God’s Delay and Absence

When Jesus Was Not There

The story of Lazarus begins with a silence that cuts like a knife. Word is sent to Jesus. The messenger tells Him plainly—“the one you love is sick” (John 11:3). If there was ever a time for urgency, this was it. If there was ever a moment for the Son of God to break into a run, this was it. Yet the text tells us something troubling. Jesus stayed where He was. Two more days. Stillness. Delay. Silence.

By the time He finally arrives, Lazarus is not sick anymore. He is dead. The tomb is sealed. The mourners are gathered. The air is heavy with the smell of sorrow. Mary and Martha both say the same thing, one with trembling faith, the other with broken grief: “Lord, if You had been here, my brother would not have died” (John 11:21, 32). Their words are not rehearsed. Their words are not polite. Their words are raw. This is the sound of absence. This is the ache of delay.

We must face this truth: sometimes Jesus does not show up when we expect Him. Sometimes the healing does not come on our timetable. Sometimes the rescue never arrives when the clock runs out. The God of love, the God of power, does not appear when we send for Him. But absence is not abandonment. Silence is not rejection. Delay is not defeat. It is the stage for a greater revelation.

Here lies the mystery of faith. Jesus’ absence was not neglect. His silence was not indifference. His delay was not defeat. His waiting was divine timing wrapped in human confusion. The sisters saw tragedy. Jesus saw testimony. The people saw absence. Jesus saw opportunity for resurrection glory.

Silence as a Teacher

Silence is not empty. Silence is not the absence of presence. Silence is often the hidden language of heaven. Psalm 46:10 says, “Be still, and know that I am God.” That word still means let go. Stop striving. Release your grip. God’s silence often means, “Stop trying to fix it in your own power and let Me reveal My strength.”

Think of Job. His cries echo through history. “Oh, that I had someone to hear me!” (Job 31:35). For chapter after chapter, God does not speak. Heaven shuts its mouth while earth bleeds. The silence is deafening. But silence is not useless. In the silence, Job’s faith is stripped of performance. It is reduced to raw endurance. When God finally speaks out of the whirlwind, Job has been prepared to hear with a different kind of ear.

Think of Habakkuk. He watches violence flood his land. He sees injustice rise like a flood. He prays and prays again. “How long, Lord, must I call for help, but you do not listen?” (Habakkuk 1:2). Silence. No answer. No movement. Yet in the silence he climbs the watchtower and says, “I will stand at my watch and station myself on the ramparts” (Habakkuk 2:1). Silence trains the soul to wait, not to wander.

Think of Jesus in Gethsemane. He falls on His face. He prays three times, “Father, if it is possible, let this cup pass from me.” Heaven is silent. The cup does not pass. But the silence strengthens His surrender. The silence shapes His resolve. And He rises to say, “Not my will, but yours be done.”

Silence teaches us. When you kneel and pray and hear nothing, but you still kneel again tomorrow, something is being formed in you. When you fast and wait and feel no answer, your spirit is being trained to lean on what you cannot see. Silence is not punishment. Silence is preparation. In the hospital room, silence is when the grieving mother leans against you with no words left, and you must carry the weight of her wordless pain. God is there, though nothing is spoken.

Jesus’ silence in Bethany became a sermon. The sisters wanted healing. Jesus planned resurrection. They wanted His hand. He gave them His tears. Silence taught them that God’s absence is often God’s deeper presence.

Delay as a Door

Isaiah 40:31 says, “But those who wait on the Lord shall renew their strength.” Waiting is not wasted. Delay is not denial. But delay will test you. Delay will stretch you. Delay will feel like betrayal until God shows you it was preparation.

Think of Abraham. God promised him a son, but decades passed before Isaac cried in Sarah’s arms. Every month that Sarah’s womb was empty, faith was tested. Every year that passed, hope grew thin. Yet the delay was forming a faith that would bless nations.

Think of Israel in Egypt. They cried out generation after generation. Four hundred years of chains. Four hundred years of unanswered prayers. Four hundred years of waiting for a deliverer. But the cry itself became the seedbed for Moses’ call. Delay did not kill them. Delay prepared them for exodus.

Think of Paul in prison. Shackled and silenced. His ministry cut off by stone walls. Waiting for release. Waiting for justice. Yet in the delay he wrote letters. Letters that now outlive every emperor. Letters that still shape the church. Delay turned confinement into testimony.

Delay is the womb of destiny. Delay births endurance. Delay is God’s way of making sure that what He gives you will not crush you. In crisis, this matters. Because the person who thinks delay is denial may take their life into their own hands. They may end the story too soon. They may mistake the silence of God for the absence of God. But if they can see delay as door, as process, as God’s strange kindness, they may live to see the glory on the other side.

The crisis of suicide is often a crisis of delay. Pain screams, “This will never end.” Delay whispers, “Tomorrow may hold what today cannot.” To preach God’s delay is to preach survival. To whisper in the ear of despair, “Hold on, because this is not the end.”

Delay is hard. Delay is painful. But delay is not the last word. God is weaving something in the waiting that you cannot yet see.

Absence as an Invitation

Mary said, “If You had been here…” But Jesus was not. Yet He asked, “Where have you laid him?” He walked into their grief. He wept. He did not explain His absence. He entered their pain.

God’s absence is an invitation to walk deeper. When you feel abandoned, you are invited to pray bolder. When heaven feels shut, you are invited to knock harder. When you are left waiting at the tomb, you are invited to trust that resurrection is already walking toward you.

Psalm 13 begins with David’s scream. “How long, Lord? Will You forget me forever? How long will You hide Your face from me?” By verse 6 he sings, “I will sing the Lord’s praise, for He has been good to me.” What happened between verse 1 and verse 6? Nothing in circumstance. Everything in posture. Absence pushed him into the arms of God.

In pastoral care, absence is often the hardest question. Families ask, “Where was God when my daughter died?” Patients ask, “Why hasn’t God healed me?” These are not questions to fix. These are invitations to sit in grief. To walk with people into their pain. To hold the silence with them. To trust that absence is never the end of the story.

God’s absence invites us to faith that walks without sight. To hope that breathes in the dark. To trust that the One who hides will also reveal.

The Hidden God and the Revealed Hope

Isaiah 45:15 declares, “Truly you are a God who has been hiding himself, the God and Savior of Israel.” Hiddenness is not new. The God who hides is also the God who saves. The God who delays is also the God who delivers.

Jesus delayed so He could stand before a tomb and declare, “I am the resurrection and the life” (John 11:25). If He had healed Lazarus’ sickness, we would never have seen Him call a dead man back from the grave. Delay revealed glory. Absence revealed resurrection. Hiddenness revealed identity.

This is the tension where crisis ministry lives. Between the absence we feel and the glory we cannot yet see. Between the silence we endure and the voice we long for. Between the delay that tests us and the resurrection that awaits us.

For every Mary who blames God. For every Martha who clings to doctrine. For every Lazarus lying silent in the tomb. The message is the same. Delay does not mean defeat. Absence does not mean abandonment. Hiddenness does not mean hopelessness. God is working in ways unseen, unheard, unimagined.

Hope is often hidden too. Hope is buried under tears. Hope is locked behind stone. Hope is sealed in grief. But hope cannot stay buried. Hope cannot stay hidden. Hope will call your name. Just as Jesus cried out, “Lazarus, come forth!” so He will call you out of despair. Out of silence. Out of absence.

The God who hides is the God who shows up. The God who delays is the God who comes right on time. The God who is silent is the God who will speak again. The Jesus who was not there becomes the Jesus who is everywhere.

Application and Takeaways

If you are waiting on God, hear this. Delay is not God forgetting you. Delay is God preparing you. If you are walking through silence, hear this. Silence is not God’s rejection. Silence is God teaching you to hear what only silence can teach. If you feel His absence, hear this. Absence is the invitation to walk deeper, trust harder, lean closer.

For the counselor sitting with the grieving family, know this. Do not rush to fill the silence. Sit with them in it. For the chaplain at the bedside, know this. Do not explain away the absence. Acknowledge it. Name it. And then point to the God who enters tombs and calls forth life.

In crisis, the theology of divine absence becomes the theology of divine nearness. Because when Jesus finally came, He did not start with an explanation. He started with tears. He wept before He spoke. He loved before He raised. The God who delays is still the God who loves. The God who hides is still the God who saves.

Benediction

May the Lord who seems silent speak peace into your storm.

May the God who delays bring strength into your waiting.

May the One who feels absent surround you with presence.

And may the resurrection life of Jesus Christ call forth hope, even from your tomb.

Amen.