Certainty and Me

“Doubt is uncomfortable, certainty is ridiculous.” Voltaire

Growing up, I was taught that doubt was something to be avoided, weeded out, and guarded against; and that certainty was a virtue. Now I’m not so sure, but then I never really was.

In school, the teachers often taught us to look for, memorize, and repeat back the right answers. A good student knew his or her stuff and wasted little time with frivolous pursuits of other possibilities.

In church, the clergy taught us about the one, true way. A good person learned the faith, followed the teachings, and seldom bothered asking prickly, little questions.

And just about everywhere else I went, someone tried to convince me that things were either black or white. People with good sense got on board and shunned all silly shades of grey.

But I was never that certain about anything, and counted it a burden.

I marveled at and envied people with strong convictions. I didn’t know if they were right or wrong, but I thought their lives must be easier to navigate without so much deliberation.

I, in contrast, am one, big, walking heap of deliberation, equivocation, and doubt. The truth of the matter is that certainty scares the hell out of me.

I recently watched Fall from Grace, the documentary about the Westboro Baptist Church. Its members, primarily made up of the Phelps family, are notorious for the pickets they stage at the funerals of homosexuals and fallen soldiers.

In full view of grieving families, these men, women, and children assemble and hold up signs that say things like, “God hates fags,” and “Thank God for dead soldiers,” and “God hates your tears.”

As I watched the film, the thing that stunned me most was their absolute certainty. These are people who spend very little time deliberating. I imagined them sitting around the dinner table, the only topic of discussion or debate being whether to paint the word “fag” in metallic green or neon blue.

I’m amazed that anyone can get through life with so few questions.

The easy response to all of this would be to say, “Well, that’s Christians for ya,” but that’s just another form of certainty.

It’s easy to gather people into groups, sew on some labels, assign some traits, and be done with it, but there’s a problem with that approach: people are messy. They’re nuanced and diverse and they’re never quite what they seem to be at first glance.

Your hero can let you down, and that person you think you know, the one you’re convinced is a no-good, dirty dog, might be the first person to drop everything to save your life should the circumstances warrant it.

I guess that’s why I got myself into a little hot water yesterday when I took issue with a blog post about Christians. The author thinks I misread it, but I reread it a few times and still thought it was unfair. Yet being me, I’m not sure, and in her defense, it’s really none of my damned business.

I haven’t lived her life or endured her trials. Maybe I didn’t get her gist. Maybe I was being, as she claimed, passive aggressive. I’ve been known to be that from time to time.

Maybe I am, as she called me, a mild mad man. I certainly feel that way now and then.

I only know what I think, and what I think is this. Love, when you can find the strength to summon it, is better than hate.

I also think that hate feeds on certainty, that love is nourished by curiosity, and that curiosity is somehow tied to a healthy dose of doubt. For some reason, it’s hard to be curious about someone and hate them at the same time.

I screw up and forget this a great deal more than I wish to admit.

I guess the author of that post, and I, and all of you are all trying to do the best we can. Sometimes we get it right. Sometimes we get it wrong. And, unless we’ve stopped asking questions, we’re never exactly sure which one it is.

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Tagged as: Poems from a Spiral Bound Life