11. RESILIENCE: Can Humanism Survive Without a Divine Spark?

Evolution Cannot Forbid Evil

Secular humanism is a widespread outlook in the Western world. It reacts strongly against intolerance and ignorance. While it retains important elements of Christianity’s moral heritage, it rejects belief in God. In this way, it distances itself from religion while seeking to preserve some of its ethical insights.

Can a humanistic worldview be built without any divine guiding principles? Can life be understood without a mysterious X-factor behind the true, the good, and the beautiful? Does it make sense to believe in both a purposeless universe and a humanistic ethic?

Secular humanists think so, and they have arguments to defend that position. Darwinian evolution undeniably explains a great deal about how life has developed. At first glance, the harsh struggle for survival seems tailor-made to produce selfishness – perhaps even psychopathy. But it doesn't have to be that way. Empathy, cooperation, even self-sacrifice can help a group hold together – and outcompete its rivals.

Let’s imagine a scenario: Tribe P, the psychopaths, is plagued by infighting due to their lack of empathy and emotional intelligence. Tribe C, the cooperators, emerges through a mutation. Its members are more empathic – and better at working together. In the struggle for survival, C prevails in the long run, while P, despite its aggressiveness, perishes. The meek inherit the earth.

Evolution is brutal and often outright genocidal, and yet, it may still turn the tables. Whether such explanations are analytical enough to qualify as science is something I’ll leave to the scientists.

The main point here is something different. Evolution does not give us any guidance about right and wrong. It produces both the impulse to care for a child and the impulse to fear the stranger. It cannot tell us which ones to follow – and which ones to hold back. Should we accept a logic that says it is good if some people are wiped out, or reject it? Should we accept or reject the idea that every human being has intrinsic value, regardless of strength, intelligence, or usefulness?

You can argue it either way. Darwinism offers no guidance on what we ought to do. It points no finger. It gives no directions. 

Humanism with a Negative Compass

There is, however, a way for secular humanism to form a powerful ethical compass. It is built on shock – a deep emotional reaction to evil. The horrors of the twentieth century have seared themselves into our collective memory. Images of extermination, gulags, and mass graves still grip us. The revulsion is intense, the conviction firm – almost religious in its force.

It’s often said that, in a strange way, Hitler has replaced Christ as the moral reference point of our age. He functions as a negative ideal, an “anti-model” against which we orient ourselves. Earlier generations looked to saints, but nowadays we define ourselves by what we reject. The compass no longer points toward the good, but away from evil.

Of course, secular humanism does try to articulate a positive core. It affirms human potential and celebrates reason, compassion, and cooperation, and similar ideals. But this is mostly a love of humanity as an abstraction. It is not a love of the often annoying people we meet in real life. When put under pressure, this form of humanism easily slips into disillusion and cynicism.

Secular humanism knows what to resist and despise, but finds it harder to articulate a positive centre. It is pushed away from evil more than pulled towards the good. The “Christ compass” is replaced by an “anti-Antichrist” compass.

Is that a problem? Before answering that, let’s take a step back and look at how the old compass was formed.

Borrowed Moral Capital

In Dominion, Tom Holland notes that in the ancient world, power, strength, and domination were admired virtues. Compassion for the weak was not regarded as a moral ideal. Christianity overturned that hierarchy entirely.

The Cross is at the centre of that revolution. Crucifixion was not merely execution; it was a public declaration of humiliation. It was a way of saying: this person is utterly worthless. Christianity placed that very symbol at the heart of its faith. Voluntary suffering, self-giving love, and mercy toward enemies became a new kind of greatness. The central symbol of Roman domination was turned upside down.

This reversal was summed up in one of Jesus’ most unsettling sayings: “The last shall be first, and the first shall be last.”

To the Roman mind, this was a moral obscenity. We see this “allergic reaction” preserved in the writings of Christianity’s earliest critics. The philosopher Celsus, writing in the second century, mocked the very idea that the crucified Christ could be divine. He asked with dripping sarcasm: 

The Church Father Origen, responding to these charges, argued that Jesus’s true divine power was revealed precisely in his endurance of suffering for the sake of others – and in his refusal to mock back. To the Roman sensibility, this was preposterous. This is not what a god does.

In the ancient world, honour was found in the ability to crush and humiliate those who opposed you. A god who did not strike back – who did not mock his mockers – was no god at all.

The crucifixion of Christ, his resurrection, and his divinity – these are the ingredients of a faith that caused a “Big Bang.” It sent out cultural shockwaves that turned brute power into sin and humility into strength.

The move is so bizarre that one might wonder whether humans could have invented it at all. The Bible suggests something else: it presents it as a “divine folly” that outsmarts human reason and undermines the foundations of the ancient worldview.

Holland did not arrive at this insight as a defender of faith. He began as a secular historian and found himself, almost reluctantly, recognising Christianity’s moral imprint across Western culture. Beliefs many now take for granted – the equal value of every human being, concern for the weak, suspicion of unchecked power – are not timeless or self-evident. They are products of history.

If a modern humanist had tried to explain to a Roman that his slaves possessed inherent dignity and equal moral worth, the response would likely have been: No, they don’t.

This raises an awkward question for secular humanism. Some of its deepest moral reflexes were shaped by Christianity. What keeps those reflexes alive once the roots have been severed? Will they fade or eventually be forgotten? Can they prevail under the pressures of resurgent tribalism?

Secular humanists believe they can. But Friedrich Nietzsche – Christianity’s most formidable critic – argued, and even hoped, that they were mistaken. In short, Nietzsche thought that once God was gone, morality would lose its binding force. Compassion, equality, and concern for the weak would gradually lose their hold. People would come to realise that they had no compelling reason to be kind, no deep justification for treating all lives as equal. Nietzsche did not foresee a calm or rational humanism. He foresaw a crisis: either a descent into nihilism, where nothing truly matters, or the rise of the “Übermensch” who would restore older, pagan ideals of strength and dominance.

Holland reaches a similar conclusion – though he regards its implications with alarm rather than hope. He likens the transition to a multi-stage rocket. Christianity provided the massive “first stages” – the theological fuel of a God-man on a cross – that gave the Western world enough thrust to escape the gravity of ancient cruelty. Today, secular humanism has jettisoned those stages as empty shells. It views itself as a space probe, gliding through the universe on pure reason alone.

Holland’s fear is that without that initial propellant, the probe will eventually lose its way – or crash, spectacularly.

Life Without an Ethical North Star

Let’s return to the main question. Can a moral compass remain reliable if it lacks a positive, Christ-like centre? What are the consequences of losing the “propellant” once provided by living traditions? What happens when the mystical and otherworldly are stripped away?

One risk becomes immediately apparent: a purely negative compass can create negative driving forces such as anger and fear. The fear of repeating a catastrophe – the slogan “never again” – creates an atmosphere of anxiety, outrage and vigilance. Public debate quickly escalates into moral disgust. Contempt, rather than love, becomes the driving force. We risk mirroring the very hatred we seek to oppose.

Another risk is equally evident: human beings long to belong to something larger than themselves. The real question is not "faith or no faith," but rather, "faith in what?" Rejecting a belief in God leaves a void – and voids attract substitutes for religion. All too often, that space is filled by extremism and tribal rage.

There is another problem: secular humanism can offer sound ethical arguments, but arguments alone rarely motivate. They are a weak defence against the temptations of power and corruption. Why obey the law or follow the rules if breaking them is more profitable – and you can get away with it? Secular humanism is well-meaning, but it lacks the radical force needed to turn the world’s moral hierarchy upside down.

“Man is the measure of all things.” If nothing stands above humanity, then humanity becomes its own highest authority. But which humanity? The majority, the loudest voices, the strongest, the most cunning? Consensus shifts, and power tempts. Compassion may prevail in peaceful times – yet give way to cruelty when cruelty pays.

A similar problem appears when we turn from ethics to truth itself. A society can value truth for purely practical reasons: science works, reliable information saves lives, and honest institutions function better than corrupt ones. But when truth is valued solely as a tool, it is disregarded as soon as it becomes inconvenient. Why choose truth when a lie is more effective? This raises a deeper question. Do we not need a kind of Platonic faith – a conviction that truth exists in a mystical, absolute sense, beyond mere utility? Such a faith often nurtures a deep commitment to Bildung – something sorely lacking in our age.

What happens to secular humanism when it runs out of fuel? Has it drawn its moral energy from an optimistic belief in progress and the quiet assumption that everything will simply get better? And if that faith in humanity falters, what remains? What protects us then from the cynicism that drains hope and paralyses the will to create and build?

As the world is now being driven towards conflict and unrest, it is tempting to blame religion. But that is not the whole story. Secular humanism – the dominant moral outlook of modernity – may prove to be a weak defence against the darker forces now being unleashed. Without a positive, divine spark, it struggles to form the inner strength that real resistance requires.

A humanism with a negative faith is an empty faith. It may not endure in turbulent times. To resist evil without becoming it, we need more than arguments. We need a faith that pulls us forward.