(What follows is not an attempt to resolve the philosophical problem of free will, but a reflection on how I have come to understand agency, constraint and selfhood through experience, philosophy and Christian faith.)
For years, the fundamental existential question of how our lives are shaped by forces beyond our control versus our own agency has been a constant companion. Whether framed as determinism versus free will in secular thought, or debated within theological circles, the tension feels inescapable. My grappling with this intensified during my time in prison, particularly through reading works that explored these very ideas. One concept that offered a significant new lens was articulated by Molina, who posited a third class of knowledge that informs God’s decision about what sort of world to create:
“Molina posited a third class of knowledge that informs God’s decision about what sort of world to create, and this includes truths that are contingent and independent of God’s will, which he called scientia media (middle knowledge). He suggested that propositions about what all possible free creatures would do in all possible situations are independent of God’s will because the nature of free will requires no outside determinants, but contingent because the creature can act or not‑act if truly (i.e., libertarianly) free.”
This idea of “middle knowledge” — God’s understanding of what free creatures would do in any given circumstance, independent of His decree but contingent on their freedom — began to resonate with a deep, personal struggle I had been navigating for many years.
Many years ago, in my forties, I went through a period of profound depression. It was a darkness I had wrestled with since my youth, but this time it was particularly severe, leading to suicidal ideation and self‑harm. Despite being hospitalized and undergoing various treatments, nothing seemed to penetrate the depth of my despair. Therapies and medications proved ineffective, and eventually, the suggestion was made for electroconvulsive therapy (ECT).
I remember signing the consent forms, feeling a desperate resignation, a sense that I had no other choice. I underwent six courses of ECT over two weeks. The initial treatments left me sore and disoriented, but by the end, the fog had deepened so profoundly that I barely recognized my own family. I felt like an empty vessel; my sense of self, my defining memories, had become misty and inaccessible.
In the subsequent months, as my memory slowly began to return, so too did a wave of grief — as I recalled the death of my father and the steady support of my mother through those days. It was during this slow reconstruction of my reality that a deep thought began to emerge: how the interplay of other people’s choices had defined me. Eventually, a psychologist in Rotorua offered a different perspective. He suggested I had been misdiagnosed; my struggles were not manic‑depressive, but were heavily influenced by autistic traits I had spent all my energy masking just to fit in.
This revelation marked the beginning of a long process of reconstructing my understanding of reality and my own history. It was then that my interest in selfhood truly ignited — in defining what it means to be me. I began to realize how easy it is to blame external forces entirely for who we are, without acknowledging the part we play, and the intentionality within all the interactions that both confound and inspire us.
This personal journey inevitably led me back to the deepest theological questions: how does God relate to humanity? Simplistic notions of rigid predestination and equally simplistic ideas of unbounded free will began to lose their hold. For years I lived with this complex tension at the heart of my philosophy and faith: determinism against non‑determinism, Calvinist sovereignty against libertarian freedom. I came to see that while each perspective holds a fragment of truth, none alone possess the depth to capture the rich, complex interactivity of every force that touches and forms us.
The Playground and the Fence: Divine Will as Wholesome Constraint
My journey of understanding the intricate dance between constraint and freedom continued, leading me to a second significant encounter. While attending a counseling school in Wellington, the facilitator made an observation that profoundly shifted my perspective on God’s will. He noted a common Christian perception: that God’s will is often viewed as a narrow, restrictive force, a series of prohibitions akin to the confines of a prison cell.
But then, he offered a different vision. “I don’t see it that way,” he stated. “I see the will of God as a great big playground, with a fence around it, as it were. That fence represents the boundary of what is safe and good and wholesome. But within that playground, there are countless options, many toys, many things to enjoy, and many opportunities for different exercises and possibilities.”
He elaborated, explaining that while within this divinely appointed playground, each person is free to investigate, to create, and to have fun. The fence, he emphasized, is not a constraint that limits us from freedom, but rather a boundary that defines what is good, wholesome, and ethically correct. “It is in that constraint,” he concluded, “that we find an astonishing amount of freedom.”
This analogy struck me deeply. It reframed the concept of divine will not as a cage designed to restrict, but as a benevolent framework that enables true liberty. It suggested that the determined aspects of reality — the ethical boundaries, the principles of well‑being, the inherent structure of goodness — are not limitations on our freedom, but the very conditions for it. The “playground” represents the vast, undetermined space of possibility within those boundaries, where we can explore, create, and authentically express ourselves. The “fence” provides the safety and integrity that allows for genuine, unhindered engagement with the opportunities within. Crucially, this boundary, this “no” to what is harmful or destructive, is not a negation of life, but the very structure that protects and enables the abundant “yes” within the playground to flourish. This perspective offered a powerful counterpoint to the idea that divine order stifles freedom; instead, it suggested that divine order is the very soil in which authentic, meaningful freedom can grow.
The Intersecting Currents: Justice, Evil, and the Complex Story of Existence
My journey into understanding the interplay of forces inevitably led me to confront the harsh realities of the external world and the profound theological questions they raise. During my time in prison, I experienced firsthand the sting of being accused of things I knew were not true within myself, yet still being found guilty. The subsequent sentencing — four years and three months of incarceration — was a stark encounter with how external systems and judgments can profoundly shape one’s reality, even when they feel fundamentally misaligned with one’s inner truth.
Within the confines of my prison cell, I grappled with the age‑old question: how can evil occur if God is good? Yet, as I reflected, simple, surface‑level answers began to feel insufficient. They lacked the depth to truly engage with the complexity of our existence. What truly captured my attention was the intricate interplay of forces at play in shaping a human life. I began to question: How much of our existence is dictated by the will of God, the will of others, and our own choices — both good and bad, positive and negative? How do these elements intersect to create the complex tapestry of a human being’s life?
It was during this period that my wife, with her unwavering support, sent me a book that I completed in February 2023. This book offered a potential pathway to seeing God’s dealings in a different light. Simultaneously, it highlighted the limitations of philosophical arguments that pit determinism against free will as opposites. These debates, I realized, were missing a crucial dynamic: the profound influence and defining power of the myriad other interactions that shape what existence looks like. This realization solidified my conviction that our lives are not simply a product of predetermined paths or unbridled freedom, but a rich, often confounding, and always evolving narrative woven from the intersection of all these forces.
The Allure of Simplicity in an Intricate Existence
As human beings, we seem inherently susceptible to reducing the overwhelming complexity of life to simpler terms. Psychologists point out that our brains are often wired to seek patterns — even pessimistic ones — as a way to cope with that which appears beyond our immediate grasp. Life is fraught with angst, anxiety, and the constant pressures of uncertainty. This is not merely the anxiety of impending death, but a deeper “nonexistence of the self” — a feeling of being potentially “squashed and flattened down to nothing thinness” by forces that seem to dwarf our individual significance.
It is within this context that I realized the profound human desire, a desire I share, to simplify life into clear‑cut answers. We yearn for a simple “yes” or “no,” a binary of “will” or “non‑will.” Yet, from my framework of reference, such simplification is fundamentally impossible. Consider even the seemingly simple act of walking outside to enjoy the sun. This single moment is not a singular event; it is an intricate intersection of all the laws of physics governing our movement, the probabilities of countless potential outcomes, the complex interplay of societal structures, and the myriad law‑binding influences that constrain our thinking and behavior. Indeed, every condition of physics has its counter-condition, and even physics itself, with its apparent certainties, operates within dynamic systems of checks and balances. There exists a web of influences, impossibly vast and difficult to fully comprehend, that define any given moment of our existence.
And yet — and I say this with all sincerity — within and amongst that impossibly complex web, there resides a subtle, yet profound, ability to exercise agency. This capacity for choice, this “simple yes/no or maybe,” is not an escape from the myriad of influences that define our lives. Rather, it is precisely part of that myriad, a dynamic element that, in conjunction with all other forces, creates the unique existence of each human being. To acknowledge this subtle agency, rather than succumbing to the allure of oversimplification, is to begin to grasp the true nature of our being.
Defining “Free Will”: Agency Within the Myriad
In amongst this overwhelming complexity, and in recognizing the subtle yet profound ability to exercise agency, we must confront the very terminology we use. The concept of “free will” is particularly fraught with misunderstanding. The word “freedom” itself often implies an absolute ability to do whatever one wills, and “will” can be understood as one’s force of action within the existence of the world we inhabit. However, I want to challenge this notion of absolute freedom.
To me, “free” does not mean absolute or unconstrained. Instead, it signifies that within the given constraints and conditions of existence, one possesses their own decisive response: a “yes,” a “no,” or a “maybe.” It is precisely in this capacity for a personal “yes” or “maybe” that I assert my existence into the reality that surrounds me. This is the phenomenon I actively bring into the time and space I find myself in — an interaction of potentials and possibilities, coupled with the wilfulness to bring them about, in a sense, forcibly upon the world. This, I believe, is the most accurate and meaningful way to understand free will: not as an escape from strict causal determinism, but as the active, decisive engagement with the conditions and influences that shape it.
The Abundant Life: Beyond Mere “Yes” and “No”
In Christianity, when we constrain our understanding of God’s will to a mere amplification of “yes” or “no” prohibitions, I believe we inadvertently contradict the very purpose Jesus articulated for our lives. He declared, as recorded in the Gospel of John:
“I have come that they may have life, and that they may have it more abundantly.” (John 10:10, ESV)
This promise of “life in all its fullness” stands in stark contrast to a narrow, restrictive view of divine will that can feel like a cage rather than a compass. If we have a full understanding of the “yes” of God and the richness of life possible in that “yesness,” then that affirmation will, and should, dominate our existence over the mere “no.” The “no” is often the answer given to that which does not seek to think it through, that which fails to engage with agency and the potential possibilities of our existence.
In fact, I believe that focusing solely on the “thou shalt nots” represents the lowest end of Christian thought. We could list them: a Christian shouldn’t drink, a Christian shouldn’t have sex outside of marriage, a Christian shouldn’t steal, and so on, providing a whole litany of moral prohibitions. But the highest end of Christian thought is far superior. It is the “yes” of life. It is simply this: Yes, I should look after my body. Yes, I should resolve to do that which is wholesome, good, and flourishing. Yes, I want to treat people with dignity and respect. Yes, I want to be the best version of myself possible. Yes, I do not want to damage my brain or my body by taking drugs. It is this proactive, affirmative “yes” that makes life so much richer. Whereas the “no” is often a negation, the “yes” is the abundant life that I believe Christ wanted to bring to us—a life lived with intentionality, agency, and a deep engagement with the fullness of God’s good creation.
The Choice: Abundant “Yes” or Empty “No”
The profound influence of Christianity, interwoven with the foundational insights of Greek philosophy, has undeniably shaped the global cultural landscape we inhabit — a landscape far more interconnected and dynamic than a purely European definition might suggest. It is a culture that has emerged from a complex tapestry of global interactions, blending, and rejecting influences throughout history. At its core, this dynamic existence has been fueled by a powerful “yes”—a “yes” of life, possibility, and agency.
But in the midst of all this, we must consider a stark alternative. Can you imagine what might happen if we suddenly said “no”? If we constrained ourselves to endless prohibitions, shallowness, and the reductionism that comes when we react negatively toward one another? This path breeds tribalism, anarchy, strife, and division; it crushes the human soul until light and abundance vanish, replaced by the stark, destructive “no.” This is what Karl Barth described as “the Nothing” (das Nichtige) — the active negation that stands against God’s being-with-us, God’s affirming “Yes” to all created life.
This kind of sharp, self‑aware critique of hollow cultural faith is exactly what Søren Kierkegaard spoke against so powerfully long ago. He saw how easily religion and culture harden into routine, shallow conformity — a bland, pre‑packaged “Christianity” stripped of personal choice, inward passion, and authentic agency. He warned that the “crowd” loves simple binaries, safe labels, and easy answers; it flattens unique souls into tribal thinking, trading deep, living faith for empty habit and loud judgment. For Kierkegaard, true faith was never this shallow “no” of restriction — it was the bold, individual “yes”: choosing to stand as your own self, before God, with all the risk, freedom, and fullness of life that brings.
Therefore, I want to conclude by saying this: It is in embracing the “Yes” of our own being, and honouring the deep, living interplay between what is determined and what is free, that we glimpse the beautiful creative tapestry of existence. And so I declare: I can — I do possess agency. I have the will to press my being into this reality, in ways that build, bless, and create good.
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