David McElroy

When I was much younger and even more foolish than I am today, I had trouble saying three simple words: “I don’t know.” Instead, I had a view about everything. And I was right about everything, of course. I was certain of it.

As the years have gone by, I find that I’m certain of fewer and fewer things. I find that there are a few root-level “first things” that I’m sure of, but there aren’t many things outside of those few principles that I can say I know with certainty.

The list of things I proclaim as “truth” shrinks all the time. I have more questions and fewer answers, partly because I’ve seen myself be wrong so many times and partly because I see that the world is far more complex than I realized even a few years ago.

So the idea of asserting so many opinions as absolute fact seems strange to me now. It feels jarring. I wonder if the certainty I expressed about so many things when I was younger was as annoying to others then as it is to me when I see it in others today.

I find that both science and Christian faith offer insights and truths to me about certain things, but scientists go wrong when they go beyond what they reasonably know to assert things they don’t know — and Christians go wrong when they claim certainty about things where Jesus and scripture are silent.

Why do people assert things as fact when they’re not in the position to know those things? I think it’s because they’re afraid of uncertainty. They don’t mean to “fill in the blanks” when they don’t know things, but they do, because they’re terrified of not knowing. Christian singer Pat Terry addressed this tendency in a song called “Nothing I Say.” He wrote:

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When I was eating dinner Thursday night at Chick-fil-A, I looked out the window next to my booth and saw a colorful, dramatic sky as the sun set. I pulled out my iPhone and snapped a few pictures, including the one you see above.

But I noticed something. Other people didn’t seem to be paying attention to the spectacular light show going on in the sky outside. I stepped outside for a few pictures. People continued to come and go, not bothering to look up at the sky. A couple of people noticed that I was taking pictures and looked up to see what I was shooting. But it didn’t seem to warrant more than a quick glance in their eyes.

Once I had the picture transferred to my MacBook, I showed it to some other people around me. They all thought it was beautiful.

“Wow. I’ve never seen anything like that,” said one woman, as the fading remnants of that exact scene lingered in the sky outside the window.

I was reminded of the scene early in Ray Bradbury’s “Fahrenheit 451” in which Clarisse McClellan pointed out the moon to the disillusioned Guy Montag.

Dear Donald Trump:

I was really interested Wednesday afternoon when you made your business proposal to Barack Obama — the one in which you offered to buy copies of his college transcripts and passport application for $5 million. I had heard you had a big announcement coming, but I didn’t know it was going to be this big. Or this exciting. Honestly, the possibilities astound me.

Since I know you’re such a great and successful businessman — we won’t even mention those unfortunate bankruptcies — I know you always have your eye out for a better deal. And, boy, do I have a deal for you. Since you’re in the market for college transcripts, I just happen to have a very nice set of lightly used transcripts from the University of Alabama that I’d be willing to let you have for less than the $5 million you’re offering to Mr. Obama.

I know you drive a hard bargain, so I’m going to cut right to the chase. I know that owning a set of my transcripts wouldn’t be quite as prestigious as having a set from a sitting U.S. president, so I’m willing to cut quite a deal. What are you thinking? $4 million? Maybe $3 million? Good gracious, no, sir. I’m willing to take a measly $2 million for my transcripts.

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