When We Become What We Once Rejected

When We Become What We Once Rejected

You’ve probably heard the quote before—usually tossed around in debates or those late-night “faith versus reason” showdowns that always go on too long:

“Is God willing to prevent evil, but not able? Then he is not omnipotent.
Is he able, but not willing? Then he is malevolent.
Is he both able and willing? Then whence cometh evil?”

It’s often credited to Epicurus (though Hume’s the one who gave it pop-culture legs).
And sure—it’s clever. It’s cutting. It’s clean.
It’s also a little too easy when you’re young and angry and think clarity equals wisdom.

For years, I treated that quote like a mic drop.
Boom. Checkmate.
Theism dismantled.
But lately, I’ve been sitting with it differently.
Less like a weapon aimed at faith—and more like a mirror reflecting my own comfort.

Maybe the problem isn’t just with God.
Maybe the problem is with us.

Acting—or Not Acting—is Moral Currency

That old argument against God’s silence hits because it’s about power and responsibility.
If someone can stop suffering and doesn’t, we call that indifference.
But here’s the twist that stings a little:
Most of us have some kind of power.

Maybe not omnipotence, sure.
But we’ve got presence.
Privilege.
Time.
Energy.
Voice.
A vote.
A platform, even if it’s just a dinner table or a small corner of the internet.

And if we have the ability to do something good and the awareness to notice suffering—but still choose inaction—what does that make us?

Are we really that different from the god we once criticized?

This isn’t about guilt or moral math. It’s about participation.
If we hold outrage for divine silence, then don’t we owe the world our volume?

When Humanism Becomes a Verb

Rejecting belief was the easy part.
Replacing it with something better—that’s the real work.

Humanism, for me, isn’t about being “right.”
It’s about being responsible.
If there’s no divine justice coming, then we’re the ones who have to start building it.

Because if there’s no cosmic plan… then we’re the plan.

We can’t stop hurricanes or rewrite genetics.
But we can feed the person who’s hungry today.
We can check on the friend who’s disappearing quietly.
We can vote like it matters—because it does.
We can care out loud, even when it’s inconvenient.

That’s what humanism asks of me:
Not a belief system, but a behavior system.
A faith in follow-through.

If my awareness doesn’t make someone’s world more livable—then what is all my awareness even for?

Becoming the God We Criticized

I remind myself often:
I don’t want to become the thing I once deconstructed.
I don’t want to spend my life mocking a silent god while sitting comfortably in my own silence.

That’s not liberation.
That’s hypocrisy with better branding.

So I try, imperfectly, to use the power I do have—however limited—to make something a little more bearable for someone else.

Not divine intervention.
Just human intention.

That’s the whole ballgame.

Stay curious.
Stay human.
And always—be kind.