The Weight of Knowing
“For with much wisdom comes much sorrow; the more knowledge, the more grief.”
God is hidden from our mortal eyes, and yet, we long to know—if not God as Godself, then we long to know our human selves, the cosmic workings of the world, the political underpinnings of history, the intricacies of science, the vast complexity of humans and the social structures we inhabit, and the beauty of great literature and art.
I love learning. I’m like a sponge, soaking up all the amazing goodness this God-created world has to offer. I long to mop up all the dark grimness of the world, too, knowing that humans are more human because of suffering—perhaps not as originally intended by God in the garden, but certainly as a result of human rebellion.
I’ve learned that my mind has a limit. As I grow older, the thirst for knowledge does not decrease, but I find that certainties I once knew are escaping from the locked doors of my mind. I need a Penseive to claim all the escaping memories.
I find, too, that the wisdom of Qohelet, the Teacher of Ecclesiastes, is true. More knowledge does not increase peace, nor does it result in more joy.
More knowledge, more often than not, increases anxiety as thoughts swirl in my desperate attempts to fit them into my life’s experiences, those carefully ordered boxes in my mind that keep insights contained. I seek to synthesize and summarize, trying to find a way to add just one more bit of knowledge to the conglomeration of thoughts already sitting in dark corners. I push and prod, but all too often it doesn’t fit, and I throw up my hands in frustration before trying another box, another corner, another set of carefully ordered thoughts and experiences.
If you could know exactly when you were going to die, would you want to know?
I’m not sure, myself. It might spur a sense of urgency in your life; perhaps your relationships would take on new meaning as you savour every moment with your loved ones like a starving woman.
Or, perhaps it would increase your anxiety as you watch the clock tick down to zero.
More knowledge is not better. Some knowledge is useful, I’ll grant. We can’t move through life with our head in the sand. A certain level of ignorance, however, is bliss. It’s why I don’t look at the news (I hear plenty of what’s going on from everyone else in my life) and why my social media presence is scarce. Knowing more only rears that sense of helplessness against the world’s corrupt mess.
(Didn’t I say that the world is good and God-created? Well, of course it is! And it is also a complete disaster. It is another paradox for us to hold. I’m finding that life is more about holding paradoxes than it is about gaining certainty.)
Knowledge breeds a desire to act. Being unable to do a single thing to solve the mess is defeating. What can a single human do to fix the world?
Ah, that’s just it, isn’t it? You and I, we can’t piece this world of hurts back together again. There is One who has begun this work—a Man who absorbed every evil deed upon Himself and defeated it soundly through His humiliating death by the hands of humans.
Didn’t He know all things? Couldn’t He have done it another way?
Yes, He did, because He embodies the paradox that is God Made Flesh; and perhaps He could have, but He chose this one.
The weight of knowing nearly crushed Him, too. He cried out, “Father, if you are willing, take this cup from me; yet not my will, but yours be done” (Lk. 22:42). As He wept and sweated drops of blood, He did not waver from His task. He bowed His head and submitted to the ignorance of humanity, who could not see God before their eyes, though He stood before them.
Humans can’t hold the weight of this world. At least, not ordinary humans. But the God-Man did, though it broke Him. And then, resurrected, He soundly crushed that which struck His heel. He breathed His Life upon His brothers and sisters, enabling them, too, to defeat the evil that would swallow them whole.
So, the Church remains, empowered by the Spirit, breathed upon by the breath of God, given the hope of resurrection that endures despite the weight of knowing that we will not see redemption made whole before Christ comes again. But we labour. We press on for that which Christ laid hold of us. We endure because in this there is hope—a life given for us all, through us all, to us all.
“The fear of the LORD is the beginning of wisdom.” (Prov. 9:10)
Indeed, we fear because we cannot comprehend the Mystery that is the God-Man who lived, died, and lived again. We fear because we know that we would be obliterated if we tried to do the same thing He did. We fear because He is All That We Are Not.
And we worship, trusting in grace, hope, and love, for His yoke is easy and His burden is light.
