Personal Blogs

Is Humanity Being Observed?

Have you ever felt someone is staring at you from a distance. It could be intimidating or it could be a compassionate gaze, depending on your actions in life.  NASA among other nations  have poured billions into the search for life beyond our planet. But what are we truly looking for? Is it curiosity alone that drives us, or a deep, unspoken desire to be acknowledged by voices from other worlds? And if intelligent beings were out there, watching us, how would they judge the way we live on this fragile blue planet?

Think of it: Earth is overflowing with resources, enough to nourish every man, woman, and child. Yet images of starving children, hollow-eyed with hunger, still reach our screens. Diseases that could be cured with a few pills continue to take lives, while others spend fortunes on luxuries. In our cities, men and women sleep in doorways, while vast stretches of land lie unused. Drugs erode communities, and leaders—charged with steering nations—argue endlessly, unable to find unity even on the simplest matters. It is chaos dressed as progress, like trying to net fish in a storm.

And still, we imagine ourselves prepared to welcome strangers from the stars.

What would they see in us? They might acknowledge our ingenuity—rockets leaving Earth’s pull, symphonies that stir the heart, and sciences that peel back the fabric of reality. But would their hearts not ache at our inhumanity and contradictions? At our greed, our divisions, our blindness to injustice? Would they wonder why a species so richly blessed refuses to live by the principles that could heal its wounds?

And perhaps the greater question is not what they would make of us, but what we would make of them. Suppose these visitors did not arrive with weapons or dazzling technologies, but with a message—simple, ancient, and moral. Imagine them urging us to love our neighbour indeed, not just in speech. To be faithful in our commitments, to tell the truth, to show kindness to the vulnerable—the poor, the elderly, the orphan, the widow. To treat animals with dignity, to resist envy, greed, and gossip, to pay fair wages without exploitation. To live humbly, compassionately, humanly.

Would we welcome such wisdom, or scoff at it, as we so often dismiss the moral compass already laid before us and look where we are? 

It is sobering to realize that the virtues we might hope for from enlightened extra-terrestrials are the very values humanity has long been taught—but so often neglects. Could it be that the wisdom we seek in distant galaxies has already been given to us, whispered through centuries?

Perhaps they are already watching, not with curiosity but with judgment. Not descending in spaceships, but observing from afar, weighing how we care for the gifts entrusted to us. In this sense, they might resemble the God described in 2 Chronicles 16:9: “For the eyes of the LORD roam throughout the earth to strengthen those whose hearts are fully committed to him.”

The apostle Paul spoke similarly to the Athenians: “That they should seek the Lord, if perhaps they might feel after him and find him, though he is not far from each one of us” (Acts 17:27). Could it be that in our restless search among the stars, we overlook the presence of the eternal that is already nearby?

Before we stretch our gaze outward, perhaps we must first look inward. For if we cannot learn to live in peace with each other on Earth, what chance do we have of understanding life beyond it? The real discovery may not be out there, among the constellations, but here—within our own humanity, waiting to be lived.

Joy was a “desire that is itself more desirable than any satisfaction.”

“You have made us for yourself, O Lord, and our heart is restless until it rests in you.”

— Augustine, Confessions

There is an ache that follows us, quietly persistent. We feel it in the stillness after the music fades, in the let down that follows even our happiest moments, in the silence after a longed-for dream has been realised, and still, something is missing. Some try to fill it with materialism, the new car, the new house, sex, travel and other forms of temporary pleasures that create that dopamine lift that quickly fades.

Augustine named this ache centuries ago. It is the restlessness of the soul made for another world.

Augustine’s confession is not just personal it's universal. Every human life is lived in pursuit of something that seems always just out of reach. The ancient philosopher Blaise Pascal described it as a “God-shaped vacuum” in the heart of every man, something no created thing can fill. We attempt to plug it with distractions, with ambition, with relationships, with causes, but none last. They flicker, and the ache returns.

C.S. Lewis, perhaps our greatest modern apologist of longing, called this ache Joy, but not joy in the way we commonly speak of it. For Lewis, Joy was a “desire that is itself more desirable than any satisfaction.” It came unbidden, in glimpses—a shaft of sunlight in the woods, a half-remembered song, the smell of autumn leaves—and vanished before it could be captured. It was not the thing itself, but the signpost toward it. Lewis came to believe that Joy was evidence not of delusion, but of design. “If I find in myself desires which nothing in this world can satisfy,” he wrote, “the most probable explanation is that I was made for another world.”

Augustine, Pascal, and Lewis all agree on something essential: we are creatures with eternity planted in our hearts. We bear the imprint of a home we have never fully seen but somehow remember. We are like exiles, living with a homesickness that nothing here can cure. And this is not weakness—it is revelation.

The modern world tells us to silence this restlessness. It offers distractions, consumerism, achievement, digital escapism. But Christianity dares to say: no, listen to it. That ache is not the problem; it is the pointer. Like hunger points to food, and thirst to water, so longing points to God.

Pascal wrote that the infinite abyss within us “can only be filled by an infinite and immutable object; in other words, by God himself.” Not ideas about God. Not religion for its own sake. But God, personal, relational, knowable.

This is the essence of apologetics not as argument, but as invitation. We do not only offer evidence for God's existence; we invite weary souls to come home. The restless heart, the sudden Joy, the persistent yearning—these are whispers of the divine calling us to return. As Augustine put it, “Late have I loved you, beauty so old and so new.”

To speak of God, then, is to speak not just of theology, but of homecoming—of the One in whom every longing finds its end, and every wandering heart, its rest.

"God did this so that they would seek him and perhaps reach out for him and find him, though he is not far from any one of us.." — Acts 17:27 (BSB).

 Hello World! Escape Loneliness - DownToMeet

 ^"It is better to trust in the Lord than to put confidence in man."

Psalm118:8 KIV.

Image kindly provided by https://unsplash.com/@ryan_riggins

Religion is deeply personal. For many, it shapes how they see the world, make decisions, and find purpose. But what happens when doubts creep in? Is it wrong—maybe even sinful—to question your beliefs? Or could it be a sign of faith, a desire to seek truth and draw closer to God?

People question their religion for all sorts of reasons. Some do it out of a sincere longing to understand and to ensure their faith aligns with God's will. Others, admittedly, may use doctrinal issues as a convenient excuse to throw off moral accountability. But the act of questioning itself isn’t inherently wrong. What matters is the motive behind it.

When my wife and I decided to step away from our religion, it wasn’t an impulsive choice. We wanted to return to the core of our faith, so we turned to the Gospels and the Book of Acts. We asked ourselves, What do God and Jesus actually require of us? That journey wasn’t easy, but it brought us a profound sense of freedom.

For three decades, I felt trapped, always busy with religious obligations, spinning like a Sufi whirler who never stops to reflect. I couldn’t sit down and enjoy a movie without guilt or take a day for leisure without feeling I was neglecting something. Once we stepped back, though, I found myself with time to study God’s word independently, free from outside pressures. It was refreshing in a way I hadn’t experienced before.

Around that time, I read Nothing to Envy by Barbara Demick, a book about life in North Korea. It opened my eyes to how people can hold two conflicting beliefs at the same time. North Koreans are taught that Kim Jong Un is a god, but deep down, they see the lack of evidence. Speaking those doubts aloud, however, could lead to isolation or worse.

I saw unsettling parallels with my own experience. In my religion, questioning the system was frowned upon, even dangerous. Isolation wasn’t physical imprisonment, but it was emotional and social. Doubts were equated with disloyalty, and leaving could cost you everything.

Contrast that with the example of the Bereans in the Bible. In Acts 17, Paul and Silas share the gospel in Berea, and the people there don’t just take their word for it. They eagerly examine the Scriptures daily to see if what they’re being taught is true. That’s what makes the Bereans noble—they don’t blindly accept; they investigate.

When I started examining my own beliefs in that way, I realized how many of them didn’t hold up. It wasn’t a sinful rebellion against God; it was a return to Him. I wanted to know Him more deeply, not through the filter of human rules and traditions, but directly through His word.

It does sadden me when I see others leave religion and lose faith entirely, often blaming God for what they endured. But the Bible warns us not to put our trust in men. People can fail us, but God remains constant. Leaving a religion doesn’t mean abandoning God. In fact, it can be an opportunity to grow closer to Him.

I often think about the issue raised in Eden: Will humanity remain loyal to God, or will we go our own way? That question is just as relevant today. The choice is ours, but it’s not one between blind obedience to human institutions and total rejection of faith. There’s a third path: one of seeking truth, understanding, and a deeper connection with God.

So, is it a sin to question your religion? I don’t believe so. In fact, I think it’s necessary. Asking questions can strengthen faith, strip away unnecessary burdens, and bring clarity. Jesus himself said, “You will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.” Truth isn’t something to fear—it’s something to pursue.