🩴 If You Were God for a Moment — Before You Judge Him, Walk in His Shoes

 

A conversation surprised me the other day. Not because it was new. I've had conversations like this before — with people who don't believe in God, people who do, and people who aren't quite sure what they believe. This one began the way many of them do.

We were talking about suffering. About the world. About the Old Testament. At one point, my friend referred to the God of the Bible as an "egotistical sadist." Not jokingly. Not emotionally. Almost as though it were the most obvious conclusion imaginable.

And something inside me paused. Not because I suddenly felt the need to defend God. But because I was struck by the certainty behind the statement. As though the case had already been settled. As though there were nothing left to explore.

The more I sat with it afterwards, the more I realized how much is contained inside that conclusion:

It confidently describes His character.

Calling someone a sadist doesn't simply mean they allow suffering.

It means they enjoy it.
It means suffering isn't an unfortunate consequence.
It is the goal, the pleasure, the reward.

That, to me, is a daring claim.

And it quietly assumes that ...

• every instance of suffering was unnecessary.
• every painful event could have been prevented without creating something worse.
• unlimited power automatically means unlimited possibilities — that there are no tensions, no dilemmas, no competing goods.
• freedom and intervention can simply coexist without ever colliding.
• we already understand every consequence of every possible alternative.
• we know what would have happened if history had unfolded differently.
• we see the entire web of cause and effect stretching across generations.

That is an astonishing amount to assume, isn't it?

And nevertheless we often arrive there in seconds.

There are so many people who don't believe in God. And yet, when conversations turn toward Him, some of them seem remarkably certain about what kind of "being" He would be. Almost as though the darkest possible interpretation has quietly become the default one.

Sometimes I find that fascinating. Because they don't necessarily believe the Bible describes reality — yet they often seem to believe that its harshest portrayals represent the most obvious and self-evident understanding of God.

Not one possible interpretation. The interpretation. Without much curiosity about whether there could be another way of reading those stories. Or whether there might be dimensions we simply don't see.

Now, to be clear: This article is not about proving that God exists. Nor is it about claiming that every disaster is God's will. Nor am I trying to explain suffering. Instead, this became something much more interesting to me:

💭 A Thought Experiment

One that has surprisingly little to do with religion — and almost everything to do with responsibility.

Imagine this:

For just one moment, you become God.
Not in the sense of receiving worship.
Not in the sense of absolute certainty.

Only in one sense:
You are suddenly responsible for the flourishing of the entire world.

Every human being.
Every animal.
Every forest.
Every river.
Every generation yet to come.

You know every possible future.
You know where each path leads.
And you know one thing with certainty:
If humanity continues exactly as it is, it will eventually destroy (more than) itself.

Perhaps through war.
Perhaps through ecological collapse.
Perhaps through conflict over resources.
Perhaps through something we cannot yet imagine.

But you know where the road ends.

And you also know this:
There is no option without suffering.
No perfect button.
No magical solution.
Only choices between "imperfect" realities.

What Do You Do?

This is the point where the conversation with my friend suddenly became very interesting. I asked him:

"Would you intervene? Or would you let humanity continue, knowing exactly what lies ahead?"

At first, his answer seemed obvious:
"I would rather prevent humanity from destroying itself."

But then the dilemma became visible: What if preventing the greater catastrophe required allowing a smaller one? What if every path contained loss?

He stopped. Thought. And then said:
"I wouldn't do anything."

At first, that sounds compassionate. Almost humble. But remember the premise. You already know the outcome.

Doing nothing is no longer 
the absence of a decision.

It becomes a decision itself. 
Not necessarily the wrong one.
But certainly not a neutral one.

🫸 When Love Is Selective

At this point, perhaps the dilemma became a little too uncomfortable. Because suddenly, it was no longer about judging a decision from the outside. It was about carrying it.

And maybe, in that moment, my friend noticed something: 
He knew the perspective I was trying to invite him into. And he knew which answer I seemed to be leaning towards. So he returned the question to me:

"Would you still choose the same thing if it meant your own family would suffer?"

And of course, that question lands differently. Because suddenly, the abstract becomes a face. A name. A voice you know. A person whose absence would leave a hole that no philosophy could fill.

And the honest answer is: No, it would not be easy. My heart would break. I would suffer. I would grieve. I am human. And that is exactly why the question is so difficult.

But here a very important layer appears:

Because if I truly want to step into this thought experiment, I cannot only take the parts of that perspective that feel comfortable.

I cannot imagine carrying responsibility for the whole world while secretly keeping my own small circle above all others. That would mean I had not truly changed perspectives.

It would mean I was still looking from inside my own human attachments.

And there is nothing wrong with that. Love naturally moves closer. We protect what we know. We feel the pain of those whose hands we have held. That is part of being human.

But the thought experiment asks something different:

What would happen if ...

• every life carried that same closeness?
• every child was your child?
• every parent was your parent?
• every friend was your friend?
• ... there was no longer a "my family" and "everyone else"?

Only beings equally entrusted to your care.

And suddenly the question transforms. It is no longer:

"Would you sacrifice the people you love for humanity?"

Because in that perspective, humanity is not separate from the people you love... Humanity is the people you love!

The difficulty is no longer choosing between 
love for your circle and responsibility for the whole...

It is imagining a love so vast 
that responsibility becomes an expression of love itself.

🕵️ Of Course, Someone Might Object

"If God is truly all-powerful, why would He face any dilemma at all?"

It is a fair question.

But does absolute power mean every imaginable state of affairs can coexist?

• What if genuine freedom and total control are simply not compatible?
• What if a world in which love is freely chosen also carries the possibility of rejection?
• What if protecting freedom means accepting that it will sometimes be used destructively?

Whether one agrees with that or not isn't really the point. The point is much simpler: There are possibilities we cannot rule out simply because we cannot imagine them.

Sometimes the only thing we know is this:
We cannot see a (good) reason.

And without noticing, we turn that into: 
There is no (good) reason.

Those are not the same statement. Not even close.

This isn't Only About God

In fact, I think it is mostly about us. About a habit we all share. It is remarkably easy to judge from the outside.

We do it with politicians. With parents. With leaders. With teachers. With doctors. With strangers on the internet. With our friends. Sometimes even with ourselves.

We look at one decision. One moment. One consequence. And conclude that the person must be foolish. Cruel. Selfish. Heartless. As though their character could be read from the outcome alone.

But rarely do we ask:

• What responsibility were they carrying that I wasn't?
• What information did they have that I didn't?
• What impossible choice stood before them?

Perhaps that is the invitation hidden inside this entire thought experiment.

Not to agree. Not to excuse. Not to abandon discernment. 

But to become just a little slower with certainty. To recognize that there is a profound difference between observing responsibility...

...and carrying it.

So this is not about defending God. Nor about accusing Him. Perhaps it is about the quiet willingness to ask:

Before I judge the One 
holding responsibility 
for the whole...
...have I truly tried 
walking in those shoes?

Not to arrive at agreement. But to arrive at humility.

And maybe that is the point where something shifts.
Not in the answer...

But in the space we allow before we claim to have one.

❤️💛💚

Peace, Pow & Play ✨

Namast’ay Wild!
Yours and mine,

I & I 🦁