Unscrewing the Inscrutable

By Perry C. Brown

My friend Paula (not her real name) has Alzheimer’s. Not so long ago she was an educator, an award-winning writer, and a ballroom dancer. Now she is a self-proclaimed recluse, unwilling to leave her house much anymore because the world outside her door has become too confusing and upsetting. Her grand world has shrunken to only the rooms inside her home, her last safe refuge.

Paula and her husband and I attend the same church. That is still one place that she enjoys going. Her infectious smile and warm hugs belie her mental struggles and her strained emotions. She always keeps a tissue in one hand so that she can dab at her eyes when the reality of her declining health overwhelms her.

I try to sit next to Paula so we can chit chat about her week and I can get some sense of how she is feeling and doing. I am usually unable to detect the monster that is chewing at her life from the inside out; she seems normal by my superficial observations. Her cheery disposition is no doubt a direct result of being surrounded by people she loves and who understand her. And yet there is always the lingering tissue in her hand.

One Sunday morning as we were quietly catching up on her week, she abruptly turned to face me and softly demanded, “Why did God do this to me? I was so happy and I was helping so many people. And now look at me. I can’t even help myself. Why is God making me suffer like this?”

Paula’s question startled me. The sudden transition from friendly small talk to probing interrogation caught me off guard. Several “theological” answers occurred to me, but I knew none of them would satisfy her, or me. What Paula was facing was, in every sense, inscrutable.

One Bible passage surfaced as I tried to form an impromptu answer to Paula’s question. It is Isaiah 55:8-9, a creed of sorts for those of us who have learned that unscrewing the inscrutable is beyond us:

“My thoughts are not your thoughts,
Neither are your ways my ways,”
declares the Lord.
“For as high as the heavens are above the earth,
So are my ways higher than your ways,
And my thoughts than your thoughts.”

And there it was. I am not God, although Paula insisted that I speak for Him. There is a huge gap between His eternal plan and how I perceive and interpret it. Having studied the Bible and theology most of my adult life, I have learned there is much I can know about my Lord, but also much I will never know, precisely because He is Lord. What I have learned is that His compassion and care and love for His people is limitless. Yet even in that love are deep mysteries that I do not understand. And there are other mysteries that seep into almost every area of my life. Including suffering and pain. Including the distresses I have seen in the faces of my friends.

What We Know When We Don’t Know Why

To be clear, there is a difference between knowing nothing and not knowing everything. Scripture does not tell me why God allowed Alzheimer’s to enter Paula’s life. But it tells me enough about the God who allowed it that I do not face the mystery empty-handed. I know He is good. I know He loves His children. I know suffering will not have the final word. And I know that the God whose purposes I cannot trace is the same God who gave His Son for me.

As I’ve aged, I’ve learned to say “I don’t know” more, even as my biblical knowledge continues to grow. My discoveries lead to more questions, but they also provide a safe foundation from which I can accept the questions that remain unanswered.

When I was younger, I may have thought spiritual maturity meant accumulating enough biblical knowledge to answer life’s hardest questions. I’ve grown to understand that maturity means knowing God well enough that I no longer need an answer to every question before I trust Him.

As I come to know Him better, I understand that I know Him less than I thought I did. And I understand that’s how it should be, if indeed He is God.

Trying to gather myself, I turned to face Paula and said, “I don’t have a good answer for you. I just don’t know why you are carrying this affliction. All I know is that one day, both of us will see this better than we can see it now. What is incomprehensible to us is not incomprehensible to God, and we can trust Him in the meantime.”

Paula had a quizzical look on her face as she formed her answer. “You know,” she said slowly, “you really aren’t much help, are you?” I wasn’t expecting that, but the grin on her face and giggle in her laugh let me know she was toying with me. And that was ok. For a brief moment there was a twinkle in her eye, instead of a tear. And for a brief moment both of us were ok that neither of us knew everything, but both of us knew and trusted the One who does know everything.

Faith with a Tissue in Its Hand

Nothing had changed. Paula still had Alzheimer’s. I still didn’t have an answer. The tissue was still in her hand. But for those few moments, the question didn’t have to be answered for us to enjoy one another—or to trust God together. Perhaps faith sometimes looks exactly like that: not finally figuring it all out, but discovering that we can live, and even laugh, while the mystery remains.

Scripture invites us deeply into the knowledge of God, but it never promises that we will reach the bottom. There are truths He has given us to know and mysteries He asks us to trust. We may explore His depths for a lifetime—and still enjoy Him in the meantime—without ever unscrewing the inscrutable.

Paula struggles to understand God’s purposes in her pain. But I may have discovered one. I now know what it looks like for someone to cling to God with one hand and clutch a tissue with the other. We don’t have to let go of either. The Lord, and Paula, taught me that.

Perry C. Brown is a graduate of Dallas Theological Seminary and has taught the Bible over 45 years. His books, essays, and articles are found at perrycbrown.com.