The God Who Does Not Glance

There are truths in Scripture that feel comforting—until you take them seriously.

We like the idea that God sees us, as long as “seen” means generally aware. We like the idea that God knows us, as long as “known” does not include everything. We like the idea that God is near, as long as nearness does not eliminate all hiding places.

But Scripture is not interested in preserving our emotional comfort by shrinking reality. It insists—repeatedly and relentlessly—that God’s knowledge is not partial, poetic, or symbolic.

“All things are naked and exposed to the eyes of Him to whom we must give account.”
— Hebrews 4:13

To be fully seen by God is, at first, terrifying.

And then—if you stay with the text long enough—it becomes the deepest comfort imaginable.

Human beings glance.

We skim. We infer. We assume. We fill gaps because our attention is finite and fragile.

Even love must prioritize. Even care must ration. Even the most devoted listener eventually misses something.

God does not.

Scripture does not describe a God who checks in on creation. It describes a God whose awareness is continuous, unbroken, and total.

“The eyes of the LORD run to and fro throughout the whole earth.”
— 2 Chronicles 16:9

This is not the language of surveillance. It is the language of omnipresent cognition—a God for whom nothing ever falls outside awareness, not because He is searching, but because He is already present.

And Scripture refuses to leave this at the level of atmosphere. It sharpens the claim until it pierces personal life.

Jesus makes a statement that destabilizes every modern attempt to keep God abstract:

“Every careless word people speak, they shall give account for it.”
— Matthew 12:36

Every word.

Not just sacred words.

Not just prepared words.

Not just public words.

Careless words—words spoken without strategy, without reflection, without awareness that they mattered at all.

To “give account” requires perfect hearing, perfect memory, and perfect understanding. Judgment is impossible without context. Accountability is impossible without recall. Meaning cannot be weighed by a God who only hears highlights.

Jesus is not warning us that words are powerful. He is revealing the scale of divine attention.

And David had already encountered the same reality—internally.

David does not describe God as merely listening. He describes God as thinking.

“How precious are Your thoughts toward me, O God. How vast is the sum of them.”
— Psalm 139:17

This is one of the most explosive statements in Scripture, precisely because it sounds gentle.

David does not say God thinks of him occasionally.
He does not say God thinks of him deeply.
He says the sum of God’s thoughts toward him is vast.

David is not overwhelmed by a moment of divine notice. He is overwhelmed by quantity. Then he reaches for a comparison designed to defeat counting altogether:

“If I would count them, they are more than the sand.”

Not stars.
Not moments.
Sand.

Sand is not chosen for poetry. It is chosen because it resists enumeration.

Conservative scientific estimates place the number of grains of sand on Earth at roughly 7.5 quintillion—that is:

David says God’s thoughts toward one person exceed that number.

If God had merely 7.5 quintillion thoughts directed toward a single life—and if those thoughts were spread across an ordinary 70-year lifespan—that would require approximately:

3.4 billion thoughts per second
Every second.
Without pause.
Without distraction.
Without decay.

And David says they are more than that.

This is not metaphor surviving mathematics.
This is mathematics collapsing under Scripture.

The point is not that we have successfully counted God’s thoughts.
The point is that even our largest numbers are too small.

Human attention must triage.
Human thought must prioritize.
Human awareness must forget in order to function.

God does none of these.

If God’s thoughts toward one person exceed countability, then attention is not a scarce resource in Heaven. God is not dividing awareness among His children. He is not thinning presence as the population grows. He is not allocating cognition the way finite beings must.

God’s mind is not stretched by multiplicity.

This is why Scripture can say—without contradiction—that God hears every word, sees every heart, numbers every hair, and still thinks toward you more times than can be counted.

His attention does not dilute.

This is where terror enters—not because God is harsh, but because God is clear.

If God hears every careless word and thinks innumerable thoughts toward each life, then no illusion survives. Reputation fails. Rationalization collapses. Self-deception dies.

Nothing is hidden—not because God is invasive, but because God is infinite. There are no shadows where truth can hide from omniscience.

That is terrifying—until it becomes mercy.

Because the same truth that unmasks pride shelters the broken.

If God’s thoughts toward you exceed the grains of sand, then no prayer is overlooked.
No tear is unnoticed.
No moment of despair is unaccounted for.

“Put my tears in Your bottle; are they not in Your book?”
— Psalm 56:8

This is not sentiment. It is record-keeping. It is remembrance. It is a God who treats your inner life as worth tracking. Human beings love you in fragments because they only know fragments. God does not love you in fragments. He loves you fully known.

When we say, “It just means God cares,” we preserve warmth but lose wonder.

Scripture insists on more.

God does not merely care in principle.
He attends in fullness.
He knows in detail.
He thinks in volume.

A God who cares but cannot attend fully is comforting but small.
A God who attends fully but does not love is terrifying.

The God of Scripture is neither.

He hears every word.
He sees every motive.
He thinks more thoughts toward you than can be numbered.

And still—astonishingly—He invites you to speak.