Why Would I Believe You?

A message to the Humans. The “Old Man” The Old Creation…..

Humanity loves to marvel at itself. It looks in the mirror and sees a god. It builds cities, launches rockets, solves equations, and then pats itself on the back as if that erases its bloodstained hands. It publishes journals, hosts conferences, and stares into telescopes trying to figure out what happened at the so-called beginning. But in the same breath that man boasts of progress, he reveals a grotesque inability to evolve where it matters most. He creates wonders, yes—but what he does with them reveals a terrifying truth: that intellect, detached from wisdom, is just a sharper blade for self-destruction. So I ask again, why would I believe you?

You want me to believe in your conclusions, your models, your textbooks, your proclamations about origins and meaning and metaphysics? You—who make arbitrary borders, then kill your own over them. You—who invented currency only to enslave yourselves to it. You—who burn the forests to make the paper that prints your economic systems. You—who slaughter animals into extinction and then teach children about conservation. You—who preach tolerance while poisoning each other with prejudice. You want me to believe in your authority on creation? On existence? On morality? Are you serious right now?

Because when I look at you, mankind, I don’t just see evil—I see capability. Uncanny capability. Capability to do extraordinary good… and unthinkable evil. You invented the wheel. You split the atom. You touched the moon. You built machines that think. You gave the world the internet. You cured diseases that once wiped out cities. You engineered towers into the clouds and crafted symphonies that moved the soul. You sent rovers to Mars, uncovered the structure of DNA, constructed cathedrals that rival heaven, and created technologies that simulate entire worlds. You are capable. But that only makes the next part harder to swallow: what you chose to do with that capability.

You created bombs. You sold your fellow man. You made children fight in wars. You programmed machines to lie and called it marketing. You imprisoned people for profit and called it justice. You celebrated narcissism, monetized attention, and weaponized fame. You made systems so rigged they collapse under the weight of their own hypocrisy. You educated minds while leaving hearts to rot. You developed nuclear power, then used it to hover threats over each other’s heads like divine judgment. You mastered virtual worlds while abandoning your real one. You are advanced, yes—but also deeply infected. Diseased with pride. And somehow, you look me in the face and say, “there is no God.” Are you serious right now?

I watched a video once where a physicist discussed antimatter and the Big Bang. He said, “In the beginning, antimatter did something it wasn’t supposed to do.” And I had to pause. Supposed to? According to who? According to you? You, the species that still can’t figure out how to love your neighbor? You, the species that still wages war for oil, for land, for pride? How would you know what antimatter was supposed to do? You’ve barely even touched the stuff. You’ve barely even touched peace. And yet you stand in front of a blackboard filled with equations and tell the world with conviction how the cosmos began—and more importantly, how it didn’t. And somehow, I’m supposed to just nod and agree? Again I ask: why would I believe you?

The arrogance of man is breathtaking. He studies a fingerprint and thinks he understands the hand. He watches the wind rustle a tree and thinks he understands the mind that breathed it into motion. He uncovers atomic patterns and assumes divine authorship. He names the forces but doesn’t know their origin. He labels phenomena but can’t grasp their intent. He reduces meaning to mechanism. And worst of all, he denies the necessity of God while living in a world that screams for Him. If there was ever a species that proved the need for salvation, it’s this one. If there was ever a creature whose track record demanded divine intervention, it’s man. And yet man looks up at the sky, chin held high, and scoffs. No God, he says. No need.

So tell me—what am I supposed to do with that? Am I to trust the species who built Auschwitz and the Hubble Telescope in the same century? The species who can craft symphonies and commit genocide? Who creates both hospitals and gas chambers? Who cures disease but manufactures poisons for profit? Who documents beauty while exploiting pain? You who wrote poetry and propaganda with the same pen. You who baptized in one breath and bombed in the next. You who simulate divine power in virtual spaces, but can’t even feed your own streets. Why, exactly, should I place my faith in your conclusions? Why would I let your textbooks determine the limits of my belief? Why would I take your denial of God seriously, when everything about you testifies to the need for one?

You are not neutral. You are not objective. You are not trustworthy. Your achievements are impressive, but your corruption runs deep. You are capable of touching stars, yes—but only after drowning your own in mud. So when you tell me there is no God—when you declare with scholarly certainty that we are random, purposeless, and alone—I cannot help but hear the echo of a child boasting about a house he built with no understanding of the forest he stole it from. You don’t even know what you don’t know. And still you speak as though your word is law. Are you serious right now?

In the end, I don’t reject your science because it’s wrong. I reject your conclusions because you’re the one making them. You, mankind, have proven one thing above all else: that you cannot be trusted with ultimate truth. You are capable—but you are corrupt. Brilliant—but blind. And that’s why I don’t believe you. Not because your telescopes don’t work. But because your souls don’t.