So you believe in G-d? That’s just the beginning

We all believe in something. Whether it’s G-d, the power of love, the laws of physics, or the certainty of good coffee in the morning, we all build our lives on assumptions we can’t fully prove. Even atheism, for all its claims to rationality, rests on belief. You can’t prove that G-d doesn’t exist any more than you can prove that He does. And yet, the kind of belief we choose to live by changes everything.

Atheism, in many ways, is simpler. It offers the same answer to every question: there’s no answer. No designer, no purpose, no cosmic justice, just “blind, pitiless indifference”, as evolutionary biologist Richard Dawkins once put it. In that view, there’s no objective morality, just personal preference, instinct, and cultural mood. No good, no evil, no ultimate meaning, just matter, energy, and the ticking of time.

Faith, by contrast, demands more of you. It doesn’t shut the questions down. It opens them up. To believe in G-d isn’t to settle an argument but to enter a lifelong conversation. You commit not only to the mystery of what you don’t understand, but to the pursuit of what it might mean.

Belief in G-d forces you to ask the biggest questions: who – or what – is the creator? Is He a He? Is He personal or entirely beyond comprehension? Is creating the universe the central expression of His being, or merely a detail? Does He care about our lives, or simply set the world in motion and step back?

And if He cares, how does that translate into my daily life? Do I have free will? If so, what does it mean that G-d knows all that was, is, and will be? If not, am I just an actor on a stage, performing lines written by someone else?

If G-d is good, why do the wicked prosper? Why do the innocent suffer? Does G-d intervene, or not? Should He? Why is evil even a possibility? Is it part of the divine plan, or a break from it? And if evil is allowed, is there still justice? Or just a hope of justice in some unknowable future?

And then come the deeply personal questions. Can I connect with G-d in my own way, through nature, music, meditation, or only through the framework of religion? Does G-d care about what I think? What I say? What I do? Which matters more?

Does prayer change G-d’s mind? Or does it change mine? If G-d already knows what I need, why do I need to ask? Can I manipulate Heaven by praying for someone else so that I’ll be answered in return? And if so, is that manipulation, or something deeper?

What is the soul? Is there life after death? If so, where are my ancestors? Why can’t I hear them? Do babies remember Heaven when they arrive here? If the world to come is outside time and space, how can I even begin to grasp it?

These questions aren’t intellectual indulgences. They shape everything: how we live, how we love, how we raise our children, how we deal with pain, and what kind of people we hope to become. Faith isn’t a break from thinking. It’s the invitation to start.

Shavuot is coming – the day we commemorate standing at Mount Sinai and saying “yes” to something higher. We didn’t demand full understanding. We said, “Naaseh v’nishma [We will do, and we will understand].” We trusted that the doing would lead to the knowing. It wasn’t submission. It was the true road to knowledge.

Unlike Tevye, who groaned in Fiddler on the Roof, “I know, I know. We are Your chosen people. But once in a while, can’t You choose someone else?” We’re beginning to realise that the burden of being chosen is far outweighed by the privilege. The burden isn’t just antisemitism. The real challenge is living like someone chosen – thinking deeply, acting meaningfully, and living with courage and integrity.

Perhaps the real question isn’t “Do you believe in G-d?” but “Are you willing to take that belief seriously?” Not to package it into convenient clichés, but to wrestle with what it actually means for your life. To ask harder questions. To live bolder answers.

The past 20 months have exposed just how flimsy secular morality can be when tested. The same institutions that once held themselves up as guardians of truth – universities, media platforms, cultural elites – have shown how quickly they abandon principle when it collides with political fashion. Beneath the surface rhetoric of progress lies a deep confusion. Perhaps it’s time to return, not just to familiar customs or inherited labels, but to something wiser. To Torah. To depth. To values that have weathered history, not chased hashtags. To G-d, not as an abstract idea, but as a guiding presence in our lives. Tradition is an experiment that worked.

So yes, you believe in G-d. That’s not the finish line. It’s the starting point of a real spiritual life. A life shaped by better questions, deeper learning, and an ongoing conversation with truth.

Shavuot isn’t just a commemoration of something that happened. It’s a chance to stand at Sinai again. To say “yes” not just with our mouths, but with our minds and our hearts.

Let’s not just inherit faith, let’s own it. Wrestle with it. Live it. This Sunday night, shuls will be learning late into the night. Bring your questions. I’ll bring mine. Let’s climb together.

See you at Sinai.

• Rabbi Levi Avtzon is the rabbi at Linksfield Shul.