And this is why the idea of the Shroud of Turin …

If God were unmistakably present—if He stood at the end of every microscope and thundered at the edge of every cloud—then belief would not be faith but submission. We would be overwhelmed, not persuaded. True love–agape–requires freedom, and freedom requires the possibility of disbelief. The silence of God is not abandonment, but permission. It allows us to seek Him honestly, to respond without coercion. Like a parent stepping back so a child can learn to walk, God’s hiddenness creates space for us to grow.

God does not argue for His own existence in Scripture. Instead, He tells stories. He calls people by name. He appears in burning bushes, dreams, and whispers. Never overwhelming, always inviting. This is not weakness. This is divine restraint—a strength that values relationship more than dominance.

The spiritual life is not a steady ascent but a meandering path marked by longing, doubt, and silence. Many of the greatest saints and mystics speak of the dark night of the soul—times when God seems absent or indifferent. Yet these are often the very seasons in which the soul is refined. We stop depending on feelings, miracles, and certainties and begin to trust in a deeper, quieter presence.

C.S. Lewis, in A Grief Observed, describes prayer as knocking at a door that is not only closed, but seemingly bolted and barred. And yet he continues to knock. That is the paradox of divine hiddenness: even when God is silent, we are drawn toward Him. It is not proof that sustains the believer, but fidelity.

If God constantly interfered—suspending natural laws, altering outcomes, announcing His will like a cosmic news ticker—then the world would lose its stability. History would become theater. Science would be futile. Our actions would have no meaning if they were always overridden.

But a hidden God allows creation to be itself. The world runs on laws that can be studied and understood. History unfolds through the choices of free agents. We are participants, not spectators. God’s hiddenness grants us dignity and responsibility. It is a sign of how seriously He takes our role in His creation.

Nowhere is this more evident than in the crucifixion. Jesus, whom Christians affirm as God incarnate, does not die with a halo or a heavenly choir. He dies humiliated, abandoned, crying out, “My God, why have you forsaken me?” This is the God who does not just permit hiddenness, but enters into it. There is no divine rescue, no escape from pain—only silence and darkness. And yet, Christians believe, this is the center of redemption.

The resurrection, too, comes in secret. No public triumph. No dazzling spectacle in the streets of Jerusalem. Just quiet appearances to friends, private recognitions, and meals shared. God remains hidden—even in triumph.

And this is why the idea of the Shroud of Turin—or any object—as physical confirmation of the resurrection ultimately misses the point. For those who believe the cloth is authentic, it is often treated not only as a relic, but as a kind of evidentiary anchor: that Jesus truly died, that He rose, and that this cloth somehow bears the imprint of that divine event. But if God chose to remain hidden even in the moment of resurrection—appearing only to a few, quietly, without spectacle—why would He now choose to compel belief through linen and laboratory tests? To treat the resurrection as something to be proven by cloth fibers and chemical residues is to flatten mystery into material, and divine love into demonstration. It reverses everything hiddenness makes possible—freedom, faith, relationship. The Shroud may be meaningful. It may even be ancient and beautiful. But it is not proof of the resurrection. And it was never meant to be.

This kind of love—the love that does not force, that invites but never imposes—is what Christian theology calls agape. It is self-giving, patient, and free. It is the love that “does not insist on its own way” (1 Corinthians 13). Agape love does not manipulate. It respects the beloved’s freedom, even when that means remaining hidden, waiting to be found. A God of agape love will never shout over us, only whisper beside us.

Faith was never intended to be founded on artifacts. It is rooted in relationship. Sustained not by certainty, but by trust. The God who hides does not abandon us—He calls us deeper, into mystery, into freedom, and into love.


Postscript
Much of this reflection owes its shape to a man I met in 1963, during a long afternoon conversation that has stayed with me ever since. He spoke of faith with depth, restraint, and conviction—and helped me begin to understand that God’s silence may not be His absence, but a gift of freedom. I owe him more than I ever told him. He is perhaps the reason I am a Christian today.