And it raises another question. Why did the primordial humans set about building civilization, if not out of a desire to fulfill divine purpose? Avoiding cold and hunger would motivate them to secure necessities, but why did they advance beyond those? Why did they begin inventing all the art and technology that has made humanity what it is today, if not to carry out your will, Lord?
I don’t know, but I have formed a theory.
Archaeology may not be as exact a science as physics, but it relies on physics for its foundations. Physical law is what makes it possible to study the past; examine the state of the universe closely enough, and we can infer its state a moment earlier in time. Each moment follows inexorably from the previous one and is followed inexorably by the next, links forged in a causal chain.
But the moment of creation is where all causal chains end; inference can lead us back to this moment and no further. That is why the creation of the universe is a miracle: because what happened in that moment was not a necessary consequence of what preceded it. That primordial clamshell that Wilhelmina keeps with her is indeed proof of something: not of God’s plans for humanity, but of the existence of miracles. That border where the growth rings end marks the limit of physical law’s explanatory power. And that is something we can take inspiration from.
Because I think there are events of another category that are likewise not fixed in a causal chain: acts of volition. Free will is a kind of miracle; when we make a genuine choice, we bring about a result that cannot be reduced to the workings of physical law. Every act of volition is, like the creation of the universe, a first cause.
If we had no evidence for the miracle of creation, we might think physical law was sufficient to explain every phenomenon in the cosmos, leading us to conclude that our own minds were nothing more than natural processes. But we know that there is more to what we observe than physical law can encompass; miracles happen, and human choices are surely among them.
I believe the primordial humans made a choice. They found themselves in a world full of possibilities but with no guidance as to what to do. They didn’t do what we would have expected, which is to merely survive; instead, they sought to improve themselves so that they might become masters of their world.
We scientists are in a similar situation. The evidence has always been there for us to find: the trees without growth rings, the mummies without navels, the motion of 58 Eridani. It is up to us what we do with that. We have always seen it as determinative of the value of our lives, but that wasn’t inevitable. We chose to do that, which means we can choose to do otherwise.
I’ve devoted my life to studying the wondrous mechanism that is the universe, and doing so has given me a sense of fulfillment. I’ve always assumed that this meant that I was acting in accordance with your will, Lord, and your reason for making me. But if it’s in fact true that you have no purpose in mind for me, then that sense of fulfillment has arisen solely from within myself. What that demonstrates to me is that we as humans are capable of creating meaning for our own lives.
I don’t claim that this will be an easy path. I have nothing to offer the McCulloughs except my hope that they will be able to make sense of their lives despite the absence of their son. But our lives have often been difficult even when we believed there was a divine plan, and we’ve persevered. If we have only ever been on our own, then our successes in spite of that are proof of our capabilities.
So I will return to the Arisona dig, Lord, whether it is under your watchful eye or not. Even if humanity is not the reason for which the universe was made, I still wish to understand the way it operates. We human beings may not be the answer to the question why, but I will keep looking for the answer to how.
This search is my purpose; not because you chose it for me, Lord, but because I chose it for myself.
Amen.
Anxiety Is the Dizziness of Freedom
Nat could have used a cigarette, but company policy forbade smoking in the store, so all she could do was get more and more nervous. Now it was a quarter to four, and Morrow still hadn’t returned. She wasn’t sure how she’d explain things if he didn’t get back in time. She sent him a text asking where he was.
A chime sounded as the front door opened, but it wasn’t Morrow. A guy with an orange sweater came in. “Hello? I have a prism to sell?”
Nat put her phone away. “Let’s take a look at it.”
He came over and put the prism on the counter; it was a new model, the size of a briefcase. Nat slid it around so she could see the numeric readout at one end: the activation date was only six months ago, and more than 90 percent of its pad was still available. She unfolded the keyboard to reveal the display screen, tapped the ONLINE button, and then waited. A minute went by.
“He might have run into some traffic,” said Orange Sweater uncertainly.
“It’s fine,” said Nat.
After another minute the ready light came on. Nat typed
Keyboard test.
A few seconds later a reply came back:
Looks good.
She switched to video mode, and the text on the screen was replaced by a grainy image of her own face looking back at her.
Her parallel self nodded at her and said, “Mic test.”
“Loud and clear,” she replied.
The screen reverted to text. Nat hadn’t recognized the necklace her paraself had been wearing; if they wound up buying the prism, she’d have to ask her where she got it. She looked back at the guy with the orange sweater and quoted him a price.
His disappointment was obvious. “Is that all?”
“That’s what it’s worth.”
“I thought these things got more valuable over time.”
“They do, but not right away. If this was five years old, we’d be having a different conversation.”
“What about if the other branch has something really interesting going on?”
“Yeah, that’d be worth something.” Nat pointed at his prism. “Does the other branch have something interesting going on?”
“I…don’t know.”
“You’ll have to do the research yourself and bring it to us if you want a better offer.”
Orange Sweater hesitated.
“If you want to think it over and come back later, we’re always here.”
“Can you give me a minute?”
“Take your time.”
Orange Sweater got on the keyboard and had a brief typed exchange with his paraself. When he was done, he said, “Thanks, we’ll be back later.” He folded the prism up and left.
The last customer in the store had finished chatting and was ready to check out. Nat went to the carrel he’d been using, checked the data usage on the prism, and carried it back to the storeroom. By the time she had finished ringing him up, the three customers with four o’clock appointments had arrived, including the one who needed the prism Morrow had with him.
“Just a minute,” she told them, “and I’ll get you checked in.” She went to the storeroom and brought out the prisms for the two other customers. She had just set them up in their carrels when Morrow came through the front door, elbows splayed as he carried a big cardboard carton. She met him at the counter.
“You’re cutting it close,” she whispered, glaring at him.
“Yeah, yeah, I know the schedule.”