If Evolution is Proven How Can God Exist?
Three possible answers:
The Premise is right - God cannot exist.
The Premise is right - God used evolution as a process to create the world and humankind.
The Premise is wrong - Evolution is not proven and God created the world and humankind.
I have my opinion on these issues. I could go into a long study with tons of details. However all misses the point.
You see the theory of Evolution fails to address the key question.
The key question: How did life begin?
Six Modern theories which leave out God.
Random chance
The Big Bang theory is a problem. There just isn’t that much time. There has been only 5 billion years from the beginning of time. And for most of that time, the earth was "Cooling down".
Chemical affinity
Some chemicals – the ones that are building blocks to life just naturally tend to bond together. This is completely disproved. There is some self-ordering tendencies in the materials of nature. Crystals – Ice is a good example.
However it’s kinda like having a book with the same information repeating a zillion times. I love you; I love you, I love you. Crystals are interesting but they aren’t alive – Life is a lot more complex.
Seeding from Space
Spores from another place in space came to planet Earth either by accident or planted. This theory begs the question – Where did that life come from?
Vents in the Ocean
Heat destroys protein - so much for that theory!
Life from Clay
Like the crystals if there is any order and structure it is rudimentary and repeating – it is not life.
There are no answers. There are attempts at explaining the origin of life, however .....
The most reasonable inference are through observation of nature.
Carl Sagan was a noted astronomer whose lifelong passion was searching for intelligent life in the cosmos. The movie "Contact " tried.
One movie depicted attempted communication from space through the use of prime numbers which are divisible only by themselves and 1.
Must be an intelligence out there. DNA - there is more information in a single strand than is contained in 30 volume set of Encyclopedia Britannica.
Doesn’t this point to an intelligent designer? God is the intelligent designer. God is the author of life.
Genesis 2:7 And the LORD God formed a man’s body from the dust of the ground and breathed into it the breath of life. And the man became a living person.
God is the author of my life.
Psalms 139:13 - You made all the delicate, inner parts of my body and knit me together in my mother’s womb. Thank you for making me so wonderfully complex! Your workmanship is marvelous – and how well I know it. You watched me as I was being formed in utter seclusion, as I was woven together in the dark of the womb.
God made My Life to be like His Life.
Genesis 1:27 - Then God said, "Let us make people in our image, to be like ourselves. They will be masters over all life – the fish in the sea, the birds in the sky, and all the livestock, wild animals, and small animals." So God created people in his own image; God patterned them after himself; male and female he created them.
God cares about My Life.
Hebrews 2:6-8 - For somewhere in the Scriptures it says, "What is man that you should think of him, and the son of man that you should care for him? For a little while you made him lower than the angels, and you crowned him with glory and honor. You gave him authority over all things." Now when it says "all things," it means nothing is left out. But we have not yet seen all of this happen.
What does all this mean?
You are not an accident and there is more to life than existence. There is a plan, a dream, a hope for you – from the day you were made until this very day.
As father God has hopes for His children, as a father I have hopes for my three daughters. I love them all.
A story by Phillip Yancy found in Christianity Today 10/6/97
A young girl grows up on a cherry orchard just above Traverse City, Michigan. Her parents, a bit old-fashioned, tend to overreact to her nose ring, the music she listens to, and the length of her skirts.
They ground her a few times, and she seethes inside. "I hate you!" she screams at her father when he knocks on the door of her room after an argument, and that night she acts on a plan she has mentally rehearsed scores of times. She runs away.
She has visited Detroit only once before, on a bus trip with her church youth group to watch the Tigers play. Because newspapers in Traverse City report in lurid detail the gangs, drugs, and violence in downtown Detroit, she concludes that is probably the last place her parents will look for her.
California, maybe, or Florida, but not Detroit.
Her second day there she meets a man who drives the biggest car she’s ever seen. He offers her a ride, buys her lunch, arranges a place for her to stay.
He gives her some pills that make her feel better than she’s ever felt before.
She was right all along, she decides: her parents were keeping her from all the fun. The good life continues for a month, two months, a year.
The man with the big car--she calls him "Boss"--teaches her a few things that men like. Since she’s underage, men pay a premium for her. She lives in a penthouse and orders room service whenever she wants.
Occasionally she thinks about the folks back home, but their lives now seem so boring and provincial that she can hardly believe she grew up there.
She has a brief scare when she sees her picture printed on the back of a milk carton with the headline, "Have you seen this child?" But by now she has blond hair, and with all the makeup and body-piercing jewelry she wears, nobody would mistake her for a child.
Besides, most of her friends are runaways, and nobody squeals in Detroit. After a year, the first sallow signs of illness appear, and it amazes her how fast the boss turns mean. "These days, we can’t mess around," he growls, and before she knows it she’s out on the street without a penny to her name.
She still turns a couple of tricks a night, but they don’t pay much, and all the money goes to support her habit. When winter blows in she finds herself sleeping on metal grates outside the big department stores.
"Sleeping" is the wrong word--a teenage girl at night in downtown Detroit can never relax her guard. Dark bands circle her eyes. Her cough worsens.
One night, as she lies awake listening for footsteps, all of a sudden everything about her life looks different. She no longer feels like a woman of the world. She feels like a little girl, lost in a cold and frightening city. She begins to whimper. Her pockets are empty and she’s hungry. She needs a fix.
She pulls her legs tight underneath her and shivers under the newspapers she’s piled atop her coat.
Something jolts a synapse of memory and a single image fills her mind: of May in Traverse City, when a million cherry trees bloom at once, with her golden retriever dashing through the rows and rows of blossomy trees in chase of a tennis ball.
God, why did I leave, she says to herself, and pain stabs at her heart. My dog back home eats better than I do now. She’s sobbing, and she knows in a flash that more than anything else in the world she wants to go home.
Three straight phone calls, three straight connections with the answering machine. She hangs up without leaving a message the first two times, but the third time she says, "Dad, Mom, it’s me. I was wondering about maybe coming home.
I’m catching a bus up your way, and it’ll get there about midnight tomorrow. If you’re not there, well, I guess I’ll just stay on the bus until it hits Canada."
It takes about seven hours for a bus to make all the stops between Detroit and Traverse City, and during that time she realizes the flaws in her plan. What if her parents are out of town and miss the message? Shouldn’t she have waited another day or so until she could talk to them?
Even if they are home, they probably wrote her off as dead long ago. She should have given them some time to overcome the shock.
Her thoughts bounce back and forth between those worries and the speech she is preparing for her father. "Dad, I’m sorry. I know I was wrong. It’s not your fault, it’s all mine. Dad, can you forgive me?"
She says the words over and over, her throat tightening even as she rehearses them. She hasn’t apologized to anyone in years.
The bus has been driving with lights on since Bay City. Tiny snowflakes hit the road, and the asphalt steams. She’s forgotten how dark it gets at night out here. A deer darts across the road and the bus swerves. Every so often, a billboard, a sign posting the mileage to Traverse City. Oh, God.
When the bus finally rolls into the station, its air brakes hissing in protest, the driver announces in a crackly voice over the microphone, "Fifteen minutes, folks. That’s all we have here." Fifteen minutes to decide her life.
She checks herself in a compact mirror, smoothes her hair, and licks the lipstick off her teeth. She looks at the tobacco stains on her fingertips, and wonders if her parents will notice - if they’re there.
She walks into the terminal not knowing what to expect, and not one of the thousand scenes that have played out in her mind prepare her for what she sees.
There, in the concrete-walls-and-plastic-chairs bus terminal in Traverse City, Michigan, stands a group of 40 brothers and sisters and great-aunts and uncles and cousins and a grandmother and great-grandmother to boot.
They are all wearing ridiculous-looking party hats and blowing noisemakers, and taped across the entire wall of the terminal is a computer-generated banner that reads "Welcome home!"
Out of the crowd of well-wishers breaks her dad.
She looks through tears and begins the memorized speech, "Dad, I’m sorry. I know . . . " He interrupts her. "Hush, child. We’ve got no time for that. No time for apologies. You’ll be late for the party. A banquet’s waiting for you at home."
Your God loves you the same way.
I want to encourage you to get to know Him. Read His word. Get to know His son Jesus.
Specific steps you can take: Begin reading the Gospel of John. Begin praying to your Heavenly Father. When you are ready give him your life. Let me know that you are ready to take this step.
