One
thing that still eludes me on this Christmas Eve is the meaning to life. I was hoping for answers by now. Will Santa stuff them in my stocking tonight? After all, I'm forty-something years old and have devoted a better part of my life to this question. This year saw no second coming
of Christ, no return of the Mahdi, no Mayan apocalypse. Heck, I’d take a minor epiphany, something sufficiently
transcendent, like a divine spark, to give me hope. Am I condemned to traverse a precipice with
an abyss on each side? Apart from two or
three friends, I can’t really share these deep thoughts with anyone. Why? There are those who seem to have the answer
already: some of these people are of a religious faith and others are decidedly
not. The former profess a firm belief
not merely in God, but an entire theological system of judgment and
redemption. I can no longer share this
presumption. The latter dismiss any search that doesn’t conclude a purely
materialistic existence ending with the degradation of our bodies. I’m not saying they’re wrong or right, but I
discern a smug sense of satisfaction in both of these groups. They act as if they've given much thought to these deeper questions, but they've done virtually no research of their own. I agree with T. S. Eliot’s assessment of
humanity: “the majority of mankind is lazy-minded, incurious, absorbed in
vanities, and tepid in emotion.” Those
who call themselves skeptics and unbelievers, he further writes, are merely
“cloaking a disinclination to think anything out to conclusion.” I have no interest in consulting posers. Consequently, my quest is a solitary one.
What
are my options? I’ve come up with a
few. I could retreat into fideism. Yes, I could embrace the faith of my
forefathers in spite of my previous disillusionment. I could sit in the pew, pray the prayers,
and meditate on the sacred texts. I
didn’t say this was a likely option. Few are those thinkers who have made such a
trek back into the safe embrace of their childhood faith. The disillusioned seeker is a refugee who can
never return to her spiritual birthplace. How
about I join a cult and let others do the thinking for me? Okay, I’m not serious. How about taking up arms against a sea of
troubles, and by opposing, end them? No,
I’ve always considered people who committed suicide due to psychological
anguish, let alone lesser reasons, as cowardly narcissists. I’m not about to join their ranks. How about drinking and being merry for
tomorrow we die? Indulge the appetites
and pay no need to the mind? Such
hedonism would be too boring and unproductive for my old Calvinist habits. Why don’t I simply stop thinking about such
things? Just live and die. Invest my life in others, and try to make a
difference for the good. Well, there's nothing wrong with this option. And helping others shouldn't depend on any answer to an impossible existential quest. Still, humanitarian efforts will always seem vacuous to me without a definitive answer to life's meaning. Across
millennia past, minds far superior to mine made little progress in finding an
answer, so I have no arrogant pretense that I'll find what I'm looking for. Worse than that,
I fear I’ve already given less and less attention to this search in recent
years. I’ve become more lazy-minded and
incurious than I care to admit. If I’m
honest with myself, I must ask: Is this quest for meaning really what keeps me up at night?
Maybe I suffer from insomnia because of the cares of this world. Or maybe it’s the coffee and booze I consume. Look, I just want some peace of mind. Is that asking too much? Wir
sind Bettler. Hoc est verum.
