cosmic bodyguard, but history and experience show us something different. Instead of a God who always removes the storm, we often find a God who sits in the boat while it’s tossing.
Think about the story of Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego in the book of Daniel. It’s an old story, but the detail that matters is that they weren't saved from the fire; they were joined in the fire. There was a "fourth man" in the flames. That’s a fundamentally different kind of comfort. It’s the difference between someone calling you from a safe distance to say "hope you're okay" and someone jumping into the trenches with you.
When you ask where’s God when I’m scared, the answer is often "closer than your breath," but He's not necessarily holding a magic wand. He’s holding you. That sounds like a Hallmark card until you’re actually the one falling apart. Then, the idea of a "Suffering God"—a concept championed by theologians like Dietrich Bonhoeffer, who wrote from a Nazi prison cell—becomes the only thing that actually makes sense. Bonhoeffer argued that only a suffering God can help. A God who is immune to our pain couldn't possibly understand our fear.
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The "God of the Gaps" vs. The God of the Grit
We often look for God in the "gaps"—the miracles, the sudden shifts in luck, the "signs." But if we only look there, we miss Him in the grit. He’s in the hands of the nurse who stays five minutes late to hold your hand. He’s in the sudden, unexplained moment of calm that hits you right before you have to give that presentation. He’s in the friend who calls at exactly the right time because they "just had a feeling."
Practical ways to find focus when the walls are closing in
You can’t think your way out of a panic attack with complex theology. You need something tactile. If you’re wondering where’s God when I’m scared, try moving away from the "why" and toward the "who."
- The Breath Prayer: This is an ancient practice. It’s simple. Inhale a name for God (like "Father" or "Shepherd") and exhale a request ("give me peace" or "be near"). It syncs your physical need for oxygen with your spiritual need for connection. It’s hard to stay in a full-blown spiral when you’re consciously controlling your breath.
- The "Right Now" Audit: Fear is almost always about the future. It’s the "what ifs." But God exists in the "I Am"—the present. Ask yourself: Am I safe right this second? Is there air in my lungs right now? Usually, in the immediate present, you are okay. Finding God in the "right now" breaks the power of the "what if."
- Lament is a Form of Worship: Don’t try to be "holy" when you’re terrified. Be honest. Read Psalm 88. It’s one of the few songs in the Bible that doesn't end on a happy note. It basically ends with "darkness is my only friend." The fact that this is in the Bible means God gave us a script for when things feel hopeless. He can handle your anger and your doubt.
Misconceptions about faith and fear
There’s this weird idea in some circles that if you have enough faith, you’ll never be afraid. That is, quite frankly, total nonsense. Fear is a natural, God-given survival mechanism. The goal isn't to be "fearless," but to be "fear-full" and still keep moving.
Courage isn't the absence of fear; it's the presence of something else that is more important than the fear. For many, that "something else" is the conviction that they aren't alone. Even if they can't feel it, they choose to act as if the floor isn't going to give way.
There's also the "punishment" myth. People often think, "I'm scared because I did something wrong and God has left me." That’s a heavy burden to carry, and it’s not backed up by much. Some of the most "faithful" people in history—from Mother Teresa to Martin Luther King Jr.—faced intense periods of darkness and visceral, shaking fear. Their fear wasn't a sign of God's departure; it was often a sign that they were doing something that mattered.
Moving forward when you're still shaking
So, what do you actually do? When the room is spinning and you feel like you're drowning, you don't need a 10-point plan. You need a foothold.
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First, stop beating yourself up for being scared. It’s just an emotion; it’s not a verdict on your soul. Second, look for the "helpers." Fred Rogers famously said his mother told him to "look for the helpers" in scary times. From a spiritual perspective, those helpers are often the hands and feet of God. If you can't see a light at the end of the tunnel, look for the person walking through the tunnel with a flashlight.
The answer to where’s God when I’m scared isn't always a booming voice from the clouds. More often, it’s a quiet, steady "I’m here" that you only hear when you stop trying to fix everything yourself and just admit you’re terrified.
Actionable Next Steps
- Write it out. Get the fear out of your head and onto paper. Name the "monster." Once it’s a word on a page, it’s a lot less powerful than a vague cloud in your mind.
- Change your physical state. Splash cold water on your face. Go for a walk. Sing—even if you have a terrible voice. It’s physically difficult for the brain to maintain a high-level fear response while you are singing or engaging in rhythmic movement.
- Reach out to one person. Tell them, "I’m really struggling right now, can you just sit with me?" You don't need a sermon; you need a presence.
- Read something old. Modern "self-help" can feel shallow. Read the Stoics, read the Psalms, or read Julian of Norwich, who famously wrote "all shall be well" while living through the Black Death. Perspective is a powerful sedative.
You aren't going to "solve" fear today. But you can survive this moment. And then the next one. And eventually, you’ll realize that the ground beneath you was a lot more solid than you thought it was when you were in the thick of it.