RUMBLINGS OF A FOOL

Ah yes, the Moral Argument for God—that classic philosophical cocktail of ethics, theology, and “don’t murder people or God will be mad.” It’s been served warm at Sunday schools, apologetics debates, and awkward dinner tables for centuries. But what is it, really? And does it hold up when you poke it with a logical stick? Let’s do what we do best—grab it, unwrap it, roast it, and maybe learn something deep about human nature along the way. First, What Is It? The moral argument, in its simplest Sunday-best form, goes like this: 1. If God does not exist, objective moral values and duties do not exist. 2. But objective moral values and duties do exist. 3. Therefore, God exists. Tidy. Elegant. As convincing as a motivational poster taped to a brick wall. It’s been championed by theologians and philosophers like William Lane Craig, who argue that unless there’s a divine moral lawgiver, there’s no real right or wrong—just preferences, like pineapple on pizza or the Oxford comma. In other w...

You ever trip over absolutely nothing in public, and then try to play it off by pretending you meant to stretch your hamstring mid-stride? That, my friend, is teleology—the human urge to assign purpose to things, especially the embarrassing or unexplainable. Teleology is the idea that stuff happens for a reason. Not just cause and effect—no, no, that’s too basic. We’re talking goal-driven, destiny-stamped, purpose-infused happenings. Like, the rain didn’t just fall. It rained so you could learn patience. The bread didn’t just go moldy. It molded so you’d finally start that gluten-free lifestyle. Your ex didn’t ghost you. They vanished so you could grow (and spiral a little, but mostly grow). The World As a Story… With You as the Main Character Teleological thinking is like putting a movie script over reality. Every leaf that falls, every traffic jam, every missed call—it must mean something. It’s comforting, right? To believe life isn’t just chaos with a WiFi password,...

Take a minute. Look up at the night sky. Seven billion people down here, a billion stars up there, and somewhere along the line, someone decided it wasn’t enough to just survive. We needed more hands, more mouths, more believers. Enter the Fertility Gods, religion’s original answer to the question, “How do we outgrow, outlast, and out reproduce our neighbors?” You wouldn’t catch a Stone Age band chanting about childbirth. Sixteen kids? No way. Women were busy gathering, weaving, hunting. Then, around 10,000 BCE, farming exploded onto the scene. Suddenly there was extra food, extra security, and a golden opportunity: bigger populations meant bigger armies, bigger economies, and better odds in tribal turf wars. Religion seized that opportunity. Rituals and myths shifted from “thank the spirits for a good hunt” to “marry young, breed often, and bless your lineage.” Fertility gods like Isis, Freyr, Freyja, and Demeter became the VIPs of procreation. Temples doubled as matchmaking cente...

Think about it—humanity didn’t sit around one day and say: “You know what this hunter-gatherer setup needs? A priest.” Instead, religious behavior seems to have emerged. Like acne in adolescence or unsolicited advice from aunties. It just showed up. And it stuck. Why? Because it worked. Functionally. Socially. Biologically. We’re not saying it was divinely programmed. We’re saying it was adaptive. Let’s break it down. 1. Religion Is the Original Social Glue Before Instagram communities and WhatsApp prayer groups, how did early humans maintain social order? Rituals. Shared myths. Communal beliefs. Translation: religion. You need people to work together in big groups? Want to prevent folks from murdering each other over firewood? Need loyalty beyond family ties? Boom: invent an invisible supervisor in the sky who’s watching your every move and has very specific opinions about shellfish. Studies show that large-scale cooperation becomes more sustainable when people believe in a moralizing...

Let’s start with the premise: sacred texts are books that claim divine origin or at least divine endorsement. They’re often said to be: Inspired by God(s) Written by prophets, disciples, or holy ghostwriters Infallible, eternal, and Not Up For Debate Whether it’s the Bible, the Quran, the Bhagavad Gita, the Torah, or ancient African oral epics passed down through generations—these texts are more than just literature. They’re life manuals, moral codes, historical accounts, and celestial hotlines… depending on who you ask. The Holy Whispers Now let’s be honest: these texts didn’t just fall from the sky on golden parchment with a divine “signed, sealed, delivered.” Most of them were: Written over centuries Edited, translated, re-translated, and sometimes accidentally mistranslated Filtered through the culture, politics, propaganda and prejudices of the time And yet, people will still say: “It’s the exact word of God. Don’t question it.” Mate. If you’ve ever played broken telephone at a pa...

You stubbed your toe on a Monday morning. You missed your bus. Your crush liked someone else’s thirst trap. And your first thought? “This is definitely payback for that thing I said in 2016.” Welcome to the guilt simulator—where the universe becomes your personal therapist-slash-disciplinarian, and everything bad that happens is somehow… your fault. The Universe Doesn’t Hate You, But Your Brain Might Here’s the thing: we humans are excellent at spotting patterns. Sometimes too excellent. We’re like conspiracy theorists at a red string convention. “I didn’t get the job. Must be karma.” “My phone fell. Clearly, the ancestors are upset.” “It rained on my picnic. God hates me personally.” No my friend, it’s just weather, capitalism, and gravity. But try telling that to a brain raised on cause and effect, and sprinkled with cultural seasoning. From Campfires to Cosmic Judgment See, in early human tribes, if something bad happened, you had to explain it. And preferably, blame someone. “Oh no...

So there you are, walking alone at night, wind whistling, leaves rustling, and suddenly—snap! A twig breaks in the distance. Do you: a) Assume it’s the wind and keep walking like a rational adult? b) Start internally drafting your will because clearly there’s a demon in the bushes? If you picked (b), congratulations—you’ve just experienced Agency Detection, humanity’s built-in, overly paranoid smoke alarm for invisible people. Your Brain: Now Featuring Paranoia 2.0 Agency detection is your brain’s automatic tendency to assume that things that move, make noise, or exist might be agents—that is, beings with intentions, desires, and plans. And not just any plans, no. Plans to rob you, eat you, break your heart, or at the very least, ruin your afternoon. Why? Because a long time ago, it paid to be suspicious. If you heard rustling in the grass and assumed it was just the wind, but it was actually a lion—congrats, you’re lunch. But if you assumed it was a lion and it was just the wind? No h...

If God loves us so much, why is He ghosting us? So imagine this: You’re in a relationship, right? You text bae, “Hey, I miss you.” No reply. You call. Nothing. You send flowers. They wilt outside an empty door. But then you see them updating their Insta story from Bali like, “#Blessed.” That’s basically divine hiddenness in a nutshell. We’re told God loves us more than we could ever imagine. Cool. Awesome. Great marketing. But also… He’s got the communication skills of a ZESA outage. Total blackout. You’re going through heartbreak, war, famine, existential dread, and all you get is… crickets. No DMs. No visions. No pillar of fire. Just vibes. And people will tell you: “Ahh, God works in mysterious ways.” Yeah? So does Econet network. The Divine Hiddenness problem asks a pretty straightforward question: If God exists, is loving, and wants a relationship with us—why is He playing hard to get? Like, why does He reveal Himself to some people through dreams, prophets, miracles, and goats ta...

No, my guy, you don’t get to say “prove me wrong” after dropping nonsense Let’s set the scene. Someone stands up and confidently declares: “There’s a giant invisible lion in my backyard that whispers life advice to me.” And when you give them the side-eye, they say, “You can’t prove there isn’t one. Checkmate.” Ladies and gentlemen: this is how conversations die. See, in logic, there’s a thing called “The Burden of Proof.” It’s not a gym routine. It’s a basic rule that says: If you make the claim, you bring the receipts. You don’t get to say wild stuff and expect the rest of us to disprove it. That’s not a discussion, that’s spiritual gaslighting. If I say “I own a pet dragon named Leonard,” I need to show you evidence. You don’t have to check every cave in Zimbabwe just to prove I’m lying. Until I show you a dragon doing the cha-cha in my kitchen, you’re free to not believe me. And yet, in religious debates, this logic gets thrown out like expired maheu. You say, “I don’t believe in G...

First of all, I’d like to thank God. For what? Everything. Woke up today? God. Found a parking spot in town? God. Didn’t get caught cheating in that group project? God. Lost the finals? It’s the devil. Or God teaching you “a lesson.” Ah yes, the classic divine feedback loop: blessings = confirmation, suffering = character development. Let’s talk about this strange human tendency to always look for someone to thank… or someone to blame. Because apparently, the idea that “things just happen” is more terrifying than ZESA at dinner time. Why Gratitude Feels Like a Moral Obligation When life’s going well, we want to show appreciation. But to who? That feeling — that warm, fuzzy “I should thank someone for this” feeling — is a deeply ingrained emotional reflex. Evolution baked it into our DNA like a good sadza recipe. Gratitude evolved because it helped build trust and cooperation. You scratch my back, I thank you. Next time I’ll scratch yours. It’s social currency — a way to keep favours fl...

Let’s get one thing out the way real quick: If you’ve ever stubbed your toe and shouted “God, why?!” you’ve already dipped your toe into the deep end of theology. Because The Problem of Evil isn’t just a philosophical headache — it’s the elephant in the holy room. It’s the awkward family member nobody wants to talk about during Sunday lunch. It’s this: If God is all-powerful, all-knowing, and all-good… Then why is the world full of pain, suffering, injustice, and pineapple on pizza? You’d think an all-loving deity wouldn’t let children die of cancer, or tsunamis swallow entire villages, or let you send that risky text to your ex. But here we are. The Divine Dilemma The ancient Greeks already smelled something fishy. Epicurus laid it out like this: If God can stop evil, but doesn’t, then he’s not good. If God wants to stop evil, but can’t, then he’s not powerful. If he can and wants to stop evil… then where the hell is he? Fast forward to today, and theologians are still spinning like a...