I have often been asked why I do not believe in the traditional notion of God—the omnipotent, omniscient, benevolent creator said to govern the universe. And to answer this, I do not turn to anger or rebellion, but rather to reason.
I begin with the familiar assertion: everything must have a cause. If that is so, I must ask—does God, too, have a cause? If not, then not everything requires one. And if some things may exist without cause, why not the universe itself? Why insert a divine being to explain what may be explained more simply without one? The logic seems less concerned with consistency than with comfort.
Then comes the idea that natural laws point to a lawgiver. But natural laws are not commandments. They are not prescriptions but descriptions—patterns we have observed in the world, not orders imposed upon it. Gravity does not pull because it has been commanded to do so. It does so because that is what matter does in space and time. To claim these patterns prove a divine legislator is to mistake observation for authorship.
There is also the world itself to consider—its cruelty, its waste, its arbitrary tragedies. If this world was crafted by an all-powerful and all-good being, then I am left to wonder at the needless suffering woven into its fabric. Why would such a being permit infants to die, the innocent to be tortured, the helpless to be destroyed by forces they never invited nor understood? A parent who allowed such suffering would not be considered good. A god who does the same is no less suspect.
If God is omnipotent, suffering becomes a deliberate choice. And if He is not—if He would prevent it but cannot—then He is not all-powerful. Either way, the idea collapses under the weight of its own contradictions. This is known as the omnipotence paradox: can God create a stone so heavy He cannot lift it? If He can, He is not omnipotent. If He cannot, He is not omnipotent. Such puzzles do not deepen faith; they expose its logical fault lines.
I have also come to question the divine basis of morality. If morality is simply what God commands, then it is arbitrary; if He declared cruelty virtuous, would it then be good? I think not. And if morality exists independently of divine command, then it needs no god at all to justify it. I believe morality is born not of command but of compassion, not of obedience but of understanding.
Consider this: if a starving person steals food, are they committing a sin? Perhaps in law—but in ethics, it is more complicated. Hunger compels where reason cannot. To label this act immoral is to ignore the desperation behind it. Power without need corrupts; desperation without power merely survives. Morality is not black and white—it is a spectrum, one that often reflects circumstance more than character.
I also find myself asking what free will truly means. We are told we are free to choose, but most choices are circumscribed by our circumstances—by the age we were born into, the body we inherited, the language we speak, the traumas we endured. If I choose within a system I did not create, is that truly freedom? Or is it the illusion of freedom, framed by forces I neither chose nor control?
And then, of course, there is religion. Religion is often said to be the root of virtue, the balm for the soul. But I suspect that, for many, religion is less a matter of conviction than of comfort. It offers answers to unbearable questions: What happens when I die? Why do I suffer? Will the good be rewarded? It says, yes, all will be made right—in time, in heaven, in a realm we cannot test or question. And this is precisely its power. It trades truth for reassurance.
People live in fear—of death, of punishment, of the void. Religion promises a narrative in which nothing is wasted and no pain is meaningless. But that very promise betrays the truth: this life, this one, brief, flickering moment, may be all we have. And to live it in fear of invisible judgment is to rob it of the joy it contains. People do good not always because they wish to—but because they fear punishment or hope for reward. And so they miss the deeper beauty: that goodness chosen freely is worth more than goodness imposed.
And yet—I do not reject the sacred.
I believe there is something deeply awe-inspiring, even spiritual, in the world. Not a being, not a ruler, not a divine mind—but a presence. A harmony. A rhythm. Not omnipotent—but omnipresent.
The body itself astonishes me. It breathes, it balances, it heals without command. Our organs work in intricate concert, guided not by prayer, but by biology—by the elegant machinery of life. Likewise, nature moves in cycles we did not design: the seasons, the tides, the migration of birds, the slow decay that births new life. These things are not commanded. They simply are. And in their quiet order, I see something worthy of reverence.
If there is a God, I believe it is not a being who intervenes in history, but a force embedded in all living things. Not a judge above, but a pattern within. Not power, but presence. The sacred is not something we kneel before—it is something we are part of.
And if that is so, then we are not here to be tested or punished or saved. We are simply here—to live, to suffer, to wonder, to create meaning where none is given. As Bertrand Russell wrote, "The good life is one inspired by love and guided by knowledge." Perhaps that is all we can ask for: to love without fear, and to understand without illusion.
In that understanding, I no longer seek heaven. This world, flawed though it is, is enough. And if God exists in it—not as king, but as rhythm, as life, as breath—then I do not need faith. I need only to recognise it in the world around me, where reason ends and wonder begins.
And that, to me, is sacred enough.
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