Religion has always been branding over substance. Snake oil in a chalice. A promise wrapped in parchment and soaked in fear. You’re told this “God” character is everything you could ever need—powerful enough to do anything, smart enough to know everything, and so full of love that He’ll happily watch you rot in a ditch if it’ll teach someone else a lesson.
That’s what they sell you, anyway. Shiny, gold-trimmed blasphemy with a halo slapped on the contradiction. And most people? They just nod and swallow it down. Ask no questions, think no thoughts, feel blessed and grateful while drowning in cosmic gaslighting.
But then Robert A. Heinlein, blessed be his ink-stained name, rolled up his sleeves and lobbed this truth grenade into the temple:
"God is omnipotent, omniscient, and omnibenevolent — it says so right here on the label. If you have a mind capable of believing all three of these attributes simultaneously, I have a wonderful bargain for you. No checks, please. Cash and in small bills."
And there it is—the whole myth gutted with one clean cut. You can almost hear the angels clutching their pearls.
This isn’t a complicated critique. It’s not theological quantum mechanics. It’s just basic reasoning with a backbone. If your god is all-powerful, then there’s nothing he can’t do. If he’s all-knowing, he sees every tragedy coming down the pipeline. And if he’s all-good, he should want to stop it. But the world’s a blood-soaked disaster zone, a nonstop loop of birth, suffering, and death, occasionally punctuated by someone screaming “hallelujah” while their neighbor dies of sepsis because they couldn’t afford insulin.
So either God doesn’t care, or He’s not watching, or He can’t help. Pick your poison. But don’t tell me He’s all three while children die in warzones and hurricanes flatten towns full of believers who prayed just as hard as the televangelist driving his third Bentley.
Theologians have been trying to duct tape this mess together for centuries. “Free will,” they cry, as if free will has anything to do with earthquakes or childhood leukemia. “God has a plan,” they chant, like pawns trying to rationalize why the king just shoved them off the board. “Mysterious ways,” they whisper, right before passing the offering plate again.
It's all a sales pitch. The divine used-car lot. The hood’s up, the engine’s leaking, but the salesman’s still insisting it runs on holy grace and righteous fumes. The reality is, if a human being acted like this god—ignoring cries for help, punishing curiosity, demanding constant praise, and throwing tantrums when people don’t worship correctly—we’d call him a narcissistic psychopath. But slap “divine” on it, and suddenly it’s sacred.
No, it’s not sacred. It’s broken. And it always has been. The product doesn’t do what it says it does on the label. Hell, the label doesn’t even make sense. You can't have a being that's both infinitely loving and fully aware of every atrocity, yet refuses to lift a finger. That’s not benevolence. That’s negligence with a crown.
And here's the twisted cherry on top: the burden of proof is always shoved onto you. If the miracles don’t happen, it's your fault for not believing hard enough. If the prayers go unanswered, it’s because you’re being “tested.” If you suffer, well, maybe you deserved it. That’s the grift. That’s how the celestial con stays in business. And you—if you’re still buying this—are the mark.
Heinlein knew that. He smelled the scam and called it what it was. That line about cash in small bills? That’s not just a punchline. That’s a damn eulogy for common sense. Because only a fool pays for contradictions with reason—and the Church has been minting fools since the first Apostolic Council.
You want to believe in something divine? Fine. But don’t come to me waving a book full of genocides, divine hissy fits, and moral shell games and tell me it’s the infallible word of a perfect being. You’re worshiping a character that fails his own marketing copy.
This is what happens when you stop thinking and start kneeling. You become a brand ambassador for a product that never worked, never will, and charges you eternal loyalty for the privilege of pretending otherwise.
You deserve better. And no, I don’t mean “a better god.” I mean no gods. Just reality. Cold, imperfect, and honest. Because unlike Yahweh’s PR team, reality doesn’t lie to make you feel special. It just is. And from that, you build something real. No label required.
Further Reading:
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The Problem of Pain by C.S. Lewis (for a masterclass in mental gymnastics)
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God: The Failed Hypothesis by Victor J. Stenger
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The End of Faith by Sam Harris
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Letter to a Christian Nation by Sam Harris
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A History of God by Karen Armstrong
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The Portable Atheist edited by Christopher Hitchens
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