"Does It Still Make Sense to Believe in God?" – An Imaginary Conversation with John Scotus Eriugena

 

There are moments in life when everything that once seemed solid begins to crumble. It doesn't always happen because of a great tragedy. 

Sometimes it's simply the result of countless small disappointments, long silences, and expectations left unmet. 

You find yourself staring at the ceiling in the middle of the night, wondering when you stopped truly feeling alive.

You still go to work. You smile when necessary. You answer messages, buy groceries, pay your bills. Life goes on. Yet, deep inside, something has gone quiet.

It is in one of those moments that I imagine meeting John Scotus Eriugena.

I don't know how it happens. 

Perhaps it's a dream. Perhaps it's a vision born from exhaustion. 

I see him sitting across from me, calm, attentive, almost curious. 

He doesn't look like a man who claims to possess every answer. Instead, he seems like someone who has spent an entire lifetime asking better questions.

I look at him and finally ask what has been haunting me for months.

"Tell me something. Does it still make sense to believe in God? Because I can't believe the way I used to. I've prayed. I've waited. I've searched for signs. But silence has always been louder than any answer. Honestly, I don't even know whether I'm speaking to someone... or simply to the void."

Eriugena doesn't answer immediately.

He lets the question breathe.

Then he quietly replies,

"Perhaps the problem is that you've expected God to keep proving His presence."

"Shouldn't He?"

"Why should He?"

His answer unsettles me.

"Because if God exists, He should help those who suffer. At the very least, He should make Himself known."

A faint smile crosses his face.

"You are asking God to become one object among other objects. One voice among many voices. But if God truly is the source of all existence, how could He simply be another presence within creation?"

I remain silent.

"So you're saying I should simply accept that He never answers?"

"No," he replies. "I'm asking whether you're certain you already know what an answer is supposed to look like."

The distinction is subtle, yet it strikes me deeply.

For most of my life I had imagined faith as a kind of unspoken contract.

I believe.

God listens.

I ask.

He responds.

I suffer.

He comforts.

But what if I had built an image of God that was far too small?

"Do you know what really troubles me?" I ask.

"The world keeps moving as if God doesn't exist. Wars continue. Children die. Diseases spread. Injustice wins. Where is God in all of this?"

Eriugena lowers his eyes for a moment before speaking.

"Your question is as old as humanity itself. But perhaps you're looking for God in the wrong place."

"Then where should I look?"

"Not only in the events that change history, but in the very possibility that anything exists at all instead of nothing."

I shake my head.

"That sounds like a philosophical way of avoiding the real problem."

He laughs softly.

"In part, yes. I am a philosopher. But let me ask you something instead. You exist. You are capable of love. You can recognize good and evil. You even suffer because you long for meaning. Where do you think all of that comes from?"

"Evolution," many people would answer.

"And where does evolution come from? What gives rise to the laws that make it possible? Why is there being instead of absolute nothingness? Philosophy cannot remove suffering. But it prevents us from abandoning the questions that matter most."

That sentence stays with me.

Because, if I'm honest, my crisis didn't begin when I became convinced that God didn't exist.

It began with disappointment.

And disappointment always implies that hope once existed.

Perhaps I was still angry with God precisely because, deep down, I had never completely stopped looking for Him.

"Can I tell you what frightens me the most?"

"Of course."

"I'm afraid that believing in God is nothing more than telling myself a comforting story in order to survive."

Eriugena slowly shakes his head.

"Faith was never meant to make life easier. If that were its purpose, it would collapse the moment real suffering arrived."

"Then what is faith for?"

He surprises me again.

"Perhaps it isn't for anything."

I stare at him in disbelief.

"What do you mean?"

"Not everything that is true must also be useful. Do you love someone because it is useful? Do you admire beauty because it gives you an advantage? Do you seek truth because it increases your salary?"

I can't help smiling.

"No."

"Then perhaps the real question isn't whether faith is useful. The real question is whether what you believe is true."

Those words cut deeper than I expected.

For years I had evaluated faith according to its usefulness.

Does it make me happier?

Does it comfort me?

Does it protect me?

But perhaps I had been asking entirely the wrong questions.

Maybe faith is not a tool.

Maybe it is a lifelong search.

"And what if I never find a definitive answer?"

He smiles.

"Then welcome to philosophy."

After a brief silence he adds,

"Even doubt can become a path toward truth, provided it doesn't become an excuse to stop searching."

We both fall silent.

I look toward the sky.

I think about the years behind me.

The times I prayed only because I wanted something.

The moments I stopped praying because nothing seemed to happen.

Perhaps I had never truly learned to live with mystery.

I wanted explanations.

Guarantees.

Certainty.

Life had offered me none of those.

"So are you telling me I should keep believing?"

Eriugena looks at me with remarkable gentleness.

"No."

I stare at him, surprised once again.

"I cannot tell you what you must believe. I can only invite you not to mistake silence for absence."

Those words remain suspended between us.

Because perhaps silence is only silence.

Or perhaps it is something far deeper than our understanding allows.

Maybe the limitation lies not in God...

...but in the way we listen.

Perhaps God is not a problem to be solved.

Perhaps He is a mystery to be entered.

When I finally stand to leave, I realize something has changed.

Not because I suddenly recovered my faith.

Not because every question has finally been answered.

But because I understood one thing.

A crisis is not necessarily the opposite of faith.

Sometimes it is the place where a superficial faith breaks apart, making room for something far more authentic.

To continue believing in God does not mean closing our eyes to suffering or abandoning reason. It means accepting that some questions are greater than ourselves, and that the search for truth does not end when certainty disappears.

At least in this imagined conversation, John Scotus Eriugena did not ask me for blind obedience.

He asked something far more demanding.

Never stop searching.

Because perhaps faith is not about possessing God.

Perhaps it is about allowing ourselves to be questioned by the mystery of existence—even when heaven seems silent.

And maybe, just maybe, the fact that we are still searching is itself a sign that the journey is not yet over.