All Creation Sings: Is There Actual Evidence for God’s Existence?
Introduction
Every generation tries to shrink God in its own way. We stuff Him into books, creeds, arguments that sound clever in a lecture hall. Then we walk outside, the sky arrayed in countless stars, and all of our neat words begin to feel so small by comparison. Why do we keep asking why there’s something at all rather than nothing? Why does it seem as though beauty and pain twist together down inside us, like something in us is trying to scream a truth that we keep suppressing?
I remember the first time I held my newborn son, feeling his tiny fingers curl around mine. The wonder of that moment. No one could tell me this world is just atoms colliding in the dark. That kind of love shouldn’t exist in a cold, indifferent, pitiless universe that cares nothing for our existence. But it does exist.
Which God are we Talking About?
When we say “God,” we’re not talking about a “vibe,” a “cosmic consciousness,” or a nice thought. When Christians use this term we mean the God who is the infinite, personal, uncaused creator of the universe. The One who said, “Let there be light,” and light leaped into existence (Gen 1:3). The God who commands and nothing becomes something. The God who decrees and the world’s must respond at His will.
When we say “Infinite” now, we don’t mean He’s spread thin across space-time, or that he’s an endless math equation. It means He’s whole. Nothing missing. His goodness is inexhaustible, his power and knowledge are limitless. The infinite God is the one who holds every great-making property to its fullest possible extent.
And He’s personal not distant. This infinite God thinks, plans, interacts, and wills things into being. Jesus, the One through whom the galaxies were shaped appeared as a man and got dirt under His nails, sweat buckets in the hot middle eastern sun, cried when His friend died. “We do not have a high priest who is unable to sympathize with our weaknesses” (Heb 4:15), the writer of Hebrews says. This means that the infinite God—limitless in power and knowledge, walked our streets as one of us. Ate our food, worked his fingers to the bone to provide for his mamma and siblings. This is all powerful all knowing God who knows what it’s like to be hungry, despised, and rejected, ultimately suspended between heaven and earth on a Roman cross. This is no distant deity but a friend who sticks closer than a brother.
He’s uncaused, not caused. This infinite, personal God is also uncreated. By definition he is eternal, not temporal. He is from everlasting to everlasting, Scripture says. That means he had no beginning and had no end. When someone asks you “Who created God?” they’re asking you a nonsensical question. It’s literally an incoherent question. Because God by definition is before all things and in Him all things hold together.
He is also the Creator of all. There is nothing that has been made that He didn’t make. God is the Sovereign creator and Lord over His realm because he brought it into being by the Word and His Sovereign decree.
A World That Shouldn’t Be Here
Picture nothing. Not a black void, not an empty room. Just…nothing. Your brain stumbles over that request doesn’t it? It can’t picture nothing. Yet here we are, hearts pounding, feet on solid ground, pastoral hills in the country, and busy streets in the city. How does a universe leap into being from nothing at all? Genesis provides no arguments for God’s existence. It just sings a melody of creation with the most famous and important words in all human history: “In the beginning, God…” Every heartbeat, every gust of wind, every act of charity, it’s all a gift from the Creator God. This is why atheists
The Symphony That Shouldn’t Play The universe hums too perfectly to be an accident. Gravity’s pull, the flicker of light, the spin of an electron—each dialed to a precision that makes your head spin. Shift one fraction, and stars collapse, life vanishes. Gone. Why is it that the same rules letting us live also let us see the cosmos clearly? Astrophysicist Guillermo Gonzalez once said it’s strange—the universe seems built for us to discover it. Patterns everywhere, like a song written in starlight. “The heavens declare the glory of God” (Ps 19:1). Not just fine-tuned, but shouting. Worship in every orbit. Can you hear it?
The Moral Fire We Can’t Shake We all know right from wrong, even when we pretend we don’t. The guy who says morality’s just opinion will still yell when you steal his wallet. It’s burned into us. Paul said it’s “written on their hearts” (Rom 2:15). You can drown it in noise, but it’s there, pulsing like a wound. Think of the Nazis. They took science and twisted it into hell—freezing Jews, Gypsies, the disabled in icy vats, injecting poisons, watching life drain away. A house of horrors, plain and ugly. They called it progress, said it was science. But where’s the line? Where do you find the rule that says, “This is evil”? Science can’t tell you what’s right or wrong—it just measures what is. A world without a moral lawgiver leaves you with nothing but shrugs. No oughts, just facts. But those obligations—the ones that make us gag at cruelty—they don’t evolve from slime. They’re given, handed down by a God who knows what good is. Why do we scream for justice when we’re wronged? Because we’re built for it, and it’s not our blueprint.
The Crooked Lines That Point Home C. S. Lewis couldn’t let it go. He called the world cruel, unfair—but then stopped. Where did he get unfair from? “A man does not call a line crooked unless he has some idea of a straight line.” That question cuts deep. Evil doesn’t erase God; it begs for Him. Evil’s the shadow where good should stand, the ache where love belongs. Every time we rage at injustice, we’re homesick for a place we’ve never seen. Eden’s echo, pulling at our bones. Don’t you feel it? That longing for a world that’s right?
Truth That Won’t Break If truth was just a trick to survive, our minds would be liars. Even saying “there’s no truth” trips over itself—how do you know that’s true? Alvin Plantinga said naturalism eats its own tail. But truth holds. Gravity doesn’t need your approval. Two plus two is four, whether you like it or not. There’s something fierce in that, something kind. Reality keeps teaching us, even when we kick against it. Paul Little said truth “must be intolerant of error.” Sounds harsh, but it’s the scaffolding of the world. Every honest thing—every star’s path, every just law—whispers of a God who loves what’s real. Why do we keep chasing truth, even when it hurts? Because it’s His voice calling us back.
The Grave That Changed It All It comes down to a tomb. Jesus, dead, wrapped, buried. Then gone. The stone pushed aside, the grave empty, the world turned inside out. History cracked open there. Think about it. Nobody expected a Messiah to die like that. Fishermen, tax collectors—ordinary people—saw the tomb empty. The Church exploded in a world that wanted it dead. The earliest creed, in 1 Corinthians 15, showed up years later, not centuries. Nothing else fits. “But in fact Christ has been raised from the dead” (1 Cor 15:20). Not a theory, but a shout. If it’s true, everything else lines up. The stars, the moral fire, the ache for justice—it all points to Him.
When Doubt Knocks Doubt’s not a sin. It’s faith still reaching, still asking. God doesn’t flinch at questions. Every cry about pain or evil assumes there’s meaning to find. Why else would we care? The search for order in science, the hunger for justice—it’s all a plea for Someone listening. The cross proves He heard. God didn’t stay above the mess—He stepped into it. Nails, blood, a borrowed grave. Then He walked out. Death broke. Darwin saw change, not beginnings. Information needs a mind. Even decay follows a rhythm—seeds fall, grow, bloom. The world’s not random; it’s a dance, choreographed by a God who knows every step.
The God Who Never Leaves Christianity’s not one idea among many. It’s the frame that holds it all—why beauty breaks your heart, why justice burns, why love outlives the pain. He’s not hiding. He’s in the math of the stars, the tug of conscience, the mercy that keeps forgiving. The One who shaped galaxies let His hands be pierced for us. “We do not have a high priest who is unable to sympathize” (Heb 4:15). That truth could make you weep with gratitude. Apologetics isn’t about arguing. It’s remembering. The One who made us, chased us, will raise us. So when someone asks why you believe, don’t overcomplicate it. Just say what’s true. Because nothing else explains why there’s a world at all. Because beauty still stops you dead in your tracks. Because evil hurts, but hope clings tighter. Because Jesus walked out of His grave, and everything else follows. When the world goes quiet, listen. The wind in the pines, the crash of the sea, the pulse of your own heart—it’s all singing. Still shouting the name of the One who made it.