Questions of faith

There’s a question that has lingered in my mind for years, surfacing most vividly in quiet moments—especially at Christmas, when the paradox of divinity and humanity feels most present. It’s the question of sin, consequence, and the uneasy tension between free will and predestination.

If God is all-knowing, omnipresent, omnipotent—if He has laid out the course of the universe from its first light to its final breath—why, then, do humans bear the weight of their choices? Is free will truly ours, or is it an illusion, as some argue, a kind of Noam Chomsky’s manufactured consent? Are we merely following the breadcrumbs of a divine hand, walking paths already chosen for us?

And if those paths are indeed chosen, why does God not clean up the messes Himself? Why leave it to us—burdened and flawed—to bear the consequences of choices He foreknew? Yes, we are told He intervened—on the cross, no less—but even that act leaves questions. Why for us? Why not for Himself and His design?

These thoughts, for better or worse, accompany me even in the most mundane of moments—like a ten-minute shower. But then, that's exactly when I was revealed to the answer. There. In the shower. The water cascades down, pooling at my feet. I can’t help but think about gravity. That inescapable pull, blending droplets into the surface below. And here, perhaps, lies the answer: Gravity.

Gravity is the silent architect of our reality. It is the unseen force that binds planets to their orbits, keeps our feet planted on the ground, and—perhaps most profoundly—warps the very dimensions through which we move.

To understand gravity is to understand dimensions. We navigate life in three spatial dimensions—length, width, height—while moving inexorably through a fourth: time. Gravity governs how these dimensions interact. It is not merely a force but a curvature, a bending of space and time itself. The more massive an object, the more it distorts the space around it, creating wells and slopes that we perceive as gravitational pull.

Let me rewind a bit and tell you what I mean.

Most of us know what the four dimensions involve, but here I'll lay out the gist so we're on the same page. The 0th dimension is a point: no length, width or height — a single position in space. The 1st dimension is a line: it has length, but no width nor height — straight path between two points. The 2nd is a plane. Imagine a square. It has length and width but no depth. The 3rd dimension is the world we experience: it has length, width, and depth — allowing us to exist with volume. The 4th dimension is time. It introduces the element of progression. We move through time — but we experience it linearly — one moment after another — without the ability to revisit the past or jump into the future at will — same as (probably) beings who are restricted in the 1st dimension who can only move forward and backward in a line, without being able to break that boundary.

But gravity is more than just an invisible tether between objects. Time itself is stretched and compressed by its influence—running slower near massive gravitational fields, accelerating in the void. This phenomenon, known as gravitational time dilation, reveals a fundamental truth: time is not absolute. It is not a rigid sequence but a fluid dimension, as malleable as space.

And yet, some theories suggest that what we perceive is only a fraction of a much greater reality. String theory, one of the boldest attempts to unify the laws of physics, proposes that gravity extends beyond our familiar four dimensions into unseen realms. It suggests that the universe consists of additional spatial dimensions—hidden, curled up at subatomic scales, imperceptible to us yet still exerting their influence.

In fact, there are mind-bending theories on 11 dimensions beyond our world — suggesting that there might be a realm where all possible timelines exist, or where different starting conditions for those timelines emerge. Of course, these remaining dimensions are speculative, but they are immense possibilities that are drawn logically from what humans know throughout history and research.

We experience time as a sequence, a straight line moving forward. But what if there are beings who dwell in higher dimensions?

Imagine time not as a line but as a bookshelf, each moment a book you can touch, move, or rearrange. This is what Christopher Nolan’s Interstellar explored when Cooper manipulated time through gravity. From his vantage point, time was not a flow but an object—something he could reach into, sending messages across what we perceive as past, present, and future.

So, what if our unknowing is what gives life to choice? Because we cannot see the future, every decision feels like an act of will. I chose this word. And now this one. I am writing these sentences of my own volition—or so it seems. But if time is not linear, as science suggests, then perhaps free will and predestination are simply two sides of the same coin.

For God, then, time might be a canvas, not a sequence. He does not dictate each step we take—He simply sees all steps at once, understanding the whole of creation in a single, timeless moment. From our perspective, we choose freely. From His perspective, it all simply is.

And here lies the beauty—and the mystery. It’s not that I make a choice and alter my future. Nor is it that my future is fixed and my choices are illusions. It is that both truths coexist. My choices matter because I experience them in time. My future is known because God transcends time.

This all reminds me of J. K. Rowling's Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. Last chapter: The Lost Prophecy. The very long conversation between Harry and Dumbledore — which was sadly completely left out in the movie.

That time Harry saw through the Pensieve the prophecy of Voldemort:

"The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches... born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies... and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have the power the Dark Lord knows not... and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives... the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies..."

Harry asked Dumbledore what it meant, until he said: 'It meant that the person who has the only chance of conquering Lord Voldemort for good was born at the end of July, nearly sixteen years ago. This boy would be born to parents who had already defied Voldemort three times.'

Harry asked: 'It means — me?'

Dumbledore took a deep breath.

'The odd thing, Harry,' he said softly, 'is that it may not have meant you at all. Sybill's prophecy could have applied to two wizard boys, both born at the end of July that year, both of whom had parents in the Order of the Phoenix, both sets of parents having narrowly escaped Voldemort three times. One, of course, was you. The other was Neville Longbottom.'

'But then... but then, why was it my name on the prophecy and not Neville's?'

'You're forgetting the next part of the prophecy, the final identifyiing feature of the boy who could vanquish Voldemort... Voldemort himself would mark him as his equal. And so he did, Harry. He chose you, not Neville. He gave you the scar that has proved both blessing and curse.'

It was prophesied. And yet he chose.

And so, this paradox becomes a joyful mystery—not a puzzle to solve but a truth to live within. Faith and science, far from being adversaries, enrich one another. Science explains the mechanics of our universe, but faith fills in the spaces science cannot reach. Science tells us how. Faith whispers why.