Feb 15th, 2026
Valentine’s Day is here, and while it may not seem obvious at first, this leads me to have the matters of God, consciousness, and being itself on my mind. Recently, I’ve begun to look at them from a new angle: the nature of love and intimacy, and how it relates to these deeper questions. What is love? Why do we love? What is intimacy? And perhaps most importantly — is true love and intimacy even possible without God? All questions deeply rooted in this particular holiday.
Throughout the years, the question of God’s existence has never been trivial to me. I am hardly unique in this. The same question has filled libraries and fueled debate since the moment humans first began recording their thoughts. Philosophers, theologians, skeptics, and poets have all wrestled with whether reality is ultimately grounded in something beyond itself, or whether it simply goes on of its own accord.
Broadly speaking, this debate tends to fall into two camps: the theist and the naturalist.
The naturalist believes that reality consists solely of time, space, matter, and energy — what we broadly call “nature.” This view claims that nature exists in its own right, independent of any outside cause or sustaining force. Everything that exists or could possibly exist is contained within this closed system, which functions without exception according to its unbreakable laws. These rules dictate fields and forces — gravity, electromagnetism, and the strong and weak nuclear interactions — which in turn govern the behavior of elementary particles. These particles combine to form atoms; atoms bond into molecules; molecules organize into complex chemical structures that give rise to cells. Cells form tissues, tissues form organs, organs form organisms, and organisms interact within ecosystems and larger systems. From quarks to galaxies, from synapses to societies, all phenomena are, in principle, reducible to and explainable by these material interactions. While the naturalist may admit we do not yet understand every phenomenon, he maintains that in principle, everything is contained within and explainable by nature itself.
The theist, by contrast, affirms all the sciences that explore nature and is often deeply fascinated by her intricacies, yet also recognizes that nature is not self-explanatory. Nature is a realm of cause and effect, and we would do well to study it; but chains of cause and effect do not explain their own existence. Ultimately, there must be a cause that is not itself caused — a necessary being who exists independent of time, space, and matter. The Christian believes this cause is God. God does not exist as one more item inside the universe, but as the ground of its existence — the one in whom it lives and moves and has its being.
The debate is complex and longstanding. Cosmological arguments, moral arguments, teleological arguments, even doctrinal arguments all have their place. For me, however, one of the most compelling considerations is consciousness. I often wonder if this is what Paul is referring to in Romans 1:20 when he says “For since the creation of the world His invisible attributes, His eternal power and divine nature, have been clearly seen, being understood through what has been made, so that they are without excuse.”
René Descartes captured this in his famous line, Cogito, ergo sum — “I think, therefore I am.” Even if everything else could be doubted, the fact of subjective experience could not. The very act of doubting proves the existence of the doubter.
Rocks do not doubt. Trees do not reflect on their own existence. Toaster ovens do not contemplate whether they are toaster ovens. Matter, as far as we can observe, possesses no interior awareness. Yet here we are — not merely existing, but aware that we exist.
I could almost grant the naturalist one miracle and concede that things simply exist. I might even be persuaded to grant the exceptional bearded specimen known as “Alex” existence in a purely naturalistic world — almost. I still have difficulties with this, but we can set those aside for now. What I cannot concede is my awareness of that existence. Conscious experience itself does not sit comfortably within a naturalistic framework. The fact of matter is already a difficult problem without God. But the idea of a conscious and aware mind observing that matter is something else entirely — something the naturalistic framework cannot explain. For me, this has been the foundation of belief — the starting point for what is “clearly seen.” It is here that my belief in God begins.
To deny this is to accept that reality consists only of matter and energy. If that is the case, then consciousness must ultimately be reduced to material processes — brain chemistry, neural firing, electrochemical patterns — as intricate, complex and wonderful as they may be. But even the most detailed account of those processes describes only the mechanism, not the experience itself. A map of neurons firing still cannot capture what it feels like to hope, to grieve, or to love.
There is something it is like to be you.
And this is where the tension deepens.
The naturalist can distinguish between different arrangements of matter. Health is preferable to disease. A nourishing meal is preferable to rotting slop. A reliable watch is better than a heap of scrap. Value, in this framework, is tied to fitness, satiation, and function. No doubt both the theist and the naturalist see value in these. The question is not if we recognize value, the question is what is the source of value?
For the naturalist, value ultimately reduces to utility. Things are good insofar as they serve a purpose within the system. Morality, too, becomes valuable only insofar as it promotes survival. Survival tends to flourish through cooperation and social stability, making moral behavior instrumentally useful for propagating the species. But usefulness is not the same as objective worth. Utility has no ultimate aim beyond continued existence. It has no transcendent goal.
This is not to say that the naturalist cannot love deeply or act morally. Many do. The question is not one of experience, but of explanation. The issue is not whether love exists within a materialist worldview, but whether it can be coherently grounded there. It is one thing to feel love; it is another to account for why that love carries moral weight beyond preference.
If human beings are merely highly complex biological machines — computational organisms shaped by evolutionary pressures — then our thoughts are outputs of neural circuitry. We process inputs, produce outputs, and behave according to encoded patterns. In that sense, we are sophisticated thinking machines, limited — like a calculator — to results determined by prior keystrokes and underlying programming.
But computation is not consciousness.
A computer manipulates symbols. It follows syntax. It can simulate conversation, even simulate affection — and the rise of AI only serves to blur this distinction. Yet simulation is not experience. A machine does not understand meaning; it does not possess interior awareness. There is nothing it is like to be a computer. The fundamental distinction lies between processing information and experiencing reality. If you were to convince me beyond a shadow of a doubt that we did live in a material only universe I would be forced to concede this point. I would have no choice but to admit a computer can have experiences just as I do, but with one caveat: We would not be free agents, but simply observers in the endless chain of cause and effect.
Love also presupposes agency. It assumes that the beloved can respond freely — can choose faithfulness or betrayal. If all human action is determined entirely by prior material causes, then love becomes inevitable chemistry rather than chosen commitment. Yet we do not experience ourselves as passive spectators watching the machinery of the universe unfold. We deliberate. We choose. We repent. We forgive. Moral life assumes real agency. Without it, praise and blame become meaningless, and love collapses into a mechanism.
Still, suppose the naturalist says that consciousness simply emerges from very complex arrangements of matter. Let’s grant that for the sake of argument — that enough complexity produces awareness. Even then, the problem isn’t solved. If that’s true, then worth becomes a sliding scale measured by intelligence, mental ability, or neurological sophistication. And complexity is fragile. It changes. It weakens. It fades.
Or maybe value rests in endurance — in staying alive, in continuing on. But material things do not endure, at least not forever. Our bodies, like every physical structure, will eventually break down and return to dust. The neural systems that carry our thoughts and memories will one day fall silent. Without something eternal behind us, our existence is temporary and eventually forgotten. Even if you manage to rationalize your way into meaning now, where will that meaning reside once all who had meaning are long dead, buried, and forgotten?
If value rests on complexity, it is unstable. If it rests on mere survival, it is fleeting. Either way, worth becomes something we assign rather than something that truly exists.
And that leads to uncomfortable questions.
What of the child with Down syndrome? What of the trauma victim in a coma? What of the unborn child who is inconvenient? If human value depends on mental ability, usefulness, or productivity, then human dignity becomes fragile. When we insist that these lives still carry full worth — not less, not conditional — we are appealing to something deeper than measurable function. We are appealing to a kind of value that cannot be reduced to utility. It is the recognition that there is a part of you that is more than just your body existing in more than just this world.
This is where the Christian doctrine of the imago Dei becomes important. Imago Dei — Latin for “image of God” — comes from Genesis 1:26–27 and teaches that human beings are uniquely created to reflect God’s nature. This likeness is not physical, but expressed in capacities such as rational thought, moral awareness, agency, creativity, and the ability to enter into meaningful relationships. To bear God’s image is to possess a dignity that is not earned, not measured by utility, and not dependent upon function. It is a worth grounded in divine authorship.
If human beings are made in the image of God, then our value does not fluctuate with cognitive ability, productivity, or social contribution. It does not diminish with age, illness, or impairment. It is not contingent upon complexity or permanence. It’s not even tied to likability or attractiveness. It is inherent to our very nature. We are not merely well arranged matter; we are creatures stamped with transcendence with an uplink to something outside of the world we inhabit.
True love, then, is not merely attraction to a body. The beauty of a woman is not confined to symmetry of form or proportion of features — though God’s craftsmanship is clearly visible there, just as artistry may be admired in a finely cut gemstone or a well-aged bottle of bourbon. The curve of her form, the grace of her movement, the warmth of her presence — these awaken desire and delight, and they are not accidental. They testify to design, to abundance, to embodied goodness. And yet physical beauty, powerful as it is, gestures beyond itself. It hints at something deeper — a window into a personhood, into a soul.
To look deeply into another is to recognize that there is more present than cells and chemistry. There is agency. There is interior life. There is someone who can love you back, who can wound you, forgive you, sin against you, and restore you. The body may first capture the eye, but it is the soul that captures the heart.
This is the heart of intimacy. True intimacy requires more than proximity, more than shared experience, more than physical closeness. It requires self-awareness — the recognition that I am capable of wounding the one I love. It requires the humility to admit, “I was wrong.” Without an awareness of our own sin, there can be no repentance. And without repentance, there can be no restoration. Intimacy is not sustained by perfection, but by confession and forgiveness.
That is why betrayal wounds so deeply, and why forgiveness brings such profound peace. It’s also why being denied forgiveness is so devastating. We are not reacting to malfunctioning machinery; we are responding to moral agents — beings whose choices matter and carry far more weight than mere arrangements of physical objects. A machine may fail, but it does not betray. A device may be repaired, but it does not repent. To sin against a person is not the same as breaking a machine, spilling tea on a device, or crashing a vehicle on the freeway. We cannot sin against objects. Sin presupposes agency. It presupposes moral awareness. It presupposes responsibility.
To sin against the image bearer is to sin against the Image Giver. As Psalm 51:4 declares, “Against You, You only, have I sinned.”
To love someone is to recognize that they are more than matter — that they are linked to something eternal. They are purposeful, not accidental; deliberate, not incidental. They are reflections, not merely of the most powerful force in the universe, but of the One who spoke the universe into existence.
Without the imago Dei, love collapses into chemistry, morality into preference, and dignity into sentiment. With it, love becomes recognition — recognition of divine image in another, recognition of a soul intersecting the plane of time and space giving the individual a worth far greater than the makeup of their physique.
You matter more than the matter that composes you.
And if that is true — if the one you love is more than biology, more than chemistry, more than a temporary configuration of atoms — then love is not an evolutionary accident. It is not a neurological trick. It is not a survival mechanism.
It is a response to eternity. It beckons your beloved. It is seeing the other person as Christ sees them, through the lens of the imago Dei. It sacrifices.
And that recognition — that glimpse of the eternal in another — is the foundation of true love.
Happy Valentine’s Day.