When God Feels Far Away: A Reflection on Psalms 42 and 43

“As the deer longs for the water-brooks, so longs my soul for you, O God.”
(Psalm 42:1, BCP)

There are seasons when God feels near—so near we can hear his whisper in the rustling trees or feel his comfort in the warmth of a friend’s hand. But there are other seasons when God feels far away. Distant. Silent. Absent.

Psalms 42 and 43 were written for those seasons. Although they appear as separate psalms in our Bibles, they share a common voice, rhythm, and refrain. Together, they form a single prayer of lament, memory, and unrelenting hope.

I found myself clinging to these words in 2021, when my mother was dying of COVID. I longed for God’s presence. I prayed for his intervention. I begged for healing, for relief, for something. Instead, I was met with silence. It felt as if God had turned away, or worse, that he was watching but doing nothing. Even now, I do not understand. But I have made peace with not understanding. His will be done. It is not my place to comprehend the mystery of God’s will—but I can still cry out to him.

“My tears have been my food day and night, while all day long they say to me, ‘Where now is your God?’”
(Psalm 42:3)

The psalmist does not shy away from pain. Their cry is raw. They remember what it was like to worship with joy, surrounded by song and celebration, but now their voice is cracked with grief. People around them mock their faith, asking, “Where is your God now?” It’s a question many of us have heard—sometimes from others, sometimes from the depths of our own hearts.

And still, the psalm repeats this refrain:

“Why are you so full of heaviness, O my soul, and why are you so disquieted within me? Put your trust in God; for I will yet give thanks to him, who is the help of my countenance, and my God.”
(Psalm 42:6, 43:5)

This is not denial. This is defiant hope. A stubborn refusal to let sorrow have the final word.

When we cannot feel God, we can still remember him. The psalmist draws on memory—not to escape the present, but to light a path through it. Memory becomes a spiritual act. They recall the holy hill, the altar of God, the joy of being in his presence. They cry out:

“Send out your light and your truth, that they may lead me.”
(Psalm 43:3)

In my own grief, I had no words. But this psalm gave me words. It held space for my sorrow without rushing to fix it. It reminded me that I was not alone in my longing. Others had walked through the valley of silence before me. Others had cried the same tears. And somehow, that gave me strength.

If you are in that kind of season now—if your soul feels disquieted, if your prayers echo without reply—these psalms are for you. They do not promise quick answers or easy healing. But they offer you company in the ache. They remind you that hope can survive even in lament.

You may not yet give thanks. But you will.

“I will yet give thanks to him.”

💬 Let’s Reflect Together:

• Have you ever experienced a time when God felt far away?
• What helped you hold onto hope in that season?
• How do you understand “trusting God” when you don’t understand his will?