If You Could Know One Thing Was True

I've been thinking lately about belief ... how it seems very tenuous in our world today ... very hard to nail down ... We live in a time when we have more information than any generation in history; and yet perhaps less agreement about what is actually a true belief to hold on to. Everywhere we turn, someone is telling us what reality really is. The news tells us one thing. Social media tells us another. Science tells us something, then someone posts a video explaining why the scientists are wrong. Our friends have opinions. Our families have opinions. Experts disagree with other experts.

Can you really find a true belief? And if you do, there is a rather unsettling question: How do you know?

I don't mean, “How do I know which political party is right?” Or, “Which side of this argument should I take?” I mean something much bigger. How do I know what is real?

For a long time, Western culture had considerable confidence that we could answer questions like these. We believed that reason, science and careful observation could help us discover truth. Religious people believed that God had revealed truth. We might disagree about the answers, but we generally assumed that there were answers.

Then we became much more suspicious.

We definitely needed to. We discovered that people in positions of authority could be wrong. Institutions could hide their own interests. History books sometimes left people out. Governments could tell convenient stories. Religious people could use versions of their truth to control others. Even scientists could make mistakes.

We learned to ask a very good question: “Who says?”

Who decided this was normal?

Who wrote the history?

Who gets to define the terms?

Whose voice is missing?

What interests are being served?

These questions have done us a great service.

But I wonder if we've taken them so far that we have arrived at another problem. If we question everything, eventually we have to ask: Is there anything left that we can trust? Because there is a difference between saying, “I might be wrong,” and saying, “Nobody can ever know what is true.”

The first is humility. The second is a very large claim indeed.

And it raises a curious little problem.

If someone says, “There is no objective truth,” I am tempted to ask, “Is that objectively true?” I don't mean that as a clever trick. I'm genuinely interested. For our problem might not be too much certainty or too much uncertainty. It may be that we haven't learned how to live with humility and conviction at the same time.

We can say, “I believe this is true,” without saying, “I am incapable of being wrong.”

That seems like a rather healthy place to stand. It also leaves room for one of the most important things we can do as human beings: listen. Not listen merely so we can prepare our response. Actually listen.

I have become increasingly interested in what happens when we do that. Suppose you are sitting across the table from someone you love who sees the world very differently from you. You may disagree about religion, morality, politics, identity or even what makes a good life. Instead of trying to persuade them, imagine asking this:

If you could know one thing about reality that was absolutely true, what would you most want to know? This is a serious question. I don't think I would rush to answer it myself.

Someone might say: I would want to know whether there is a God. Someone else: I would want to know whether my life really matters. Another might say: I would want to know whether people are basically good. Someone grieving might say: I would want to know whether death is really the end. A young person might say: I would want to know whether I will ever find where I belong. Someone who has been badly hurt might say: I would want to know whether love can actually be trusted.

And suddenly we aren't having an argument anymore. We're having a conversation about being human. That is where I think the question becomes so interesting.

Because underneath all our theories about reality are some very ordinary human longings.

We want to know whether kindness matters. Whether justice is real. Whether beauty means something. Whether love is more than chemistry. Whether forgiveness changes anything. Whether our lives have meaning beyond the little stretch of time between birth and death.

Whether there is someone behind all of this.

These aren't childish questions. They are some of the oldest questions human beings have ever asked. And I don't think we should be embarrassed that they percolate in our minds.

Perhaps the mature response to life's biggest questions isn't to pretend we have certainty. But neither is it to shrug our shoulders and say, “Who knows? Everyone has their own truth.”

Because there is another possibility. We can investigate. We can ask questions. We can read people we disagree with. We can listen to those whose experiences are different from ours. We can examine our assumptions. We can change our minds. We can admit when we don't know.

And we can still believe that there is something real to discover. That last part matters to me. Because if there is no reality beyond our own interpretations, then ultimately we are left with competing stories.

My story.

Your story.

Their story.

And whoever has the loudest microphone, tends to be heard.

But if reality is real ... even if our understanding of it is incomplete ... then our questions become meaningful. We aren't simply inventing answers. We are searching. And perhaps searching is a more honourable activity than we sometimes think.

The scientist searches.

The philosopher searches.

The person of faith searches.

The doubter searches.

The person who has been wounded by religion searches.

The person who has never believed searches.

Even the person who insists they don't care may, somewhere underneath, be searching for something worth caring about. So let's not begin our conversations about reality with: “Here's what I believe, and here's why you're wrong.” Instead we could begin somewhere much more human: “What is the one thing you most wish you could know?”

And then listen to the answer. Really listen.

Because we might discover that beneath the arguments, beneath the labels, beneath our carefully constructed opinions, we are asking many of the same questions.

We are all trying to figure out what is true. We are all trying to figure out how to live. We are all trying, in one way or another, to find something solid enough to stand on. And perhaps there is no shame in admitting our misgivings. Maybe the search for truth doesn't begin with certainty.

Maybe it begins with the courage to ask a good question.

Mine would be two-fold: Is there something I am here for and am I accountable for my life in any way? (I guess the last one means, Can I just live my life any old way I want?) This question, my friend, seems critical to me, as my life zips by at a merciless speed.