Why I Believe in God

I’ve recently joined a new church. For the longest time I refused to go to church. It wasn’t that I lost my belief in God or anything of that nature. As the saying goes, “I like your Christ. I do not like your Christians. Your Christians are so unlike your Christ.” It was a lot of that for me. I experienced being bullied in church as well as witnessing racism in the church. After that, I swore I’d never attend another Baptist church. And with the exception of funerals and the occasional Christmas, I haven’t.

I was asked by a dear friend why I believe in God in the first place. I’ve thought about this a lot and I hope I can answer this here and now. You see, people expect belief in God to come with sunshine, hymns, and an emotional montage about “finding peace.” That’s never been my story. I don’t believe because life is beautiful. I don’t believe because everything makes sense. I believe because the world often feels like a meat grinder, and I refuse to accept that this is all there is.

For me, belief isn’t about evidence. It’s not about some philosophical proof that wraps the universe in a neat bow. It’s not about doctrine, denomination, or the kind of theological gymnastics that some people use to win arguments. My belief is simpler and much more stubborn: I reject the idea that this life, with all its cruelty, absurdity, and chaos, gets the final word.

When you’ve seen enough of the world’s ugliness, you reach a fork in the road. One direction says: “This is it. Meaning is an illusion. Suffering is the point. Eventually we all vanish and nothing matters.” Plenty of thinkers I admire lean into that: Cioran, Schopenhauer, Ligotti. They saw the darkness clearly. But even they never managed to convince me that the darkness is absolute.

The other direction says “Maybe the absurdity isn’t the whole picture. Maybe the pain isn’t the whole story. Maybe something exists beyond the mess.” That “maybe” is where my belief lives.

I don’t need a heaven with golden streets or a God with a perfect PR team. I just need the possibility — the hint — that existence isn’t limited to this bleak stretch of highway we’re traveling. That there’s depth behind the veil. That suffering isn’t the only language the universe speaks.

Call it faith. Call it refusal. Call it philosophical stubbornness. I believe in God because the alternative feels too small for the scale of human experience … too empty, too bleak, too final. If this life is just pain, noise, and entropy on repeat, then the whole thing collapses under its own weight. I believe because I need there to be something more, something better, something that outlasts the cruelty.

And that’s enough for me.

The Last Christmas

It was decided, though no one could say who decided it first, that humanity would end itself on Christmas. Not out of devotion. Not out of malice. Out of a particular exhaustion, the kind that settles over a species the way frost settles over a corpse; quietly, inevitably, without spectacle.

Some called it a gift for Jesus. Others called it a release for themselves. Most didn’t call it anything at all. Naming things only gives them weight, and humanity had grown tired of carrying anything with weight.

The idea spread the way despair always spreads: silently, with the elegance of a shadow that has finally stopped pretending to be anything else. By Advent, the world understood the plan without having spoken it. By Christmas Eve, the world accepted it the way a terminal patient accepts a prognosis.

There was no mass panic, no riots. Absurdity rarely inspires hysteria, only a kind of philosophical shrug.

One by one, city by city, continent by continent, humanity closed its eyes and unmade itself. No great violence. No catastrophe. Just a soft relinquishing, like candles choosing not to burn. When the last human fell into that darkness — a darkness strangely calm, strangely welcoming — the world exhaled for the first time in millennia.

Silence spread across the planet.

A silence so total.

Then came the surprise…

Jesus, expecting once again the usual hymns and the brittle cheer of obligatory joy, found instead the entire human race standing before Him in the soft luminosity of the afterworld. Billions of eyes, all sharing the same expression: the expression of beings who didn’t quite regret existing, but regretted having tried too hard to justify it.

“Happy birthday,” someone murmured. It wasn’t festive. It wasn’t ironic. It was spoken the way one apologizes for overstaying a life. Jesus looked at them — at this species that had repeatedly fumbled both suffering and hope — and for a long moment He said nothing.

Finally He whispered, “You weren’t all meant to come at once.”

A few souls nodded. Some shrugged. One laughed softly, the laugh of someone who has spent a lifetime wrestling with the absurd only to die of it. “We thought it would be a surprise,” another said.

“A surprise,” Jesus repeated, not angry, not sad, but with weary tenderness of someone who watched a child break their own toy just to make sense of its pieces.

He continued to send them back, but to what? To the same repetition? The same spiral between meaning and meaninglessness? Even He wondered if return was a kindness or cruelty.

He told them the truth: a truth so simple it was almost cruel in its clarity:

“Existence was the only miracle I ever gave you. What you made of it was your burden.” The souls felt no shame. Shame was for the living.

Instead they stood there, suspended in a light that illuminated nothing but themselves. Beings who had fled the weight of existence only to find that consciousness follows like a shadow. And so humanity spent eternity as it had spent life: questioning, doubting, arguing with itself, trying to make sense of a gesture no one had requested and no one had fully understood.

Jesus remained with them, not as judge or savior, but as a witness to their absurd act. The only species in creation to annihilate itself out of equal parts fatigue and affection.

A birthday surprise.

A cosmic misunderstanding.

A final proof that even in its ending, humanity insisted on being both tragic and ridiculous. The only combination it ever truly mastered.

The Lie of Glory

I started reading Johnny Got His Gun by Dalton Trumbo for one reason: Republicans said not to. They said it was anti-American and socialist. What it is is anti-war and anti-imperialism. If the people who glorify war and worship a flag are afraid of a book then that’s usually a sign the book is telling the truth.

The book isn’t just anti-war. It’s anti-illusion. It’s about Joe Bonham, a World War I soldier who wakes up in a hospital with no arms, no legs, no face; he’s deaf, mute, and blind. His body is gone, but his mind is still very much alive. The entire book consists of his thoughts, his memories, his realization that he’s become a piece of government property in a bed.

There’s no glory in this book. There’s no heroism. There’s silence, darkness, and the sound of your own mind refusing to die.

The deeper I got into the book, the more it hit me: everything recruiters promise — pride, purpose, brotherhood — it’s all marketing. The same system that feeds you “honor” will turn you into cannon fodder the second you sign on the dotted line. When you’re useful, they decorate you. When you’re broken, they hide you.

There’s a chapter where Joe hallucinates Christ walking among the dead and mutilated soldiers. It’s not divine. It’s horrifying. Christ doesn’t save anyone, He just watches humanity destroy itself again, in His name this time. That’s when Trumbo’s message cuts through: war isn’t sacrifice, it’s slaughter dressed up as salvation.

Joe eventually figures out how to communicate: by tapping his head against his pillow in Morse code. What he asks for is simple: let him be seen. Roll him through the streets in a glass case so people can see what “sacrifice for freedom” actually looks like. Of course, they refuse. The military can’t afford truth. They sedate him and shove him back into silence.

That’s how the machine works. It eats you, then buries what’s left under words like “honor” and “duty.”

Johnny Got His Gun isn’t an easy read, but it’s the kind that wakes something up in you. It makes every flag-waving speech sound like a sales pitch. It makes every “support our troops” bumper sticker feel hollow. The book isn’t anti-American. It’s anti-lie. And that’s exactly why they don’t want you to read it.

When “A Life is a Life” Rings Hollow

Recently, I commented on someone’s Facebook post regarding Charlie Kirk’s death: “Rest in piss.” The poster unfriended me as a result, and scolded me with the phrase “A life is a life.” On the surface, that sounds noble, even Christian. But the same person openly supports Israel’s ongoing genocide in Gaza. That contradiction deserves to be unpacked.

Jesus told His followers to love their enemies and pray for those who persecute them (Matthew 5:44). Many Christians take this as a call to respond to hatred with grace. By that standard, mocking Kirk after death is uncharitable.

But Christianity also has another thread: he prophetic tradition. The Hebrew prophets denounced kings and rulers with brutal honesty. Jesus Himself called Herod “that fox” (Luke 13:32) and condemned religious leaders as “whitewashed tombs” (Matthew 23:27). Sharp words, in this tradition, are not petty insults but moral indictments. Whether my words fall into that tradition is up for debate. But the precedent stands.

If someone insists “a life is a life,” then Christian teaching requires consistency. God shows no partiality (Acts 10:34). Every life, whether Israeli or Palestinian, is of equal worth. Jesus went further, placing special emphasis on the vulnerable: “Whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me. (Matthew 25:40)

Supporting a war that takes thousands of innocent lives undermines the very principle they tried to use against me. The prophets warned Israel itself of judgment when it oppressed others: “Let justice roll on like a river, righteousness like a never-failing stream.” (Amos 5:24) You cannot bless bombs and call it Christian compassion.

So which stance is more at odds with Christianity? A sharp insult aimed at a pundit whose rhetoric fuels division, or support for state violence that kills children? If we measure by the Gospel’s core commitments — justice, mercy, peacemaking — the second weighs heavier.

Christianity calls us not just to kindness in tone but to solidarity with the oppressed. “Blessed are the peacemakers” (Matthew 5:9) is not a suggestion. It is a central demand of discipleship.

A life is a life. But if we really believe that, then it applies to every human beings, not just to the ones we admire politically. If we claim Christianity, we cannot apply compassion selectively. It is hypocrisy to weep for a pundit’s dignity while ignoring the suffering of children under bombs. If Christ’s words mean anything, they demand more from us than that.

The Devil You Know: Comparing I, Lucifer and Paradise Lost

I’ve recently re-read Glen Duncan’s book I, Lucifer. It’s sort of the Biblical story of the fall of Lucifer from the devil’s perspective. Duncan doesn’t just make Lucifer into someone out to cause chaos. I mean, he does, but just in one person’s life. Entertainment makes Lucifer more intriguing in books, television, music, etc. Another work of literature that made the devil interesting is one of my favorite tales … John Milton’s Paradise Lost, which paints the devil as sort of an anti-hero. The Devil has always been a master storyteller when authors or whomever gives him the mic.

I, Lucifer and Paradise Lost take that premise and run in opposite directions. Both let Lucifer speak for himself, but the similarities mostly stop there. Milton’s Satan is a tragic epic hero. Duncan’s Lucifer is a sardonic London party guest. Together though, they show just how flexible the figure of the Devil can be, and what that says about us.

In Paradise Lost, Satan enters with the gravitas of a fallen general. His speeches are full of classical grandeur: “Better to reign in hell than serve in Heaven.” Milton’s blank verse gives him a dignity that almost rivals God’s. Over the course of the epic poem, that dignity rots. The grand speeches shrink to self-justifications, and Satan’s transformation into a literal serpent mirrors his moral decay.

In I, Lucifer, Duncan skips the slow moral unraveling. His Lucifer arrives already fully modern, fully cynical, and fully shameless. Given one month in a human body (that of a washed-up writer), he narrates in a breezy, pop-culture-savvy monologue. Where Milton’s Satan wraps his rebellion in lofty ideals, Duncan’s Lucifer cheerfully admits it was always about ego, boredom, and refusing to kneel.

Milton’s universe is theological first, dramatic second. Satan’s rebellion is a misuse of free will. He chooses pride over obedience, and the moral lesson is clear: freedom is good only when exercised in harmony with God’s will.

Duncan’s Lucifer would rather set himself on fire than live in “harmony” with anyone else’s will but his own. Free will is the only real prize, even if it comes with loneliness, pain, or damnation. God offers him redemption at the end of his month on Earth; Lucifer declines, not because he can’t repent, but because repentance means surrender.

In Paradise Lost, humanity is collateral damage. Satan tempts Adam and Eve as a strike against God. Milton’s Satan does not care about them beyond their strategic value. In I, Lucifer, humanity is the entertainment. Lucifer adores human art, music, lust, and self-delusion. He mocks humans constantly, but there’s a grudging admiration underneath. He might still ruin your life, but he’ll stay for a drink and ask about your novel.

Milton’s Satan is the stuff of cathedral murals: moral, solemn, and framed by the cosmic stakes of Heaven and Hell. Duncan’s Lucifer is more like the friend who hijacks your bar tab and spends the night dismantling your worldview between shots. One speaks in blank verse; the other in sarcastic asides.

Both invite you into the rebel’s point of view, but where Milton uses the Devil to reinforce divine justice, Duncan uses him to undermine it.

The endgame in Paradise Lost is Satan firmly in Hell, stripped of dignity, an eternal warning against rebellion. I, Lucifer ends with Lucifer walking away grinning, having learned nothing he’s willing to admit, but maybe carrying a few uncomfortable human feelings he can’t quite shake. Milton’s Devil falls because he can’t change. Duncan’s Devil survives because he refuses to.

In both cases, Lucifer is compelling because he’s the ultimate outsider; someone who sees rules, refuses them, and accepts the consequences. Milton’s Satan speaks to our fear of ambition’s cost; Duncan’s Lucifer speaks to our hunger for autonomy in a world that loves telling us what’s good for us.

The Devil, it turns out, reflects whatever rebellion we need at the time. In the 17th century, that meant warning against pride. In the 21st, it might mean laughing in God’s face while ordering another round.

If Milton’s Satan makes you think twice about disobedience, Duncan’s Lucifer makes you want to disobey better.

The Childfree Christ

I read a book some time ago titled The Childfree Christ which was about anti-natalism from the Bible’s perspective. Yes, I view myself as a Christian. No, I’m not going to try to convert you. I get sick of the pro-life crowd saying that childbirth is God’s will. I’ve found that a lot of the pro-life crowd are hypocrites anyway. They want a child born, but not a child loved, fed, sheltered, and educated. This book takes the well-known “be fruitful and multiply” and flips it on its head. I thought I’d share my views as an anti-natalist and as a Christian.

Most Christians assume you have to be pro-natalist. “Be fruitful and multiply,” as I just said above, right? Children are a “blessing,” families are sacred, and if you don’t want children, you’re somehow rejecting God’s design.

Here’s the thing though: that’s not the whole picture. Not even close.

As a Christian and an anti-natalist, I don’t believe in bringing new life into a world soaked in suffering, injustice, and despair. Why? Because I take suffering seriously. Believe it or not, the Bible does too.

Let’s start with Job. You know … the guy who went through more hell than most of us can imagine. How did he respond?

“Let the day perish on which I was born.” (Job 3:3) “Why did I not perish at birth?” (Job 3:11)

That’s not a metaphor. That’s a man who knows pain and wishes he’d never been born. And God doesn’t smite him for saying it.

Then there’s Ecclesiastes, which is the most brutally honest book in the Bible. At one point it flat out says: “Better than both is the one who has never been born.” (Ecclesiastes 4:3)

That’s a direct quote. Not an interpretation. Not a “hot take.” A scriptural lament about how broken the world is.

Now, let’s talk about Jesus. Childless. Celibate. Wandering. Focused on the Kingdom of God, not the nuclear family. In Luke 23:39, he says something that flips pro-natalism on its head: “Blessed are the barren, and the wombs that have never bore.” Why? Because He’s talking about a time of horror. A world so dark, having kids is a curse, not a gift.

Paul, who wrote much of the New Testament was also childfree … and blunt:

“It is good for a man not to marry.” (1 Corinthians 7:11)

“Those who marry will face many troubles in this life, and I want to spare you this.” (1 Corinthians 7:28) He saw family life not as a holy mission, but as a worldly distraction and even a burden.

Jesus even said to hate this life. “Whoever hates his life in this world will keep it for eternal life.” (John 12:25). That’s not nihilism. That’s recognition that this world — full of violence, grief, and decay — isn’t the final goal. Maybe not creating more suffering is part of loving our neighbor.

There’s a long tradition of Christian asceticism, celibacy, and voluntary childlessness from Paul to the desert fathers, monks, nuns, mystics, and Christ Himself. Not one of them believed reproduction was the point. You don’t get into Heaven by having kids. You don’t earn God’s love by pushing others into this mess. You don’t have to romanticize childbirth while the planet burns and billions suffer.

I’m against unnecessary pain. I believe in the teachings of Christ. I believe bringing someone into this broken world without their consent is not an automatic good. It is cruel. If that bothers you then take it up with Job or Ecclesiastes or Jesus. I’ll be over here, choosing not to multiply and trusting God to understand why.

Overthinking, Pandora’s Box, and the Mercy We Don’t Deserve

By someone who’s tired of dodging landmines in family group chats.

I posted a photo on Snapchat the other day—Bertrand Russell’s The History of Western Philosophy. I didn’t think much of it. Just one of those small, nerdy flexes you throw into the void. But then my aunt replied:

“I didn’t know there was such a thing, but I guess everything has some sort of philosophy.”

Okay, fair. Not everyone grew up reading Plato or spiraling into existential dread during sophomore year. I responded:

“Western civilization’s been overthinking everything for like 2,500 years. They had to write it down eventually. Even things like math and science have deep philosophical roots.”

Her response? “Some things are just overthought, and need to be left alone I think. Just my opinion.”

That’s when I felt it: that itch to argue. To start listing how “overthinking” gave us medicine, civil rights, space exploration, critical thinking, and the ability to ask whether the status quo even should be left alone.

But instead, I replied calmly:

“Sometimes overthinking is how we uncover the stuff hiding under the surface.”

She came back with:

“That could be really bad and in the long run not helpful. Kinda like Pandora’s box. But I understand some things need to be known.” I went full myth nerd:

“Yeah, opening Pandora’s box definitely unleashed chaos—but also hope was in there too. Can’t forget that part.”

Then came the turn I knew was coming:

“Yep, you are right on that. And mercy, which we don’t deserve.”

Ah. There it was. The theological twist. The Southern Baptist worldview shining through. Mercy as something we’re lucky to get, not something we’re entitled to. A cosmic handout, not a human right.

And that’s where I bit my tongue. Because yeah, I could’ve said that if mercy is real, it shouldn’t be conditional. Or that maybe people don’t deserve suffering either. Or maybe we do deserve mercy because we’re born into a broken system we didn’t ask for and spend our lives trying to make sense of it.

But I didn’t say any of that. I kept the peace. Not because I agreed, but because sometimes family isn’t where the fight lives.

Still, it stuck with me. The way generations talk past each other. The way questioning becomes “overthinking,” and curiosity becomes a threat to tradition. The way a simple book post turns into a theological minefield.

So here I am. Overthinking it, of course.

Just like the philosophers taught me to.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s where hope still lives.

Burn It Down

Not with fire and torches. It’s time to accept what we already know deep down: this system is broken beyond repair. No amount of voting, begging, or incremental reform is going to fix the rotting corpse of capitalism. We’re not dealing with a system that needs tweaks. We’re dealing with a system that feeds on exploitation, shits out injustice, and hands us a smiley face sticker for surviving another day under it.

We keep getting told we just need to be patient. That change is slow. That “the adults are in charge.” Meanwhile, the planet’s boiling, wages are stagnant, housing is a scam, billionaires are playing god, and the police still treat poor people like target practice.

How much more do we need to see before we admit this isn’t a glitch … it’s the design?

We don’t need to fix the system. We need to replace it. All of it. The politics, the economy, the structures that define who gets to live with dignity and who gets ground into dust. We’ve spent decades duct-taping injustice and calling it progress. That era’s over. It’s time for a clean break.

We need to start over. From scratch. Build something that works for everyone.

That means no more letting the wealthy write the rules. No more pretending corporations are people. No more parties that pretend to fight each other while feasting at the same donor buffet. No more bootlicking billionaires like they’re gods just because they hoarded enough money to make themselves unaccountable.

Let’s stop asking how we can work within the system. Start asking how we can undermine it. How can we hack it, sabotage it, expose it, and ultimately make it irrelevant.

It’s not radical to want food, housing, healthcare, and freedom. What’s radical is tolerating a system that denies those things in the name of “freedom.” What’s radical is watching the wealthy hoard enough money to end world hunger while telling the rest of us to work harder.

We are not obligated to keep this going. We don’t owe this system our loyalty. The people in power want us to believe we’re powerless without them. But the truth is that they’re nothing without us.

It’s time to organize. To disrupt. To create parallel systems. Mutual aid, worker co-ops, community defense, direct action, cyber sabotage, mass noncompliance — whatever it takes to grind the gears and flip the switch.

Overthrow doesn’t have to look like a revolution with marching bands and guillotines. (Though … you never know.) It can look like refusing to play along. It can look like walking away from the scripts they hand us and writing something new.

This isn’t a call to chaos. It’s a call to clarity. The future is not going to be handed to us — we have to take it.

Tear it down. Start over. Let’s build something worth living in.

Why I Choose to Believe in God and Still Support Abortion and Socialism

Some people think believing in God means aligning with the conservative status quo–opposing abortion, defending capitalism, and preaching personal responsibility while ignoring systemic injustice. I don’t. I believe in God, and I support abortion rights. I believe in socialism too. And no, I’m not confused.

This isn’t a contradiction. It’s a deliberate choice.

Faith isn’t a monolith

Religion in America has been hijacked by the right, turned into a weapon of control instead of a source of liberation. But faith isn’t theirs to own. History is full of radical, justice-driven believers–liberation theologians in Latin America, Black churches in the Civil Rights movement, even the early Christians who lived communally and rejected materialism.

My belief in God is rooted in those traditions. The God I believe in doesn’t demand blind obedience to the state or to billionaires. That God doesn’t shrink at questions or doubt. That God isn’t afraid of justice.

I didn’t inherent my faith fully formed–I wrestled with it. I still do. But I choose to believe because I refuse to accept that this world, in all its cruelty and absurdity, is the end of the story. I believe because somewhere inside me, hope refuses to die although it tries to every single fucking day.

I support abortion because I believe in compassion. Because forcing someone to carry a pregnancy they don’t want–especially in a world that is broken–is violence, not virtue. Because I believe in bodily autonomy. Because I’ve seen what happens when that autonomy is stripped away.

The God I believe in gave people free will. That includes the right to make choices about their own bodies. No government or church should have the power to override that. And if you think banning abortion is “pro-life,” but you’re silent about poverty, maternal mortality, and the children already suffering in this world, your morality is hollow.

You can’t claim to care about life and then ignore the lives of women, trans people, and anyone else whose bodies are up for debate.

Jesus wasn’t a capitalist.

Let’s be clear: If Jesus showed up today, a lot of Christians wouldn’t recognize him. He wasn’t a billionaire. He didn’t hang out with the rich and powerful. He called them out. He flipped tables in the temple and told a rich man to give everything away.

Sound like capitalism to you?

Socialism, at its core, is about taking care of each other. Feeding the hungry. Healing the sick. Building systems that value human lives over profits. I support socialism because I believe we have a responsibility to each other–especially to the most vulnerable.

It’s bizarre how many Christians defend billionaires, corporations, and hoarding wealth while ignoring every single thing Jesus actually said about money and power.

The real betrayal of faith isn’t in questioning doctrine, it’s in using God to justify cruelty. It’s in standing by while people suffer, clinging to a theology of control. I won’t do that. I believe in God. I am a Christian. And because of that, I support a world where people are free. Free to live, to choose, to thrive. I support abortion rights. I support socialism. And I believe God is big enough to hold both my faith and my fire for justice.