The Word Was God: The Quest for the Answer

            In Douglas Adams’ Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, an alien race designs a supercomputer named Deep Thought to answer the greatest question of all—the question of Life, the Universe, and Everything. After Deep Thought forces the alien race to wait for millions of years while he considers the question, he finally reveals that he has an answer in this exchange:

"Good Morning," said Deep Thought at last.

"Er..good morning, O Deep Thought," said Loonquawl nervously, "do you have...er, that is..."

"An Answer for you?" interrupted Deep Thought majestically. "Yes, I have....Though I don't think," added Deep Thought. "that you're going to like it."

"Doesn't matter!" said Phouchg. "We must know it! Now!"

"Now?" inquired Deep Thought.

"Yes! Now..."

"All right," said the computer, and settled into silence again. The two men fidgeted. The tension was unbearable.

"You're really not going to like it," observed Deep Thought.

"Tell us!"

"All right," said Deep Thought. "The Answer to the Great Question..."

"Yes..!"

"Of Life, the Universe and Everything..." said Deep Thought.

"Yes...!"

"Is..." said Deep Thought, and paused.

"Yes...!"

"Is..."

"Yes...!!!...?"

"Forty-two," said Deep Thought, with infinite majesty and calm.

            The simple nihilism of Adams’ vision is clear to see. The answer to the single Question which plagues humanity is nonsensical. There is no meaning to be found anywhere, least of all in the great question of the universe’s existence.

            And yet, although I might disagree with Adams’ final conclusion, I find a good amount of wisdom in his simplification of the question which his characters ask. His alien heroes do not seek a myriad of answers to a multitude of questions. Instead, they distill every question which could possibly be asked into one single question—the Great Question of Life, the Universe, and Everything. Not only do they express all questions as one, but they seem to expect a single answer as well—a short, clear nugget of truth which will contain an explanation for every problem which might ever arise.

            This expectation of one single answer, if not the answer which Adams presents, is entirely rational to me. In fact, I have been living with this expectation for all my life.

            I hesitate to describe this feeling for fear of abject failure. I have attempted only once to put this sensibility into words, and upon that occasion I was unsuccessful. Here I will try again.

            All my life, I have held a spiritual conviction that all of the world, every question, every occurrence, can be judged and considered based on one single value. You have undoubtedly heard the often reiterated phrase, spoken in reply to some simplistic distillment, that “the real world is more complicated than that.” I have always felt the opposite—that the real world is far less complicated than that.

This strange conviction comes in the form of an odd thought in the back of my mind which, like a drop of water, slips away when I attempt to grasp hold of it. It arises every time I face a complex question, an unanswered problem, and whispers that there is one shapeless mystery which provides the key to every question I have ever asked, or ever could ask.

            I know that you will ask what the nature of this single answer is. This question is impossible to answer. I do not know. I can say only that it is not a word contained in any human language. And in case you have never experienced the odd certainty of this value which answers all earthly questions, I’ll attempt to describe it for you.

            It is something like the feeling you get when you listen to your favorite song, and there is that one particular moment where the music soars and your heart lifts and for just one moment, you are no longer on earth, because you have experienced something wordless that expressed the inexpressible.

            It is something like a single match lit in the darkness, illuminating everything before it, showing what the shadows really were all along.

            It is something like the satisfying feeling once you have finished a masterfully written novel, and you close the book knowing that you have been in the hands of a great author, and that the characters have developed and grown and found their endings precisely as he wanted them to.

            It is something like the power of an immense hurricane—more powerful than anything you have ever known or experienced, and stronger than you could have dreamed.

            It is the magic behind the words “Let there be light” that propelled our universe into existence.

            It is the wordless wonder in music that finds a direct pathway to our souls.

            It is the answer, not just to one question, but to every question—the final solution, the single word that stills the waves and calms the sea.

            This nameless value, this unknown answer, is the hope of the man who has nothing left in the world, but who still clings to the belief that his life is worth more than his circumstances, and there are angels beyond his vision.

            It is the source of the courage of a soldier who dies for his comrades, who even dies for strangers he will never meet.

            It is the reason for the simple faith of a child who trusts that everything will be okay, although he does not understand how.

            Like the sun, we cannot look at it directly. It is so great, so glorious, that we can only see it out of the corner of our eyes, reflected in the best and brightest of the world around us. And like the sun, I believe that this strange answer will come in the form of something we have always known—but we will see it for the first time for what it really is.

            The quest to find this mysterious value is not easy, and it cannot be completed on earth. But we may find a clue in John 1:1, which says, “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.”

            Perhaps when I experience the wordless conviction that there is an answer to the Great Question of Life, the Universe, and Everything, I am experiencing the longing of the Israelites who were promised an answer to their failings thousands of years ago. God’s people were promised an answer:

“The people walking in darkness

    have seen a great light;

on those living in the land of deep darkness

    a light has dawned.” (Isaiah 9:2)

The light illuminates the darkness and reveals every hidden mystery, answers every question. It is the single answer to the inarticulate question of the universe.

The Word is the Answer that has existed from the beginning of time, the light which was hidden away for so long. The Word was with God, and the Word was God. And in answer to the desperation of His people, the Word came here and walked among us. That is the mystery of the incarnation—not merely the fact that our Creator became one of the beings He created, but that we stared into the face of the Answer.

But we humans, with our small brains, are incapable of understanding the Answer. All that we know is that He was here—and that He was the face of Love, the personification of Glory, the vision of everything that we may know in part but not in whole.

This is our longing and our hope—that we have seen the Answer, but cannot know it. We see the light of the sun, but we must not stare directly at it. We have been told the name of our salvation, but we may not know its mind.

When I read the book Till We Have Faces by C.S. Lewis, I was astounded by the final passage, for it seemed to put into words the solution to my inarticulate conviction. The novel depicts the rage-filled writings of Orual, a woman who seeks to lay out her grievances before the gods. She wishes to describe her sufferings to the immortals, and then at the end demand an answer for all the pain she has known. But when she finally is given the chance she has always wanted, when she stands in the courtroom of the gods and presents her case, she discovers that she has already been answered—not with words, but with the incomprehensible presence of the divine.

I wrote earlier that I feared my incompetence in the task of expressing in human language the strange feeling that always arose in my soul when I faced a difficult problem. Perhaps I have failed to describe it even now, and if so, I apologize. But even so, I leave you with the words of C.S. Lewis, who described the conclusion to my conviction more perfectly than I could ever dream of doing.

“I ended my first book with the words 'no answer.' I know now, Lord, why you utter no answer. You are yourself the answer. Before your face questions die away. What other answer would suffice?"