Since my teenage years, I have been captivated by the great proofs of God’s existence. Though they are not “proofs” in the strictest philosophical sense, they are rigorous arguments—elegant, intricate, and to me, profoundly stirring. I pored over them with wonder. Yet my fascination always struck me as puzzling.
I grew up in a Middle Eastern home where God was not an abstract, removed, theological concept but a living, breathing presence. He was a best friend of sorts; present in all the joys and vicissitudes of life; he heard our whispered prayers and counted our tears. God was not the conclusion of a syllogism—He was the air we breathed; the truest truth that ever existed, and the very center of our existence.
In such a world, what need was there for proofs? They should have seemed unnecessary, even absurd—logical scaffolding where a lived reality already stood firm. And yet, they moved me. They lit something inside me. Proofs became not just an interest, but a passion. Why?
It took me years to understand: my love of proofs wasn’t about proving God. It was about seeing Him.
A well-grounded proof, to me, was a profound experience of God; not an intellectual exercise but a kind of revelation. A way of not just believing in God—but beholding Him. Not just swearing by Him, but bearing witness to Him.
The paradox resolved: I didn’t seek proofs because I doubted. I sought them because I believed—and because I longed to see the One I already knew was there.