When We Become What We Once Rejected

You’ve probably heard the quote before—usually thrown around in debates or late-night standoffs between believers and skeptics:

“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 popularized it), and it cuts deep into the heart of why so many people walk away from belief. If God is good and powerful, then why is the world still cracked open with injustice?

That line has always stuck with me—not just as a critique of religion, but as something more personal. I used to treat it like a mic-drop: boom, checkmate, theism dismantled.

But lately I’ve been sitting with it differently. Less like a dagger pointed outward, and more like a mirror turned inward.

What if the problem isn’t just with God?

What if the problem is with us?

Acting—or Failing to Act—is Moral Currency

When we use that Epicurean logic to critique a god who lets suffering happen, we're calling out unwillingness in the face of power. That’s the whole sting of it. The idea that someone—or something—with the ability to intervene just... doesn't.

But here’s the uncomfortable twist: most of us have some form of power. Maybe not omnipotence, sure. But we have presence. We have privilege. We have reach, money, time, influence, energy, voice. And if we’re honest, we don’t always use it when it matters.

If we have the power to do good and the clarity to see suffering—but still choose inaction—what does that make us?

Are we really so different from the god we once judged?

This isn’t about perfection. It’s about participation. I’m not saying every humanist needs to martyr themselves. But if we hold moral outrage for divine silence, then don’t we owe the world our volume?

It’s easy to stand on the edge of belief and throw stones at theology. But maybe the harder work—the humanist work—is asking, “Am I doing with my power what I wish a god would have done?”

When Humanism Isn’t Just About Belief But Action

It’s not enough to reject gods—we have to replace them with something better. Otherwise we’re just subtracting meaning and leaving a void. Humanism, for me, was never about smugness or superiority. It was about ownership. About deciding that if there’s no divine justice coming, then we’d better start building it ourselves.

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

We can’t stop hurricanes or cure all disease. But we can feed hungry people in our city. We can show up when our friends are falling apart. We can vote like lives depend on it—because they do. We can notice the things most people scroll past. And we can choose to care in public, even when it’s inconvenient.

That’s what humanism demands of me: not a belief system, but a behavior system.

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

When We Become the God We Criticized

This isn’t about guilt—it’s about integrity.

I don’t want to become the thing I once deconstructed. I don’t want to spend my life calling out a god who doesn’t act… while I’m sitting comfortably, choosing the same silence. That’s not liberation. That’s hypocrisy with better branding.

So I remind myself often:

If I don’t use the power I have—however limited—to make the world more bearable, then I am the god I stopped believing in.

And I don’t say that with shame. I say it with responsibility. With clarity. With the kind of purpose that doesn’t wait on miracles but still believes in transformation.

Not divine intervention.
Just human intention.

That’s the whole ballgame.

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