Not only is “why?” the most difficult question to answer, it is also the most useless question to ask. What difference will it make if someone tells us why? The situation of loss or tragedy will not be altered, the loved-one will not return, the situation will not be reversed. Nothing will bring back life to the way it was. The “why?” seeks a rational response to the irrational events in life. Almost all the whys I ask about life are dead ends. If anything, they only lead to more frustration and a deeper sense of helplessness in the face of life’s assaults.
My classic illustration is found in John 9 and the disciples’ question, “Why was this man born blind? Was it the result of his own sins of those of his parents?” (NLT). Except for saying, “Neither,” Jesus did not supply a reason for a person being born blind. Instead, he said (my translation), “I will not give you an explanation but I will use this man’s blindness as an occasion to demonstrate the grace of God.” He gives this instruction, “All of us must quickly carry out the tasks assigned to us by the one who sent me…” (NLT) and then Jesus gives sight to the blind man.
What if the blind man could have been told: “Here is the reason you were born blind” — how would this have changed his condition? He would still have found it necessary to claim his regular roadside begging station every morning. This knowledge would have done nothing to enrich his life or lift his spirits. His blindness would have continued to be a reality. My interpretation of this event is, instead of seeking to know why a certain tragedy occurred, we are to seek a way — according to our abilities — to act creatively and redemptively in the situation. We are to be looking for a way instead of an answer. Note: that way is often not quickly or easily discovered.
The difference between an answer and a way.
It seems not accidental that the first Christians were called “Followers of the Way.” Many have pointed out that Jesus did not say, “I am the answer.” He taught: “I am the way.” An answer is something you simply accept or reject. An answer is something you either believe or you don’t believe. The Way is a path, a direction in life, a perspective you adopt, a journey you take, a commitment you make. To have a set of answers makes life too packaged and too small. It seems to imply that there is not much need for exploring, expanding, or asking new questions. It has always intrigued me that the rabbis (almost without exception) taught that the secret of life is not in the discovery of certain answers but in learning how to ask better questions. This is illustrated in the classic story is of the Jewish mother who greeted her son upon his return from school with: “Did you ask any good questions today?”
Living by answers is always in danger of becoming judgmental: if I have the answers, my only task is to convince you I am right. People march every day with banners proclaiming simplistic answers to complex questions. I always want to ask, “You may be right under certain circumstances, but is this the right answer under all circumstances?” The classic Pilgrim’s Progress is the best argument for seeking a way rather than answers. As Pilgrim makes his way, the challenges and changes in life literally change him. This is what happens when you are a follower of the Way. It is not meant to make us Know-It-All Believers, but those who are growing in grace and knowledge (wisdom). Answers are frequently too excluding. Answers often leave too little room for a greater dimension of the truth and for different aspects of one’s answer to be explored.
I have no doubt that I am called to be a consistent learner as I make my journey through the life of faith. Although there are indeed some answers I have found and some truths that have grown larger in my life, I am not called to be the Answer Man.
Musing and insights from hither and yon.
Many answers are simply not big enough.
It has always seemed to me that many of the answers I have heard have been not so much incorrect as they have been far too small. Then again, little questions call for little answers which is one of the reasons we need to keep making our questions bigger. We usually want to have answers in order to keep life manageable. We don’t want words like mystery, paradox, and ambiguity (words I will keep using in this book) to interfere with our explanations. These words should be the continual reminder that the expanding sea of the unexplored make our small boats ill-equipped to ride out the increasing heights of the waves of the unknown.
A Surprising Place to Begin.
On her deathbed, Gertrude Stein is said to have asked, “What is the answer?” Then, after a long silence, “What is the question?” Don’t start looking in the Bible for the answers it gives. Start by listening for the questions it asks.7
Buechner is not the only one to make this suggestion. I once did two sermon series: “Questions from the Hebrew Scriptures” and “Questions Jesus Asked.” The Bible opens with what I call the two great questions (both asked by God): “Adam, where are you?” and “Cain where is your brother?” Of course, no single sermon could begin to address all of the dimensions found in each question. A case can be made for considering the remainder of Scripture the attempt to answer these two questions. I still believe the best Bible reading I do is when I allow it to question me. I still believe a better question than, “Have you read any good books lately?” is: “Have any good books read you lately?”
Much too frequently, I do not have sufficient understanding to be able to craft a question that will give me the answer I need. Some of Jesus’ most surprising lessons come from his re-directing a question that is being asked. When he was asked, “Is it lawful to give tribute to Caesar or not?”, he asked for a Roman coin and changed the question to: “Whose image is on this coin?” His “answer” to those who confronted him that day was, “Give to Caesar what belongs to Caesar and to God what belongs to God.” In truth, he never answered the question! He gave a much larger question that called for reflection and discussion. He opened up a much larger world than the small question posed by his enemies.
Faith Unraveled: How a Girl Who Knew All the Answers Learned to Ask Questions.
The above is the title of a book by Rachel Held Evans. The book was first issued under the title Evolving in Monkey Town. Rachel Evans lives in Dayton, Tennessee, the scene of the “famous” Scopes trial. The trial was supposed to settle once and for all the battle between faith and science. Evans gives a brief, but fascinating read of what was described as “the trial of the century.” More than two hundred reporters from as far away as London came for coverage during the summer of 1925. “People could pay to get their picture made with a live chimpanzee, and the town constable even put a sign on his motorcycle that read ‘Monkeyville Police.’”8
Clarence Darrow and William Jennings Bryan put on quite a show which Evans describes. Her comment on the event: “These days most Christians, even conservative Christians, acknowledge that the Monkey Town approach of stubborn isolationism and anti-intellectualism is an outdated and ineffective strategy for expanding the kingdom.”9
One of her most striking observations is: “The more committed we are to certain theological absolutes, the more likely we are to discount the work of the Spirit when it doesn’t conform to our presuppositions.”10 A brief line on the back cover best describes what this book is all about: “How an evolving spiritual journey leads to an unshakable faith.” It’s not about a faith that remained unraveled but about a faith that found its way because of new and better questions.
It’s one of the reasons my reading has become very broad.
Listening to people espouse beliefs different from mine is informative, not threatening, because the only thing that can alter my worldview is a new and undeniable truth, and contrary to what Jack Nicholson says in A Few Good Men, “I can handle the truth.”11
What I’m saying is not that the great truth was Parkinson’s specifically, but that there are realities that occur in life over which I have no control or influence, realities that I can’t negotiate, finesse, or charm.12
My