He cannot create or destroy matter. He can only rearrange. He can describe and label, but he cannot explain even the most rudimentary of natural phenomena. We whistle through the darkness in search of a rationale which will explain the nature of the universe and the meaning of life, but are thwarted at every turn by our mortality. We miss the obvious.
Intellectual elitists are alive and surrounded by life, but they laugh at the idea of an afterlife.
We are too close to our own blessings to be thankful for them. Because they are free for the asking and in great supply we take them for granted. In our eyes, it is scarcity, not plenty, that makes something valuable. It is a reflection of the perversity of human nature that if all the world were made of gold, a wheelbarrow full of dirt would be a priceless treasure. Nothing confuses us more than our mortality.