Why I Believe There Is a God

I believe in God.  Lots of people think those of us who are 'religious'  are that way because of superstition, or fear, or some pie-in-the-sky-all's-well-in-the-bye-and-bye belief in something beyond what we can see, like, you know, a secret friend, or an all-powerful super-hero, an Ultra-Batman who will arrive in the nick of time (or shortly thereafter) to set everything right.

But that's not why I believe there is a God. There are many reasons, sound reasons to believe; here are just a few:

First, I'm unable to conclude that everything on this earth, the plants, animals, and human beings, an ecosystem which is self-perpetuating and (thankfully) difficult to destroy came about by cosmic happenstance, or fluke.  The complexity of life in its many forms precludes this notion of a self-invented ecosystem.  It's a worn argument, but even taking the example of a car, and proposing it was the product of billions of years of unassisted engineering would get you laughed out of any showroom. And life in all its forms is infinitely--infinitely--more complex.  I'm not alone in this. There's a growing movement among some scientists (and not all of them 'religious') that happenstance and evolution could not account for life as we know it. "Darwin's Black Box", written by the eminent and highly-regarded biochemist Michael Behe, sees life forms as being the result of intelligent design.  He came to his conclusion because of the demonstrable fact of  'irreducible complexity', that is, the recognition of  life forms so simple they couldn't exist if even one of their  components was removed. He concludes therefore there had to be a designer to design such  organisms; it couldn't become what it is without a designer.

Second,  I recognize that we humans are essentially evil, not essentially good. If you think we're just a bunch of sweethearts, you need to read some history.  Oh, we have our moments of good, but even those are done to promote--us.  I have friends who are not religious and they consider themselves good people, and they are within a context.  I mean, they're not criminals or rapists. They pay their taxes, they're nice to their neighbors, they live respectable lives, etc. When I tell them I'm not good, it kind of throws them.  How could I, a guy who lives a life similar to theirs, not see myself as a good person? I do all the same things outwardly they do. It doesn't compute. But underneath that veneer of  goodness I project  (in part to keep my nastiness hidden) I recognize the anger, the bitterness, and the self-centeredness that's part of my nature--and yours. I repress it, but it shows up every so often. Ever have someone cut you off on the highway, and you give them the finger?  Ever drive when you've had too much to drink? Cheat on your taxes?  Lie?  No matter how much we want to pretend we're all sunshine and happiness, we actually have a lot of evil in us, and sooner or later it shows itself.

Finally, we have no reason to exist if there is no God.  If there isn't a creator, if we're just randomly spinning around in space, if our planet is a closed system, if life is a cosmic fluke, then I have to conclude that nothing we do or have here is of any value, and without value life is meaningless.  So what if we steal from our neighbors? So what if we kill our enemy?  Without an authority higher than man himself, Hitler was as right Mother Theresa.   If you do good, it means nothing; if you do evil, it means nothing.  Life becomes a dead-end street, having no meaning beyond eating well and impressing others with what you have or have done or are able to do--all meaningless at best, anarchy at worst.

  A few years ago my wife and I flew to Washington D.C.  During the flight I looked down and I spotted a little town, probably in Kansas or somewhere, and  I started thinking about the people in that town, and how some of them were big-shot officials, and some of them were making big money on some deal or another. And I thought how proud and important they must feel, or how pleased they were with the size of their bank account. But who they were or what they did was insignificant--even from 30,000 feet up. Pinprick towns on a pinprick planet in the cold, airless, vastness of space.

It seems I've painted a picture of  hopelessness and despair. Insignificant captives on a less-than-obscure planet.  But there's great hope: Comes from God.

Next blog.