A Parable.
The What and the Which were walking in the meadow one summer day and came across a large maple tree.
Would you look at that tree? the Which asked the What. The What responded that he was looking at the tree, as it was the only thing in the meadow that he could look at. What about it? he asked. You're the What, the Which said. You tell me.
The What paused, scratched his chin and looked up at the tree. After much thought, he remarked that it was a tree, and that furthermore, it was a maple tree. The What was a simple man. He concerned himself with describing the tree: the way it looked, the way it felt, the way it grew, the way it smelled and the way it sounded when its leaves rustled or its trunk groaned and creaked in the wind. He described its use: the taste of its sweet sap and the way it yielded that sap for humans to make syrup, the way it provided them with the shade they were now standing under to protect themselves from the sun, and the way it provided an umbrella to those who took shelter under its branches when it rained. He described how, when cut down and chopped up, it yielded wood for humans to build things with or to burn for fuel and warmth.
The Which listened, impressed with the What's knowledge and perception. She appreciated his direct manner; his concise explanations; his practical conclusions. And she thought he was asking and answering solid, deep questions about the tree. But ultimately, she felt that while description of the tree was a valuable pursuit, asking questions about what made the tree distinct better helped in the understanding of its nature. We need the dark to see the light; we need the cold to feel the heat; we need the bitter to taste the sweet, she said. She went on to expound: how the tree was distinguished from others, how we had developed a system to classify such things like this—how it was first a member of the kingdom Plantae, then how it was of the order Sapindales, the family Sapindaceae, the subfamily Hippocastanoideae, and finally of the genus Acer. She noted how this tree was deciduous, what that meant, and how it differed from coniferous trees.
She would've kept going, but the How (who had agreed to go with the What and the Which on their walk but had lagged behind) finally caught up with them and heard the tail-end of the Which's thoughts. He interrupted, agreeing with the Which that the discrimination of this tree in contrast to other trees was helpful in the understanding of this one, but felt that in the end, classifications got a bit too arbitrary and abstract for his liking. If the What was a practical man, the How was even more so. He worried, not about possibilities or potentials or fantasies, but about the real and the actual; the way something was done. How did this tree get here and grow here and survive here? Who or what facilitated the seed's arrival at this location as well as its expansion? Details, details, details, he asked. Implementation mattered: how did the seed go from needing the soil to protect and nourish it to needing to escape and grow beyond it? What made possible the tree's survival as a frail sprout; what made possible the nutrient transportation system it had from its deepest roots to the tip of its leaves; what made possible the incredible weight load its limbs could sustain?
The discussion attracted others: the Where and the When showed up together in the same time and place, as always. The Where felt it important to posit that one cannot have a proper consideration of a noun such as this tree without a solid understanding of its domain, or the district in which it finds itself. What gives relevance? he wondered. Does our being near this tree give it its relevance, or does this tree's being near us give us our relevance? He noted that closeness in locale is not always geographical, but can be emotional, logical, or even spiritual. He pondered if the tree might be a different tree were it to have been somewhere else. His brother the When felt much the same way and was sympathetic to his brother's musings, but modified and narrowed them to focus on the tree's axis and location on the plane of time. What was the date of this tree's conception—of all trees' conception, for that matter—and what was or would be the duration of this tree: how long was it planned (if it was), how long would it live, and how long would it's legacy endure?
It was growing evening now, yet the reflections flowed like water. The Whose inspected the tree, looking for signs of care or modification. She wondered if the tree belonged to anyone or if it was nobody's—who held dominion over the tree? Would it matter to the tree's essence if it was claimed by no one or by someone—or by everyone, for that matter? In a sense, didn't they all share in identification with the tree, enjoying its benefits and participating in its existence? And yet, in another sense, wasn't the tree independent, free, and original, such that it responded to no claims of ownership by anyone? The Could idolized the tree's great size and strength and maturation and elegance, and wished he was able to delimit how far it might expand in these categories. What is the maximum height this tree could reach? he asked. Is it possible it could be any more beautiful than it already is? The Would listened intently to what the Could had to say, since his contemplations affected her most pressing questions—she wanted to know what the tree could do so she might guess what it would do. She fantasized. She conceptualized. She wished she might know the future so she could predict or estimate the decisions the tree would make or the decisions that would be made concerning it. She hoped the tree would last and endure, yet at the same time anxiously bemoaned all the ways it might meet detriment and harm. For her, the questions to ask were questions of concepts, and notions, and possibilities, and potentials (she rubbed the How the wrong way sometimes).
It was finally getting dark. The little group of intellectuals underneath the tree had grown in knowledge through their reflections and investigations. They had stretched their minds, and their questions were deep, and real, and sincere. And they meant something, and they mattered. But now they could hardly see the tree anymore, and it was time to go home. They made their way back pensively, still discussing and arguing, debating and deliberating among themselves. The May had picked up on what the Whose had said, and was speculating on what the tree was permitted to do should it have an owner. What decrees governed the tree? What laws did it obey? Were these laws, should they exist, benevolent or malevolent? Were they just or cruel? Were they applicable and relevant or distant and confusing? As their voices died away in the distance, the Should could be heard taking the May's questions one step further—it was not his place to say that her questions weren't important, but he was concerned more with duty. Never mind what its limits or permissions were, was there a moral standard of ethics the tree should follow, and if so, what was it? What ought the tree do? What ought the tree not do? What ought to be done or not be done to the tree?
Eventually all the deliberations and meditations and ruminations were replaced by the silence of the night. Everything was still. It seemed even the normal, nocturnal sounds from the surrounding woods were hushed.
And the tree seemed to be alone.
But it wasn't.
There was no wind, yet a few of its upper leaves rustled as a branch moved slightly. Hidden high up in the arms of the tree's embrace, the Why stirred. He had heard everything. He had listened to the What and the Which, the How and the Where and the When. He understood the questions of the Whose, the Could, the Would, the May, and the Should. He applauded them; he approved them; he sympathized with them.
But he knew he could never join them. His face darkened because his questions were too deep for words. His mental wanderings tormented him, yet he couldn't express them. If he could have described them, they would have had something to do with meaning. And significance. And essence. But those words only shed light on a fraction of the entirety of the nature of his questions. Even if he could articulate them fully, he knew his questions could never be fully answered by facts or opinions or even any 'ologies' or 'ophies' or 'isms.' He wanted to know that which was, in some sense, unknowable. Long after the How and the May's questions had been satisfied, his would remain. The What and the Could would have their curiosity resolved soon enough, but his might never be.
You see, he wanted to know why. He did not just want to know how the tree got there, or when it would die, or which tree it was. He wanted to know why. Why the tree? Why the Tree and not a Mlee? Why Leaves and not Zeeves? Why Roots and not Thoots? Why was the tree there? What was the intention, or purpose, or cognizance, or sense behind its existence? Was there? And if there was, did it matter? Why?
And so the Why wept. Do you understand why the Why wept? Careful—if you say yes, keep reading.
But the Why wept.
The Why is a Lust.
My affair with the Why begin quite early in life. To hear my parents tell it (though I'm certain they exaggerate or I exaggerate) it was as if my first word was not “Mommy,” or “Daddy,” but “why?” Why did I have two sisters? Why did Daddy and Mommy have me? Why was my name Josiah? Why did Daddy leave in the morning? Why did I have to eat my cereal? Why did we only eat it in the morning? Why was the sky blue? Why didn't I have more toys? Why were dogs so scary? Why did we have to go someplace? Why were there yellow footprints on the wall? Why did my parents have my little brother? Why was he so chubby? Why did cars go vroom? Why was God old? Why didn't my paper airplanes fly? Why did I have to “help” Daddy fix the car? Why did our neighbors look so different from us? Why was the little girl in our complex allowed to dress differently than my sisters? Why was food good? Why did I have to go to bed? Why was Daddy so tall? Why was Mommy so soft? Why did Daddy wear glasses? Why did I have to get glasses? Why did 2 + 3 = 5? Why did I have to obey? Why couldn't I have more ice cream? Why didn't that boy like ice cream? Why were Gma and Gpa so fun? Why couldn't they be there all the time?
Why. Why. Why.
I would be lying if I said that I always asked those questions out of a primitive desire to know their answer. I wanted the Because, yes—but more than that, I wanted the comfort of the concept of the Because. I took comfort in knowing that my parents always had a because, and that it was the correct because. Which is why when they would sometimes tell me they didn't know the Because, or that I wasn't ready for the Because, I wouldn't let it go. I had to know why. I had to know the Because. And so I would try to force them to give me the Because, even when I knew deep down they didn't have the ultimate Because. I would keep pressing until they grew tired of it, and on occasion forbade me from asking questions for a while.
Lust is an attempt to satisfy that which cannot be satisfied by that which you are trying to satisfy it with. Proverbs 27:20 says, “Sheol and Abaddon are never satisfied, and people’s eyes are never satisfied.” Sexualized lust tries to gratify itself with the consumption of more and more of the human body, of more and more sex or more and more porn or more and more victims. Proprietary lusts like avarice and miserliness seek to quench their thirst by amassing or retaining more and more things. Wanderlust is never content being where it is, but must always fill the void by going, seeing, experiencing something new, something different, something other.
In some sense, the asking of the question why is a lust. It is never satisfied. As a little boy, I gradually began discovering, to my horror, that the bottom was dropping out of my why. I realized that I could ask whys about my whys. In later years, my sister told me a story that described this. She said two fellows were sitting discussing theology late at night. The first fellow knew his stuff, that other fellow not so much. The one who knew his stuff expounded and explained his stuff eloquently to the other. When he finished, the other fellow paused, furrowed his brow, and finally asked why what the first fellow had said was true. Encouraged, the first fellow continued to educate the other and explained his becauses. When he was done, the other fellow again furrowed his brow and asked why that explanation was true. Appreciating the depth of the other fellow's interest in what he was saying, the first fellow reached even deeper and explained the because for his becauses. This process continued until the first fellow, in the middle of one of his explanations, was rudely interrupted by a snore from the other fellow, who had simply been asking why to amuse himself with seeing how far the first fellow would go!
I discovered there was no law that said I couldn't question my answers or even my questions. I was capable of asking: Why was I here? Why did I exist? Because God. But why because God? Why was God? Why did God? Or, as I started school, after learning the rules for English, or Math, or Science: Why the rules? Some rules were man-made, but some were discovered. How did those fundamental ones get there? Why were they there? Why were they the way they were and not another way? I could analyze even deeper: why did the Because answer the Why? Why was it that that was the way the system worked? And why was I searching for a because to that question if that was the very system I was questioning? In a different world, were becauses questions and whys answers?
Like the layers of an onion, the layers of the Why must be pulled back. In my current world of computer programming, though we hate to admit it, sometimes our software doesn't work the way a customer expects. They will ask: Why does the software do this or act this way? Because they expected it to do something different than what it does. But why do they expect different behavior? Because we told them it would behave differently, and they trust us. But why does it behave differently? Because it's a bug. But why is it a bug? Because the logic of intention did not match the logic of production. Why? Because the programmer didn't understand all the variables in play, or maybe he didn't anticipate gaps in security, or maybe he was told something incorrectly. Or maybe he was just frustrated. Why? Because he was overworked. Why? Because management planned poorly. Why? Because they are stressed and overworked. Why? Because the CEO expects functionality in an unreasonable amount of time. Why? Because maybe the customers are pressing him for more and better sooner and sooner. Why? Because they were never taught any differently. Why? Because nobody taught them. Why? It's not the business culture. Why? Because that's the way history has developed. Why? Because of a million factors, each of which would take an eternity to explain…
…you see, you can go forever. An onion only has so many layers before you reach its core. But the Why has infinite layers which must be peeled back.
And that's why I say the Why is a lust. It is never satisfied.
The Why is Distinct.
Other questions have layers too. The Where can go to infinity too. Just ask any kid who's played around with Google Earth. Where am I? As I sit here writing, I am on my couch. In my living room. In my house. On my street. In my neighborhood. In Harrisonburg. In Rockingham county. In Virginia. In the United States of America. In the Western hemisphere. On the earth. Though perhaps software such as Google Earth stops here, we know the Where doesn't. In our solar system. In our galaxy, which we call the Milky Way. In its category of galaxies. In its category of categories of galaxies. Etc., etc., etc.
The How has no limit also. Many feel with the advancement of technology and science that we are progressing further in our knowledge of the How than ever before. Instinctually, I think we realize that no matter how many facilitatory details we understand, there is always a deeper layer. How do those things or basic blocks function?
But I think the Why is different.
I believe the Why is the deepest question man can ask.
Philosophy is defined in the dictionary as the study or rational investigation of truth, knowledge, existence, nature and meaning of life, etc. It means “the love of wisdom.” But I think at its simplest, philosophy is the love of the Why. It is the love of asking why. As humans, it seems ingrained within us to ask the question why. Much of our literature, and culture, and development we owe to those before us who asked why. We want to know, we are curious, we must learn, and expand, and grow in our knowledge. Yet we seem to struggle with the Because. Much harm has come throughout history from the lack of the Because, or from the incorrect Because, or from the hiding of the Because. We search for the Because, yet we do not handle it very well.
One might say to Why is human; to Because divine.
I think wisdom is also, in a sense, joined to the Why. Just as wisdom cannot be gained by simply reading an instruction manual, so too I don't think wisdom can be defined by simply reading a dictionary. What is wisdom? In the Bible, wisdom is undeniably, unquestionably, undoubtedly, unmistakably unioned with God. Proverbs, the book of wisdom, says “The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom, and the knowledge of the Holy One is understanding” (9:10).
There is the school of thought, conscious or subconscious, that defines wisdom as the avoidance of the Why. To quote Lord Alfred Tennyson in The Charge of the Light Bridgade: “Theirs not to reason why, theirs but to do and die.” Job asked some serious whys in His sufferings, and at the end of them, God said: “Who is this who obscures my counsel with ignorant words?” It is valuable—vital, even—to accept that your Whys might not be answered. It is wisdom to continue in life and faith in spite of having no Becauses. Paul cuts down the Whys of hypothetical Jewish objector in Romans 9 with the Because of God's sovereignty.
But I cringe at this line of thinking. I don't believe that the fear of the Lord means the fear of the Why. Rather, could it be that the knowledge of the Holy One can often come through the asking of the question why? Could it be, for example, that God rebuked Job, not for his whys, but for assuming becauses that weren't his to assume? Could it be that wisdom is on intimate terms with the Why? Could it be that God is okay with the Why? Could it be that some of the wisest men in the Bible asked the Why?
If the book of Ecclesiastes were an emotion, it would be a sigh. It is a blank, listless face that, when presented with “everything under the sun,” both pleasures and injustices, has run out of words and can only stare the questions of life back in the face. I think Solomon wrote that book on the back of the Why from cover to cover. Implicit in every page of that book is the question why.
His why was an intellectual why. He analyzed, exhausted, plumbed the depths of the layers of the Why searching for a because. This is my primary why as well. As a teenager, as a college student, and even now, I am still the little boy I was, lying awake at night, listless and sleepless because of the Why. I ask this why, not because it presses itself in on me, but because it is there. Since there are no walls or gates guarding the cavernous depths of this metal cave, I enter. Not because I have to, but because I want to. And I torment myself needlessly. But torment myself I do.
The Why is not always optional. Sometimes it invites itself into our lives in a way we cannot refuse. There is the why of the little boy who feels the sharp pain in his heart every time he hears a deep male voice, asking why his father left him. Why him? There is the why of the girl who lays on her bed asking why nobody wants her. Why her? The why of the couple that gives birth to a stillborn. Why them? This why often comes through grief or unexpected circumstances. It is the why of pain. (Sometimes, this same why comes to us through the experience of great fortune or blessing; a joy so sweet it causes the heart to burst from the chest and weep. But that is rarer). Why us? Why not someone else? we ask. The prophet Jeremiah was deep friends with this why, I think. He and Job both asked the same question: Why were they born if they were just going to suffer? What sense was there in that? His Lamentations represents the why of struggle—there was a reason he was called the Weeping Prophet.
I think that this why is more genuine than the other. It not interested in the academic immersion of the mind in the Why as the intellectual why is. It does not pursue the Why for amusement or even actualization so much as it wrestles with it for resolve and resolution. In a sense it is the truer version of the Why because it is more guttural—it comes from our core. And ultimately, I believe it is more authentic because that which it attempts to answer the Why with is closer to the nature of the Why—but I'm getting ahead of myself.
God Himself asked why. In some sense, when Jesus in the garden was sweating drops of blood and asking His Father if the cup could pass, He was asking why. He was asking why He had to suffer. On the cross, He asked why His Father had forsaken Him.
Jesus, the One whose wisdom surpassed Solomon's, asked God the Why. And I believe His why had all the elements of the intellectual why and the struggle why, but also was more—it was a consummational why. It was related to His purpose, and by proxy, His identity. Was this really the way it had to be done? Couldn't there possibly be another way? Why was this His mission? Why was there fulfillment in this? And on the cross, desperately screaming at God: Does this matter? Do I matter? If this is so significant, and purposeful, and impactful, than why have You forsaken Me?!?
The Why and Postmodernism.
As I grew older, our family moved from time to time. I met new people and made new friends. I was introduced to different and bigger surroundings. I started reading and was exposed to new ideas from smarter, older, brighter minds. I experienced things I had never experienced and was placed in situations I had never been in before. My world was expanding.
And my list of whys was growing. I wanted to be smart, and when I looked around, I saw that in social circles, or in education, or in sports, the smart people weren't asking why but were saying because. The ones who were learning asked why, but the ones who knew said because. So I wanted to say because.
But every time I found a because for one of my whys, it brought ten new whys along with it. I tried so hard to keep my whys paired with suitable becauses. I wanted to be sure I knew what I believed. But at the same time, my ability to apply the Why to my own beliefs scared me (and still does!). I wished it weren't possible to question my beliefs, but it was. The door was not locked and in fact, was wide open. If I could question my beliefs, how did I know they were valid? I was standing on a platform of becauses, but how did I know they were real? What if they weren't? Then I would fall, right? And so I thoroughly examined the foundations for my beliefs. I found bigger and better and stronger becauses. And then I analyzed the foundations for those foundations. Like an onion, I was peeling back the layers.
By the time I had finished a year and a half of college, I was exhausted. I transferred to a college I didn't trust morally. I didn't trust the culture, or the education, or the professors. I stayed because I wanted my degree, yet I found it hard to ask why. How can you ask why if you don't trust the ones who say because? So I stopped. I stopped asking why.
And I wrestled with postmodernism.
Postmodernism, formally, is a reaction to modernism, with all its Thomas Aquinas and his “I think therefore I am” and its search for exhaustive knowledge and its desire to attain indubitable certainty. Postmodernism, on the other hand, tends to reject things like grand narratives and absolute truths and rationality and even reality, preferring to dwell on relatives and pluralism instead. Postmodernism finds truth in introspection or self-referentiality. As you can imagine, this produces some weighty tensions with the Christian faith: The Christian faith has a grand narrative. The Christian faith claims absolutely that there is absolute truth. The Christian faith rejects the self as the source of truth and instead finds the source of truth in one place: God. From postmodernism, we hear phrases like, “this is my truth,” or “truth is what you make it.” But from Christianity, we hear phrases like “you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free,” or “Your word is truth.”
Now with the deluge of information we are able to access, we are exposed to more truth claims than ever before. I see in postmodernism an exhaustion. I see in postmodernism an inability to sort and evaluate all the claims to absolute truth. I see in postmodernism an exasperated sigh and a throwing up of the hands. Ultimately, I think postmodernism has given up on the Why.
I think postmodernism asks: Why why?
Inherent to the very nature of the Why is the search for the Because. But the Because is incredibly hard to find. So postmodernism performed a very sly trick. Instead of asking the Why and searching for the Because, postmodernism simply replaced the Because. Still ask Why, it tells the thinkers of our time, but you won't be able find the Because. Instead, you must provide the Because. You must decide the Because. You must determine your own because. Because the real Because is too hard to find (ironically, that is one because it did find!). Postmodernism took the Why and mangled it. It took the Why and cheapened it.
Counterfeit money appears to be able to command value in the marketplace, but it cannot. In the same way, postmodernism presents a why that appears to be marketable and have value, but in the end is worthless. A why with a because that you make up is no why at all, but a parlor game, an illusion, a breeze uncapturable. It's the easy way out, and I think postmodernism knows it. I think postmodernism crawls into bed at night and cries because it knows it’s fake.
I reject postmodernism.
I am learning to why again. Hard as it is, we must ask the Why. The real Why. The real Because is not always easy to find—in fact it seems it rarely is. But it is the real; it is the genuine; it the actual.
And we must seek it. We must ask the Why. We must.
The Why's Answer.
I never explained why I think the Why is the deepest of all the questions, or even the archetype of the ultimate question, but I hinted at it. I think it's different because of what it is searching for. Every honest question is a search for an answer. The What is satisfied with descriptions of a noun. The Which is fulfilled by classifications of a noun. The How is gratified by the story of a noun. The Where and the When are contented by the placement of a noun. The Whose's work is done when the owner of a noun is identified. The Could is completed when the boundaries of a noun are found. The Would is finished when the noun's future is known. The May finds culmination in the government of the noun. The Should rests in the moral standards presiding over the noun.
But I do not think the Why finds its ultimate consummation in an explanation. I think the explanation is a representation, an agent of the answer the Why is really seeking.
In the opening story, I asked if you knew why the Why wept and told you to be careful if you thought you did. The reason I did so was because the only true reason you could know why the Why wept would be to enter my fictional world of personified questions, go to the maple tree, climb up the trunk, and sit down beside the Why.
And you would have to ask the Why … why do you weep?
And the Why could tell you. But ultimately, you would not know the answer from a mere linguistic comprehension of the words he spoke, you would know the answer by looking into the eyes of the Why.
The Why is the only question, I believe, that is not satisfied fully until it is answered by the final character in this odd play: the Who. The infinitely-layered Why must be answered by an infinity-layered Who. That is why things can never answer the Why, but a person must. As a child, I asked my parents questions because I wanted explanations, but in a sense I also wanted them. I wanted them to be my answer. I was searching in my questions for the answer of their personhood, even though they couldn't always provide that for me.
People always talk about what they'll say to God when they get to heaven. Most seem to have at least one why or two that they want to ask God if they can catch Him alone for a moment between all the festivities and celebrations. Some are purely intellectual: really, why do You like the number seven so much? Some are raw beyond imagination: why did You allow my wife to be raped in front of me while I was forced to watch helplessly? If I were honest, I wouldn't mind asking God a few whys myself. I don't know if we'll get explanations or not.
But I don't think that we'll need them. Or that we should expect them.
That would be like a husband preferring to look at a picture of his wife instead of interacting with her when she's right in front of him! Or preferring to entertain the ambassador when the King is in the next room! Or preferring to listen to a recording of your favorite band when they have all their equipment in front of you, ready to perform live! We won't need explanations from God because He is the answer behind the explanation. He is the Who we are really seeking. And we will see Him face to face.
Job never received recorded explanations from God for the many whys he asked during the course of his sufferings. But he did receive his answer. He received God.
Job 42:3b-5 | Surely I spoke about things I did not understand, things too wonderful for me to know. You said, “Listen now, and I will speak. When I question you, you will inform Me.” I had heard rumors about You, but now my eyes have seen You.
When our eyes have seen God, our whys that wept in despair for lack of an answer will weep for joy. And we will know that the Why was infinitely worth asking.
And the Answer infinitely worth finding.
I assume you have problems with modernism/humanism, in addition to postmodernism??? It perhaps answers the question "Why?" with "man" or "science".
ReplyDeleteYes, that is true. Ultimately, ironically, both postmodernism and modernism/enlightenment can tend to find their absolute truth in man, rather than God.
ReplyDelete