If God Had No Power, Would We Still Worship, or Have We Only Ever Worshipped Power? –Gita, Opening the Third Eye

What if God had no power? Imagine a deity stripped of miracles, unable to shape the world, enforce justice, or promise salvation—just a figure sitting quietly in the corner of existence, offering nothing but a sympathetic nod. Would we still worship? Or have we, across millennia, only ever bent our knees to power? It’s a question that cuts to the heart of faith, pulling apart the threads of devotion to see what’s really holding it together. At first glance, it’s tempting to say worship is more than power—it’s love, awe, or a search for meaning. But peel back the layers of history and psychology, and power starts looking like the engine that keeps the whole machine running. From thunder-wielding gods of antiquity to the omnipotent architects of modern monotheism, the divine has always flexed muscle that mortals can’t. Without it, would we bother?

चतुर्विधा भजन्ते मां जनाः सुकृतिनोऽर्जुन |
आर्तो जिज्ञासुरर्थार्थी ज्ञानी च भरतर्षभ ||

Translation:
"O Arjuna, four kinds of people worship Me—the distressed, the seekers of knowledge, the seekers of wealth, and the wise."
This verse acknowledges that many people turn to God due to suffering (ārtaḥ), seeking relief from unnatural incidents or hardships. It suggests that fear and distress are common motivators for worship, but Krishna also highlights other reasons—curiosity, material desires, and wisdom. While fear is a starting point, Krishna implies that true wisdom leads to devotion beyond fear.

This isn’t unique to the Gita. Look at any ancient pantheon—Zeus, Thor, Marduk—and you’ll see gods defined by what they can do. Zeus hurls lightning, Thor swings a hammer that flattens mountains, Marduk slays chaos itself to forge the world. Their worshippers didn’t light incense for their charming personalities; they did it because these beings could deliver rain, victory, or vengeance. Power was the currency of devotion, and humans were eager to trade. Even in less anthropomorphic traditions, like animism, spirits of rivers or forests were revered for their ability to nurture or destroy. A powerless spirit? That’s just a ghost story, not a religion. The pattern suggests that worship isn’t just admiration—it’s a transaction, a plea to something that can tip the scales in our favor.

But let’s not oversimplify. Power alone doesn’t explain the full tapestry of faith. People have wept at altars, built cathedrals, and fasted in deserts not just for what God can give, but for what God is. There’s a pull toward mystery, a yearning for something beyond the mundane grind. Yet even that mystery often comes wrapped in might—creation ex nihilo, the parting of seas, the promise of eternal life. Strip away the ability to act, and the divine risks fading into a philosophical footnote. If God had no power, we might still ponder its existence, but the churches, temples, and mosques would likely sit empty. Worship, it seems, thrives where power and presence collide.


Humans are fragile creatures. We’re born helpless, die easily, and spend the in-between scrambling to control a world that doesn’t care. It’s no surprise we’ve built gods in the image of what we lack—beings who don’t just endure but dominate. The Gita’s sloka nods to this: Krishna’s lament that “fools disregard Me” when he appears human isn’t just about recognition—it’s about our obsession with the extraordinary. A god in a mortal shell, without the “higher nature” of supreme lordship, looks too much like us. And we don’t worship ourselves (well, most of us don’t). We want something that transcends, something that can fix what we can’t. Power isn’t just a perk of divinity—it’s the point.

Even in polytheistic traditions, the hierarchy of gods reflects this need. Lesser deities—say, a nymph or a hearth spirit—get smaller shrines because their scope is limited. The big players, like Poseidon or Indra, command oceans and storms, so they get the grand temples. It’s a meritocracy of might. The Gita’s Krishna fits this mold perfectly: he’s not just a charioteer with advice; he’s the “Supreme Lord of all beings,” the one who reveals his universal form in Chapter 11, a vision so overwhelming Arjuna nearly collapses. Without that display, would the Gita even exist? Power isn’t incidental—it’s the glue that binds devotee to deity.

This mirrors our own instincts. We’re drawn to strength because it promises safety, order, or at least a fighting chance. A powerless God feels like a betrayal of that bargain. If the divine can’t protect us from floods, conquer our enemies, or secure our souls, what’s the point? Worship becomes a lifeline we throw to something that can pull us up. The Gita’s sloka underscores this: Krishna’s “higher nature” isn’t optional—it’s what separates him from the “fools” who can’t see past the human disguise. We don’t just want a god who understands us; we want one who can save us. Anything less risks being forgotten.


अवजानन्ति मां मूढा मानुषीं तनुमाश्रितम्।
परं भावमजानन्तो मम भूतमहेश्वरम्।।

Translation: “Fools disregard Me when I take a human form, not knowing My higher nature as the Supreme Lord of all beings.”

This verse reflects the idea that people often fail to recognize the divine unless its power (here, as the "Supreme Lord of all beings") is evident. Krishna’s authority and cosmic might are central to why Arjuna reveres him. If that power were absent, the Gita suggests devotion might falter, as humans tend to overlook the divine without its transcendent "paraṁ bhāvam" (higher nature). It’s not a perfect match, but it hints at power being a key draw in worship—without it, the "fools" might not just disregard, they might not care at all.

So, what if the power’s gone? Imagine a God who can’t act—a deity sidelined by some cosmic injury, or maybe just a theology that redefines divinity as pure essence, no miracles attached. Would worship survive? History gives us hints, and they’re not encouraging. When gods lose their punch, they tend to lose their followers. Look at the Roman Empire: as Christianity spread, the old pantheon—Jupiter, Mars, Venus—didn’t just get outcompeted; they got irrelevant. Their temples crumbled not because people stopped liking the stories, but because a new God offered bigger promises, backed by a narrative of ultimate power. A deity who can’t deliver doesn’t last long in the marketplace of faith.

The Gita’s sloka fits here too. Krishna warns that people miss his “paraṁ bhāvam”—his supreme nature—because they’re stuck on the surface. If he couldn’t reveal that nature, if he stayed just a man with a chariot, would the Mahabharata’s warriors have cared? Probably not. Arjuna’s devotion kicks into high gear when Krishna shows his cosmic form—stars, gods, and time itself swallowed in one terrifying vision. That’s not a pep talk; that’s a power move. Without it, the Gita might’ve been a pamphlet, not scripture. Worship demands a spark, and power’s the flint.

There’s a flip side, though. Some argue that power’s absence could shift worship to something purer—love or gratitude untied from expectation. Mystics like Rumi or Meister Eckhart hint at this, chasing a divine essence beyond attributes. But even there, the language drips with awe at something vast, something that feels powerful even if it doesn’t act. The Gita’s Krishna doesn’t let us off that hook: his “bhūta-maheśhvaram” (lordship over all beings) isn’t negotiable—it’s why he’s worth hearing. A truly powerless God might inspire poetry, but the pews would stay empty. We’re too practical, too needy, to bet on a deity that can’t swing the game.


Okay, let’s push the thought experiment. Say God’s power vanishes, and we’re left with a divine presence—real, undeniable, but impotent. Could worship adapt? Could we rewire it to mean something else? It’s possible, but it’d be a radical pivot. Worship as we know it—prayers, rituals, hymns—is built on a give-and-take. We offer devotion; God offers something back, even if it’s just hope. Without power, that loop breaks. What’s left might look more like contemplation than adoration, a shift from “please help” to “I see you.” The Gita’s sloka challenges this: Krishna’s not asking for quiet reflection—he’s demanding recognition of his supremacy. The “fools” miss it because they can’t handle a God who’s more than human. A powerless God might flip that—too human to bother with.

Some traditions flirt with this edge. Buddhism, at least in its purest forms, sidesteps a creator god entirely. The Buddha’s not omnipotent; he’s awake, and that’s enough. Yet even there, devotion creeps in—bodhisattvas like Avalokiteshvara gain cosmic heft, answering prayers and bending fate. Power sneaks back, because humans crave it. Purely philosophical faiths struggle too. Stoicism reveres nature’s order, but it’s not worship—it’s acceptance. Worship wants a relationship, and relationships with the powerless feel one-sided. Krishna’s “paraṁ bhāvam” isn’t just a flex; it’s the bridge that keeps Arjuna talking. Without it, the conversation might’ve died.

Could we evolve past this? Maybe. A powerless God could become a symbol—justice, beauty, the human spirit—something we honor without expecting intervention. Secular saints like Gandhi or MLK get this treatment: revered, not worshipped, because they can’t act. But that’s the rub—worship craves action, a living force. The Gita’s Krishna isn’t a statue; he’s a player in the war, a mover of destinies. If he couldn’t, Arjuna might’ve nodded politely and moved on. A new worship might emerge, abstract and introspective, but it’d be a shadow of the old fire. We’re built to chase the mighty, and rewiring that takes more than good intentions.

So, have we only worshipped power? Not quite—it’s power plus something, a cocktail of fear, love, and wonder. But take the power out, and the glass looks empty. The Gita’s sloka nails it: we see the divine when it towers over us. A God with no strength might get a footnote in history, but the altars would gather dust. Worship’s a human dance, and we’ve always picked partners who can lead.