Different Approach to the Same Topic...

A hammock is an unlikely place for a philosophical watershed, I guess, but if genius can flower in Archimedes’ bathtub, who am I to question the times and places at which insights choose to appear? No one, really, but I question them anyway. So, why a hammock? My theory is that it requires a certain level of physical security for me to be willing to venture into the mental unknown, and thus, my moments of inner turmoil occur when I appear outwardly content.

Case in point: on a golden November afternoon in New Orleans, I was lying, with two dear friends, in a friendly, creaking hammock as it swayed mildly back and forth. We were wrapped in a multitude of quilts, I was reading Dan Brown’s Angels and Demons, and all was well with the world.

A mere hour later, I was facing complete intellectual upheaval. Aghast, my mind was witnessing the ideological struggle between science and religion (this struggle is the theme of the novel). I was a picnicker on a solitary afternoon ramble who had just rounded a hilltop and suddenly found myself on a precipice, witnessing a titanic clash between two dragons, the forces of science and religion. From my vantage point, I watched the battle progress.

What I really wanted was to cheer for my dragon, to support my opinion. It wouldn’t be anything fancy, because I’m not a cheerleader: definitely no back handsprings; maybe just a little shout, accompanied by a wave. I was afraid, though, that if I voiced my belief, the other dragon would turn, give me a paralyzing glare, and nonchalantly blister me with its noxious chemical breath.

Each chapter of the story pulled me in a new direction. One powerful character thundered about the evils of religion and posed the church with seemingly unanswerable theological challenges. Another compellingly argued for the existence of God and maintained that the world, not to mention science, needs the church. It became clear that, even though I know and am committed to my beliefs, either a theologian or a scientist could out-argue me, no matter what position I took. The more I learned, the more questions I had. Knowledge made me less willing to assert my opinions. A paradox!

“What will happen to me in college?” I asked myself. “Will I be buffeted by the eloquence of my professors? Convinced that my own position is wrong, and then stretched between the opinions of various scholars like a victim of the Inquisition on the rack? I may be right, but I’ll never win an argument. If my mind, because of a disparity in training, isn’t as agile as the mind of a PhD, is it still worth having a mind of my own?”

I closed the book and blinked, but my head was still spinning at a rate that far exceeded the gentle movement of the hammock. I scanned the picturesque backyard around me, but the little girl talking to an imaginary friend on the rope swing only added to the surrealism.

OK, so ignoring the issue wasn’t going to solve this. “Think,” I told myself. “What was it G.K Chesterton said about paradoxes? ‘Truth standing on its head to get attention,’ right? Yes. So, where is the truth in this particular paradox?

“The problem seems to be that the more I learn, the less certain I become. The pleasant illusion that I can hold my own against anyone who challenges what I think has vanished. Now what? Does the fact that better debaters than I can out-talk me mean I should succumb to each new and skillfully presented idea?

“No, I don’t think it does. Somehow that answer cheapens truth, makes it not worth discovering. Truth is about something far deeper than argumentation and eloquence. I don’t mind that truth is too deep for me to fully understand. (After all, I learn, not so much because I love knowledge, but because I love astonishment.) What would crush me is not that the truth is more than I ever guessed, but that it’s so much less: something subject to sophistry.”

I turned and tickled my friend Grace’s feet to get her attention. She rolled over, nearly capsizing the hammock. “Grace…do I have to win arguments to be right?”

“Huh? Of course not! That’s ridiculous. Stop tickling me.”

That could be the answer. “Grace! You’re so wise! Thanks for –“

At which point the hammock took a nosedive and I yanked on her toes to keep from rolling out of it. Not quite as dramatic as Archimedes’ “Eureka!” but it had to do.

I was finally getting somewhere. I don’t have to win arguments to be right. Truth value does not depend on skillful presentation or persuasive arguments. Winston Churchill was right: “The truth is incontrovertible; malice may attack it, ignorance may deride it, but in the end, there it is.”

Basically, I have to be humble enough to admit my insufficiency, to be willing to lose arguments without losing my dignity, to not confuse successful defense of truth with successful promotion of self. The resolution of the paradox is this: truth isn’t about me. Thus, I can be uncertain of myself and of my abilities without doubting the truth.

I was liberated, free to bask in the glorious, gentle sunshine, as long as I didn’t overturn the hammock. However, I was intoxicated by my discovery, and the battle between the dragons was still raging. Gingerly, taking care not to flip myself onto the ground, I reached for my book and opened to the next chapter.