Journal of Religion and Health, Vol. 24, No. 2, Summer 1985
Meaning in Life: Discovered or Created? ROBERT M. B A I R D A B S T R A C T : Against the background claims that a meaningful life is more likely to be the product of creation than discovery and t h a t a meaningful life must involve both subjective satisfaction and an objective moral component, three foundations of a meaningful life are discussed. These include the quality of one's relationships, the integrative power of one's goals and projects, and the role of story or stories. Concerning the role of story, the theological challenge is to choose t h a t story or those stories t h a t place life in a genuinely ultimate context.
We spend most of our time worrying about our health, caring for our friends, arguing with our opponents, marveling at our children, yelling at the officials, sweating over bills, fantasizing about sex, fixing our cars, complaining about taxes, answering our mail, playing games, cashing checks, regretting mistakes, buying clothes, making love, eating, sleeping, working, laughing, and crying. And yet we also have the amazing capacity to pause in our tracks and ask, " W h a t does it all come to?" Part of what it means to be human is to wonder about what it means to be human. Part of the uniqueness of being human is to puzzle over the meaning of t h a t uniqueness. And since life is often frustrating or painful or cruel, the responses to the question, " I s life meaningful?" are often pessimistic. Shakespeare's Macbeth: Life "is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing." Tolstoy: "The more intelligent we are, the less do we understand the meaning of life and the more do we see a kind o f . . . bad joke in our suffering and death. . . . ,,1 Schopenhauer: "We have not to rejoice but rather to mourn at the existence of the world; . . . its non-existence would be preferable . . . it is something which at bottom ought not to be . . . . -2 Clarence Darrow: "Life is like a ship on the sea, tossed by every wave and by every wind; a ship headed for no port and no harbor, with no rudder, no compass, no pilot; simply floating for a time, then lost in the waves. ''3 Bertrand Russell: "All the labors of the ages, all the devotion, all the inspiration, all the noonday brightness of human genius, are destined to extinction in the vast death of the solar system, a n d . . . the whole temple of man's achievement m u s t inevitably be buried beneath the debris of a universe in ruins . . . . -4 Jean-Paul Sartre: "All existing things are born for no reason, continue through weakness and die by accident . . . . It is meaningless that we are born; it is meaningless t h a t we die. ''5 Man, concludes Sartre, "is a useless passion. ''6 It all sounds very much like Ecclesiastes' "Vanity of v a n i t i e s . . , all is vanity." Robert M. Baird is Professor of Philosophy at Baylor University in Waco, Texas. 117
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And this alleged meaninglessness is dramatically captured in literary images: Beckett's characters waiting, waiting endlessly for the neverappearing Godot; Camus' Sisyphus condemned forever to the pointless pushing of that rock. Indeed, Camus asserts that "there is but one truly serious philosophical problem, and that is suicide. ''7 He adds, " J u d g i n g whether life is or is not worth living amounts to answering the fundamental question of philosophy." 8 And so the issue considered here is no light matter. There is a sense in which all other questions are secondary. This one counts. Is life meaningful? The structure of my remarks will be as follows. Initially two observations will be made about the nature of the question, " I s life meaningful?" Three particular foundations for a meaningful life will then be proposed. The first observation grows out of the contrast between the phrases "discovering the meaning of life" and "creating a meaningful life." There is more to this contrast than just a way of speaking, for our way of talking reflects an attitude. To speak of discovering, or looking for, or searching for the meaning of life (phrases heard all the time) suggests that there is some kind of meaning "out there" which is hidden from view, and if we are diligent enough or lucky enough we will uncover it or bump into it. Here the meaning of life is likened unto a beautiful piece of already published music which, if discovered, would fill one's days with harmony. On the other hand, to speak of creating a meaningful life suggests that we have a responsibility for its coming into being. This is a crucial shift in attitude. Now a meaningful life is likened unto composing a piece of music, a composing in which the harmony that emerges is a product of the creative activity of the self. Much of what follows is based on the conviction that meaning (as in a meaningful life} is much more likely to be the product of creation than of discovery. This places the responsibility for meaning where it ought to be--on us. We have been taught all of our lives (properly taught, I think) that rarely does anything of value come easily. What is of greater value than a meaningful life? It is not, then, easily discovered. It is, with diligence, created. It is not found. It is made. Though I do want to insist upon the point just made, some qualification needs to be introduced. In my own experience, for example, I am aware that my capacity for experiencing meaning is significantly dependent upon my early relationship with m y father. In his strong, yet tender, way he gave me the greatest gift a father can give a son: he "delighted in m y existence. ''9 In fact, Sam Keen is right: "Each of us is redeemed from shallow and hostile life only by the sacrificial love and civility which we have gratuitously received." 10 The insistence that in a fundamental sense meaning is created rather than discovered need not result in ignoring the "giftness" dimension of life. A second general observation is that there is both a subjective and objective component to a meaningful life. 11On the one hand, if an individual's life is to be judged meaningful in the fullest sense, that person must feel that his or her life is worthwhile. Even if w e judge a person's life to be meaningful, there is obviously something amiss if that person sincerely declares verbally or behaviorally (as, for example, in suicide) that life is not worth living. Meaning
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must involve the pursuit of "projects that afford satisfaction to the pursuer."'2 Without subjective satisfaction, meaning is incomplete. On the other hand, one may feel that one's life is meaningful, one may be daily and enthusiastically involved in the pursuit of a goal, but one's name m a y be Hitler, and the end pursued m a y be the destruction of a race of people. The word "meaningful" in the sense of a meaningful life should not be used in such a way that Hitler's life must be judged meaningful just because he m a y have judged it so. All of which is to say that a meaningful life in the fullest sense must have an objective moral component. It must be morally constructive, as well as providing subjective satisfaction. As R. W. Hepburn puts it, "Questions of the meaning of l i f e . . , are typically questions of h o w . . , two sorts of pursuit [subjective satisfaction and morally worthy projects] can be fused.-13 With the assumptions, then, that meaningfulness is created rather than discovered and that a meaningful life must involve both subjective satisfaction and an objective moral component, let me now make several value judgments about what constitutes a meaningful life. After all, "When we ask 'What is the meaning of life?' we are asking 'What, if anything, is worthwhile?' or 'How should we live?' "'4 Such questions call for value judgments. I now want to make such judgments by defending three foundations of a meaningful life. Two quick disclaimers. I'm not suggesting that the three factors I will refer to exhaust the characteristics of a meaningful life. I do think, however, that these dimensions are particularly crucial. Moreover, since I have chosen to say something about all three factors rather than to develop in detail one of them, it is clear that much more could profitably be said about all three of these dimensions of a meaningful life. The discussion here will be schematic but, I hope, suggestive. The first factor to be mentioned is going to seem so obvious that the point may be missed. So let me come at it indirectly. When the German existentialist Karl Jaspers was a young man, he became conscious of loneliness. Life, he concluded, was structured in such a w a y that individuals seem to relate to one another superficially, "not inwardly from the historicity of their souls. ''15 Yet nothing, Jaspers argued, was "more pern i c i o u s . . , than loneliness, especially the loneliness in the midst of social intercourse that deceives itself in a multitude of [superficial] friendships. ''16 Loneliness is tragic precisely because "the individual cannot [even] become human by himself. Self-being is only real in communication with another selfbeing . . . . If the never completed movement of communication succeeds with but a single human being, everything is achieved."'7 Indeed, one might summarize the basic thesis of all of Jasper's philosophizing in one straightforward sentence: Nothing is so crucial in creating a meaningful life as the quality of one's relationships. Why is this so? Consider two possibilities--one involving the notion of communication, the other involving the idea of community. It is in depth communication with others--that is, in communication involving openness, risk,
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and sacrifice--that we most often discover who we really are. That is, we often become aware of our potentialities as those potentialities are discovered by another and reflected back to us in a moment of depth communication. In such communication we discover possibilities about ourselves that we had never dreamed. We discover truths about who we might become that we had never imagined.iS Out of such moments meaningful lives are created. But notice, such moments are relational moments. Consider community. It is in community t h a t we care and are cared for. And the value of caring is not to be analyzed instrumentally. That is, to care and to be cared for are inherently valuable. To care and to be cared for are the most satisfying of human experiences. To care and to be cared for meet the deepest of human needs. But notice again, caring is relational. So whether we are talking about depth communication or a caring community, we are talking about the value and power of honest and supportive relationships. Such relationships are the matrix within which meaningful lives are created. Let me call attention to a second foundation of meaning by beginning with a most unlikely character--the comedian Don Rickels. You know the one. He trades on abuse. His humor is rooted in caricaturing blacks, women, Orientals, homosexuals, Italians, Mexicans, Jews, or anyone who gets in his line of fire. One evening on J o h n n y Carson's "Tonight Show" something provoked Rickels to become reflective. For several minutes he offered an apology for {apology in the Socratic sense of a defense of} his life. The point of his humor, he maintained, was to undermine demeaning stereotypes by showing them up for the absurdities they are. There was poignancy in Rickels' remarks. Here was this apparently insensitive, crude, abusive Rickels interpreting his life in terms of a morally useful social role. He was expressing (and this is what I found so poignant} t h a t universal human need to sense somehow t h a t one's life really counts, t h a t what one is doing is constructive, t h a t it makes a contribution, that (to use the cliche) the world will be a better place for one's having come along. To assert that there is a clue here to the creation of meaning is obviously an understatement. Except when we are experiencing a particularly cynical moment, most of us would acknowledge t h a t it is important to us t h a t our life count. What this requires is a commitment to a goal or project {singular or plural} t h a t both gives us a sense of doing something worthwhile and in the process provides the kind of focus for our energy that helps order in terms of importance a multitude of secondary interests and concerns. Appropriately, much of what we do is inconsequential. But if all of one's activities are shallow, the experience of emptiness and the sense of being internally scattered or lacking unity of purpose can be overwhelming. And so, as directive as it may sound, we have to talk about the establishing of ends or goals in terms of which life becomes meaningfully structured. But what ends, what projects, what goals should one pursue? It is not evading the issue to assert t h a t this is precisely the decision one individual cannot make for another. And t h a t this decision cannot be made by one for another is the reason meaning cannot be passed out like candy. How many
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s t u d e n t s over the y e a r s have sat at m y desk and said s o m e t h i n g like: " I ' m n o t m o t i v a t e d . As I m o v e t h r o u g h the d a y it seems t h a t n o t h i n g really m a t t e r s . I ask myself, w h a t ' s the p o i n t ? " A n d as m u c h as one m i g h t like, t h e r e is no w a y one can reach across the desk and simply h a n d out purpose. E n d s and goals, as the D a n i s h philosopher Soren K i e r k e g a a r d was w o n t to a r g u e repeatedly, are the kinds of things t h a t have to be s u b j e c t i v e l y a p p r o p r i a t e d b y the self in a m o m e n t of creative choice. A n d it is precisely such a choice t h a t serves as the f o u n d a t i o n for meaning. A f o o t n o t e should be a d d e d here. T h e r e is often a t r a g i c dimension to choosing lifetime projects, to m a k i n g lifetime c o m m i t m e n t s , for p r o j e c t s and c o m m i t m e n t s are often m u t u a l l y exclusive or incompatible. To choose one end is to reject another. To choose one profession is to t u r n y o u r back on another. To serve one a g e n c y is to t u r n down another. To choose to i n v e s t y o u r t i m e and m o n e y in this p r o j e c t is to refuse t h a t one. To choose Susie is to reject Sal. To choose J o e is to reject George. These choices are often painful, b u t t h e y are essential to the creative process of e s t a b l i s h i n g meaning-giving order to one's life. A t h i r d f o u n d a t i o n of m e a n i n g is e x p r e s s e d in a s t o r y told b y the cont e m p o r a r y J e w i s h writer Elie Wieseh When the great Rabbi Baal Shem-Tov saw misfortune threatening the Jews it was his custom to go into a certain part of the forest to meditate. There he would light a fire, say a special prayer, and the miracle would be accomplished and the misfortune averted. Later, when his disciple, the celebrated Magid of Mezritch, had occasion, for the same reason, to intercede with heaven, he would go to the same place in the forest and say: "Master of the Universe, Listen! I do not know how to light the fire, but I am still able to say the prayer." And again the miracle would be accomplished. Still later, Rabbi Moshe-Leib of Sasov, in order to save his people once more, would go into the forest and say: "I do not know how to light the fire, I do not know the prayer, but I know the place and this must be sufficient." It was sufficient and the miracle was accomplished. Then it fell to Rabbi Israel of Rizhyn to overcome misfortune. Sitting in his armchair, his head in his hands, he spoke to God: "I am unable to light the fire and I do not know the prayer; I cannot even find the place in the forest. All I can do is to tell the story, and this must be sufficient." And it was sufficient. 19 I have h e a r d Wiesel tell this story. H e does it m o v i n g l y because he has experienced its meaning. W h e n he was t w e l v e y e a r s old, he was t a k e n to a Nazi c o n c e n t r a t i o n camp. For a time he was in Auschwitz, t h e n Buchenwald. In those c a m p s he lost his mother, his father, and a b a b y sister. H e is a m a n a c q u a i n t e d with grief. K n o w i n g this helps clarify the m e a n i n g of the s t o r y Wiesel loves to tell of t h a t old Rabbi who, sitting in his armchair, his head in his hands, spoke t h u s to God: " I am u n a b l e to light the fire and I do not k n o w the prayer; I c a n n o t even find the place in the forest. All I can do is to tell t h e story, and t h a t m u s t be sufficient." Wiesel is affirming t h a t , even in the m i d s t of the m o s t intense suffering, m e a n i n g is created b y the ability to place one's life in the c o n t e x t of a r e d e e m i n g story.
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T h e p h i l o s o p h e r A l a s d a i r M a c I n t y r e in Beyond Virtue, one of t h e m o s t widely r e a d b o o k s on the c u r r e n t philosophical scene, a r g u e s t h a t m e a n i n g in a m o r a l c o n t e x t c a n n o t be p r o p e r l y u n d e r s t o o d a p a r t f r o m t h e notion of story: " I can o n l y a n s w e r the q u e s t i o n ' W h a t a m I to do?' " claims M a c I n t y r e " i f I can a n s w e r t h e prior q u e s t i o n 'Of w h a t s t o r y or stories do I find m y s e l f a p a r t ? ' -20 I n t h e p h e n o m e n a l best-seller a n a l y z i n g A m e r i c a ' s m o s t successful c o m p a n i e s , In Search of Excellence, t h e a u t h o r s P e t e r s a n d W a t e r m a n a r g u e r e p e a t e d l y t h a t it is in t e r m s of in-house s t o r i e s t h a t c o m p a n i e s such as Boeing Aircraft, M c D o n a l d s , I B M , a n d H e w l e t t P a c k a r d g e n e r a t e a n d c o m m u n i c a t e m e a n i n g . 21 Keen, in his i n t r i g u i n g To A Dancing God, h a s r e m i n d e d us t h a t t h e J u d e o - C h r i s t i a n d r a m a in t e r m s of which so m a n y h a v e c r e a t e d m e a n i n g for their lives o p e n s w i t h t h e s t o r y t e l l e r ' s line " I n the beginning, G o d . . . . -22 T h e p o i n t is, t h e r e h a s e m e r g e d in c o n t e m p o r a r y p h i l o s o p h y , theology, a n d e v e n m a n a g e m e n t t h e o r y an a p p r e c i a t i o n for t h e " n a r r a t i v e s t r u c t u r e or struct u r e s of h u m a n life ''23 a n d the role of s u c h s t r u c t u r e s in the creation of meaning. B u t lest this a n a l y s i s b e c o m e too v a g u e , let m e r e p e a t a n o t h e r story, one t h a t i l l u s t r a t e s c o n c r e t e l y the role of s t o r y in c r e a t i n g m e a n i n g . Told b y N a n c y Gavin, it goes like this: I t ' s just a small white envelope stuck among the branches of our Christmas tree. No name, no inscription, it has peeked through the branches of our tree for the past ten years or so. It all began because my husband, Mike, hated Christmas. Oh, not the true meaning of Christmas, but the commercial aspects of it--the overspending, the frantic running around at the last minute to get a tie for Uncle Harry and the dusting powder for Grandma, gifts given in desperation because you couldn't think of anything else. Knowing he felt this way, I decided one year to bypass the usual shirts, sweaters, ties, etc., and reach for something special just for him. The inspiration came in an unusual way. Our son Kevin, who was twelve that year, was wrestling at the Junior League level at the school he attended, and shortly before Christmas there was a nonleague match against a team sponsored by an inner-city church . . . . [These] youngsters--dressed in uniforms consisting of ill-fitting boxer shorts, holepunctured T-shirts and sneakers so ragged that the shoestrings seemed to be the only thing holding them together--presented a sharp contrast to our boys in their spiffy blue and gold uniforms and sparkling new wrestling shoes. As the match began, I was alarmed to see that the other team was wrestling without headgear, a kind of light helmet designed to protect a wrestler's ears. It was a luxury that the rag-tag team obviously could not afford. Well, we ended up walloping them--took every weight class--and as each of their boys got up from the mat, he swaggered around in his tatters with false bravado, a kind of street pride that could not acknowledge defeat. Mike, seated beside me, shook his head sadly. " I wish just one of them could have won," he said. "They h'ave a lot of potential, but losing like this could take the heart right out of them." He loved kids--all kids--and he knew them, having coached Little League football, baseball and lacrosse. That's when the idea for his present came.
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That afternoon I went to a local sporting goods store and bought an assortment of wrestling headgear and shoes and sent them anonymously to the innercity church. On Christmas Eve I placed the envelope on the tree, the note inside telling Mike what I had done and that this was his gift from me. His smile was the brightest thing about Christmas that year and in succeeding years. For each Christmas I followed the tradition, one year sending a group of retarded youngsters to a hockey game, another a check to a pair of elderly brothers whose home had burned to the ground a week before Christmas. The envelope became the highlight of our Christmas. It was always the last thing opened on Christmas morning, and our children, ignoring their new toys, would stand with wide-eyed anticipation as their dad lifted the envelope from the tree to reveal its contents. As the children grew, the toys gave way to more practical presents, but the envelope never lost its allure. The story doesn't end there. You see, we lost Mike last year to dreaded cancer, and when Christmas rolled around I was still so wrapped in grief that I barely got the tree up. But Christmas Eve found me placing the envelope on the tree, and in the morning it was joined by three more. Each of our children, unbeknownst to the others, had placed an envelope on the tree for their dad. The tradition had grown and someday will expand even further when our grandchildren, standing around the tree with wide-eyed anticipation, will watch as their fathers take down the envelope. Mike's spirit, like the Christmas spirit, will always be with us. 24 I s it not clear t h a t this widowed m o t h e r a n d t h r e e s o n s f u r t h e r c r e a t e m e a n i n g for their lives in t e r m s of this story, in t e r m s of t h i s n o w - n a r r a t i v e t r a d i t i o n ? Indeed, t h e teller of the tale envisions t h e s t o r y ' s role in the c r e a t i o n of m e a n i n g even for grandchildren. A n d so it is w i t h rich m e a n i n g - c r e a t i n g stories. T h e y are p e r p e t u a t e d in t h e n a r r a t i v e h i s t o r y of a f a m i l y or comm u n i t y precisely b e c a u s e t h e y do c r e a t e m e a n i n g . There are, of course, a v a r i e t y of stories in t e r m s of which we m a y define ourselves. T h e challenge is to choose t h a t s t o r y or stories which place life in a v a l u a b l e c o n t e x t for us. T h e theological challenge is to choose t h a t s t o r y or t h o s e stories which place life in a g e n u i n e l y u l t i m a t e c o n t e x t . O u r w a y of b e i n g in the world will be d e t e r m i n e d b y t h e s t o r y or stories in t e r m s of which we int e r p r e t our life. Our c o n s c i o u s n e s s of t h e p a s t {that is, our u n d e r s t a n d i n g of our roots), our c o n s c i o u s n e s s of t h e p r e s e n t {that is, our u n d e r s t a n d i n g of w h o we now are}, a n d our c o n s c i o u s n e s s of t h e f u t u r e {that is, our u n d e r s t a n d i n g of w h o m we are to b e c o m e ) - - a l l of t h e s e m o d e s of b e i n g in t h e world are influenced b y the s t o r y or stories in t e r m s of which we define ourselves, in t e r m s of which we c r e a t e m e a n i n g for our lives. P a r t of w h a t it m e a n s , then, to be fully h u m a n is to c r e a t e m e a n i n g b y e s t a b l i s h i n g d e p t h relationships, b y c o m m i t t i n g o u r s e l v e s to p r o j e c t s t h a t give order a n d p u r p o s e to our days, a n d b y p l a c i n g our lives in t h e c o n t e x t of m e a n i n g - c r e a t i n g stories.
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References 1. Tolstoy, L., My Confession and Critique of Dogmatic Theology, L. Wiener, trans. New York, Colonial Press Co., 1904, p. 60. 2. Schopenhauer, A., The World As Will and Idea, vol. III, R. B. Haldane, trans. London, Routledge & Kegan Paul Limited, 1883, pp. 386-387. 3. See The Encyclopedia of Philosophy, 1967 edition, Edwards P., "Life, Meaning and Value of." 4. Russell, B., " A Free M a n ' s Worship." In Why I A m Not a Christian, P. Edwards, ed. New York, Simon and Schuster, 1957, p. 107. 5. See Hepburn, R. W., in "Questions about the Meaning of Life." In The Meaning of Life, E. D. Klemke, ed. New York, Oxford University Press, 1981, p. 225. 6. Sartre, J,-P., Being and Nothingness, Hazel Barnes, trans. New York, Washington Square Press, Inc., 1966, p. 754. 7. Camus, A., The Myth of Sisyphus. New York, Vintage Books, 1959, p. 3. 8. Ibid. 9. It was Sam Keen's use of this phrase with reference to his father's relationship to him t h a t first enabled me to see that, indeed, t h a t too had been my father's gift to me. See Keen, S., To a Dancing God. New York, Harper and Row, 1970, p. 100. 10. Ibid., p. 101. 11. Hepburn forcefully makes this point in "Questions About the Meaning of Life," op. cit., p. 213. See also Baier, K., The Meaning of Life, Canberra, Canberra University College, 1957, p. 21. 12. Hepburn, op. cit., p. 213. 13. Ibid. 14. Nielsen, K., "Linguistic Philosophy and 'The Meaning of Life,' " Cross Currents, Summer, 1964, 334. 15. Jaspers, K., "On My Philosophy." In Existentialism from Dostoevsky to Sartre, W. Kaufmann, ed. New York, Meridian Books, 1966, p. 140. 16. Ibid., p. 146. 17. Ibid., pp. 146-147. 18. No philosopher has emphasized this particular value of communication as intensely as has Jaspers. 19. Wiesel, E., The Gates of the Forest. New York, Holt, Rinehart and Winston, 1966. 20. MacIntyre, A., After Virtue. Notre Dame, University of Notre Dame Press, 1981, p. 201. 21. Peters, T. J., and Waterman, R. H., Jr., In Search of Excellence. New York, Harper and Row, 1982, pp. 61-62, 75,282. 22. Keen, op. cit., p. 91. 23. MacIntyre, op. cit., p. 163. 24. Gavin, N. W., "For the Man Who Hated Christmas," Woman's Day, December 1982, 88.
Meaning in Life: Discovered or Created? ROBERT M. B A I R D A B S T R A C T : Against the background claims that a meaningful life is more likely to be the product of creation than discovery and t h a t a meaningful life must involve both subjective satisfaction and an objective moral component, three foundations of a meaningful life are discussed. These include the quality of one's relationships, the integrative power of one's goals and projects, and the role of story or stories. Concerning the role of story, the theological challenge is to choose t h a t story or those stories t h a t place life in a genuinely ultimate context.
We spend most of our time worrying about our health, caring for our friends, arguing with our opponents, marveling at our children, yelling at the officials, sweating over bills, fantasizing about sex, fixing our cars, complaining about taxes, answering our mail, playing games, cashing checks, regretting mistakes, buying clothes, making love, eating, sleeping, working, laughing, and crying. And yet we also have the amazing capacity to pause in our tracks and ask, " W h a t does it all come to?" Part of what it means to be human is to wonder about what it means to be human. Part of the uniqueness of being human is to puzzle over the meaning of t h a t uniqueness. And since life is often frustrating or painful or cruel, the responses to the question, " I s life meaningful?" are often pessimistic. Shakespeare's Macbeth: Life "is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing." Tolstoy: "The more intelligent we are, the less do we understand the meaning of life and the more do we see a kind o f . . . bad joke in our suffering and death. . . . ,,1 Schopenhauer: "We have not to rejoice but rather to mourn at the existence of the world; . . . its non-existence would be preferable . . . it is something which at bottom ought not to be . . . . -2 Clarence Darrow: "Life is like a ship on the sea, tossed by every wave and by every wind; a ship headed for no port and no harbor, with no rudder, no compass, no pilot; simply floating for a time, then lost in the waves. ''3 Bertrand Russell: "All the labors of the ages, all the devotion, all the inspiration, all the noonday brightness of human genius, are destined to extinction in the vast death of the solar system, a n d . . . the whole temple of man's achievement m u s t inevitably be buried beneath the debris of a universe in ruins . . . . -4 Jean-Paul Sartre: "All existing things are born for no reason, continue through weakness and die by accident . . . . It is meaningless that we are born; it is meaningless t h a t we die. ''5 Man, concludes Sartre, "is a useless passion. ''6 It all sounds very much like Ecclesiastes' "Vanity of v a n i t i e s . . , all is vanity." Robert M. Baird is Professor of Philosophy at Baylor University in Waco, Texas. 117
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And this alleged meaninglessness is dramatically captured in literary images: Beckett's characters waiting, waiting endlessly for the neverappearing Godot; Camus' Sisyphus condemned forever to the pointless pushing of that rock. Indeed, Camus asserts that "there is but one truly serious philosophical problem, and that is suicide. ''7 He adds, " J u d g i n g whether life is or is not worth living amounts to answering the fundamental question of philosophy." 8 And so the issue considered here is no light matter. There is a sense in which all other questions are secondary. This one counts. Is life meaningful? The structure of my remarks will be as follows. Initially two observations will be made about the nature of the question, " I s life meaningful?" Three particular foundations for a meaningful life will then be proposed. The first observation grows out of the contrast between the phrases "discovering the meaning of life" and "creating a meaningful life." There is more to this contrast than just a way of speaking, for our way of talking reflects an attitude. To speak of discovering, or looking for, or searching for the meaning of life (phrases heard all the time) suggests that there is some kind of meaning "out there" which is hidden from view, and if we are diligent enough or lucky enough we will uncover it or bump into it. Here the meaning of life is likened unto a beautiful piece of already published music which, if discovered, would fill one's days with harmony. On the other hand, to speak of creating a meaningful life suggests that we have a responsibility for its coming into being. This is a crucial shift in attitude. Now a meaningful life is likened unto composing a piece of music, a composing in which the harmony that emerges is a product of the creative activity of the self. Much of what follows is based on the conviction that meaning (as in a meaningful life} is much more likely to be the product of creation than of discovery. This places the responsibility for meaning where it ought to be--on us. We have been taught all of our lives (properly taught, I think) that rarely does anything of value come easily. What is of greater value than a meaningful life? It is not, then, easily discovered. It is, with diligence, created. It is not found. It is made. Though I do want to insist upon the point just made, some qualification needs to be introduced. In my own experience, for example, I am aware that my capacity for experiencing meaning is significantly dependent upon my early relationship with m y father. In his strong, yet tender, way he gave me the greatest gift a father can give a son: he "delighted in m y existence. ''9 In fact, Sam Keen is right: "Each of us is redeemed from shallow and hostile life only by the sacrificial love and civility which we have gratuitously received." 10 The insistence that in a fundamental sense meaning is created rather than discovered need not result in ignoring the "giftness" dimension of life. A second general observation is that there is both a subjective and objective component to a meaningful life. 11On the one hand, if an individual's life is to be judged meaningful in the fullest sense, that person must feel that his or her life is worthwhile. Even if w e judge a person's life to be meaningful, there is obviously something amiss if that person sincerely declares verbally or behaviorally (as, for example, in suicide) that life is not worth living. Meaning
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must involve the pursuit of "projects that afford satisfaction to the pursuer."'2 Without subjective satisfaction, meaning is incomplete. On the other hand, one may feel that one's life is meaningful, one may be daily and enthusiastically involved in the pursuit of a goal, but one's name m a y be Hitler, and the end pursued m a y be the destruction of a race of people. The word "meaningful" in the sense of a meaningful life should not be used in such a way that Hitler's life must be judged meaningful just because he m a y have judged it so. All of which is to say that a meaningful life in the fullest sense must have an objective moral component. It must be morally constructive, as well as providing subjective satisfaction. As R. W. Hepburn puts it, "Questions of the meaning of l i f e . . , are typically questions of h o w . . , two sorts of pursuit [subjective satisfaction and morally worthy projects] can be fused.-13 With the assumptions, then, that meaningfulness is created rather than discovered and that a meaningful life must involve both subjective satisfaction and an objective moral component, let me now make several value judgments about what constitutes a meaningful life. After all, "When we ask 'What is the meaning of life?' we are asking 'What, if anything, is worthwhile?' or 'How should we live?' "'4 Such questions call for value judgments. I now want to make such judgments by defending three foundations of a meaningful life. Two quick disclaimers. I'm not suggesting that the three factors I will refer to exhaust the characteristics of a meaningful life. I do think, however, that these dimensions are particularly crucial. Moreover, since I have chosen to say something about all three factors rather than to develop in detail one of them, it is clear that much more could profitably be said about all three of these dimensions of a meaningful life. The discussion here will be schematic but, I hope, suggestive. The first factor to be mentioned is going to seem so obvious that the point may be missed. So let me come at it indirectly. When the German existentialist Karl Jaspers was a young man, he became conscious of loneliness. Life, he concluded, was structured in such a w a y that individuals seem to relate to one another superficially, "not inwardly from the historicity of their souls. ''15 Yet nothing, Jaspers argued, was "more pern i c i o u s . . , than loneliness, especially the loneliness in the midst of social intercourse that deceives itself in a multitude of [superficial] friendships. ''16 Loneliness is tragic precisely because "the individual cannot [even] become human by himself. Self-being is only real in communication with another selfbeing . . . . If the never completed movement of communication succeeds with but a single human being, everything is achieved."'7 Indeed, one might summarize the basic thesis of all of Jasper's philosophizing in one straightforward sentence: Nothing is so crucial in creating a meaningful life as the quality of one's relationships. Why is this so? Consider two possibilities--one involving the notion of communication, the other involving the idea of community. It is in depth communication with others--that is, in communication involving openness, risk,
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and sacrifice--that we most often discover who we really are. That is, we often become aware of our potentialities as those potentialities are discovered by another and reflected back to us in a moment of depth communication. In such communication we discover possibilities about ourselves that we had never dreamed. We discover truths about who we might become that we had never imagined.iS Out of such moments meaningful lives are created. But notice, such moments are relational moments. Consider community. It is in community t h a t we care and are cared for. And the value of caring is not to be analyzed instrumentally. That is, to care and to be cared for are inherently valuable. To care and to be cared for are the most satisfying of human experiences. To care and to be cared for meet the deepest of human needs. But notice again, caring is relational. So whether we are talking about depth communication or a caring community, we are talking about the value and power of honest and supportive relationships. Such relationships are the matrix within which meaningful lives are created. Let me call attention to a second foundation of meaning by beginning with a most unlikely character--the comedian Don Rickels. You know the one. He trades on abuse. His humor is rooted in caricaturing blacks, women, Orientals, homosexuals, Italians, Mexicans, Jews, or anyone who gets in his line of fire. One evening on J o h n n y Carson's "Tonight Show" something provoked Rickels to become reflective. For several minutes he offered an apology for {apology in the Socratic sense of a defense of} his life. The point of his humor, he maintained, was to undermine demeaning stereotypes by showing them up for the absurdities they are. There was poignancy in Rickels' remarks. Here was this apparently insensitive, crude, abusive Rickels interpreting his life in terms of a morally useful social role. He was expressing (and this is what I found so poignant} t h a t universal human need to sense somehow t h a t one's life really counts, t h a t what one is doing is constructive, t h a t it makes a contribution, that (to use the cliche) the world will be a better place for one's having come along. To assert that there is a clue here to the creation of meaning is obviously an understatement. Except when we are experiencing a particularly cynical moment, most of us would acknowledge t h a t it is important to us t h a t our life count. What this requires is a commitment to a goal or project {singular or plural} t h a t both gives us a sense of doing something worthwhile and in the process provides the kind of focus for our energy that helps order in terms of importance a multitude of secondary interests and concerns. Appropriately, much of what we do is inconsequential. But if all of one's activities are shallow, the experience of emptiness and the sense of being internally scattered or lacking unity of purpose can be overwhelming. And so, as directive as it may sound, we have to talk about the establishing of ends or goals in terms of which life becomes meaningfully structured. But what ends, what projects, what goals should one pursue? It is not evading the issue to assert t h a t this is precisely the decision one individual cannot make for another. And t h a t this decision cannot be made by one for another is the reason meaning cannot be passed out like candy. How many
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s t u d e n t s over the y e a r s have sat at m y desk and said s o m e t h i n g like: " I ' m n o t m o t i v a t e d . As I m o v e t h r o u g h the d a y it seems t h a t n o t h i n g really m a t t e r s . I ask myself, w h a t ' s the p o i n t ? " A n d as m u c h as one m i g h t like, t h e r e is no w a y one can reach across the desk and simply h a n d out purpose. E n d s and goals, as the D a n i s h philosopher Soren K i e r k e g a a r d was w o n t to a r g u e repeatedly, are the kinds of things t h a t have to be s u b j e c t i v e l y a p p r o p r i a t e d b y the self in a m o m e n t of creative choice. A n d it is precisely such a choice t h a t serves as the f o u n d a t i o n for meaning. A f o o t n o t e should be a d d e d here. T h e r e is often a t r a g i c dimension to choosing lifetime projects, to m a k i n g lifetime c o m m i t m e n t s , for p r o j e c t s and c o m m i t m e n t s are often m u t u a l l y exclusive or incompatible. To choose one end is to reject another. To choose one profession is to t u r n y o u r back on another. To serve one a g e n c y is to t u r n down another. To choose to i n v e s t y o u r t i m e and m o n e y in this p r o j e c t is to refuse t h a t one. To choose Susie is to reject Sal. To choose J o e is to reject George. These choices are often painful, b u t t h e y are essential to the creative process of e s t a b l i s h i n g meaning-giving order to one's life. A t h i r d f o u n d a t i o n of m e a n i n g is e x p r e s s e d in a s t o r y told b y the cont e m p o r a r y J e w i s h writer Elie Wieseh When the great Rabbi Baal Shem-Tov saw misfortune threatening the Jews it was his custom to go into a certain part of the forest to meditate. There he would light a fire, say a special prayer, and the miracle would be accomplished and the misfortune averted. Later, when his disciple, the celebrated Magid of Mezritch, had occasion, for the same reason, to intercede with heaven, he would go to the same place in the forest and say: "Master of the Universe, Listen! I do not know how to light the fire, but I am still able to say the prayer." And again the miracle would be accomplished. Still later, Rabbi Moshe-Leib of Sasov, in order to save his people once more, would go into the forest and say: "I do not know how to light the fire, I do not know the prayer, but I know the place and this must be sufficient." It was sufficient and the miracle was accomplished. Then it fell to Rabbi Israel of Rizhyn to overcome misfortune. Sitting in his armchair, his head in his hands, he spoke to God: "I am unable to light the fire and I do not know the prayer; I cannot even find the place in the forest. All I can do is to tell the story, and this must be sufficient." And it was sufficient. 19 I have h e a r d Wiesel tell this story. H e does it m o v i n g l y because he has experienced its meaning. W h e n he was t w e l v e y e a r s old, he was t a k e n to a Nazi c o n c e n t r a t i o n camp. For a time he was in Auschwitz, t h e n Buchenwald. In those c a m p s he lost his mother, his father, and a b a b y sister. H e is a m a n a c q u a i n t e d with grief. K n o w i n g this helps clarify the m e a n i n g of the s t o r y Wiesel loves to tell of t h a t old Rabbi who, sitting in his armchair, his head in his hands, spoke t h u s to God: " I am u n a b l e to light the fire and I do not k n o w the prayer; I c a n n o t even find the place in the forest. All I can do is to tell t h e story, and t h a t m u s t be sufficient." Wiesel is affirming t h a t , even in the m i d s t of the m o s t intense suffering, m e a n i n g is created b y the ability to place one's life in the c o n t e x t of a r e d e e m i n g story.
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T h e p h i l o s o p h e r A l a s d a i r M a c I n t y r e in Beyond Virtue, one of t h e m o s t widely r e a d b o o k s on the c u r r e n t philosophical scene, a r g u e s t h a t m e a n i n g in a m o r a l c o n t e x t c a n n o t be p r o p e r l y u n d e r s t o o d a p a r t f r o m t h e notion of story: " I can o n l y a n s w e r the q u e s t i o n ' W h a t a m I to do?' " claims M a c I n t y r e " i f I can a n s w e r t h e prior q u e s t i o n 'Of w h a t s t o r y or stories do I find m y s e l f a p a r t ? ' -20 I n t h e p h e n o m e n a l best-seller a n a l y z i n g A m e r i c a ' s m o s t successful c o m p a n i e s , In Search of Excellence, t h e a u t h o r s P e t e r s a n d W a t e r m a n a r g u e r e p e a t e d l y t h a t it is in t e r m s of in-house s t o r i e s t h a t c o m p a n i e s such as Boeing Aircraft, M c D o n a l d s , I B M , a n d H e w l e t t P a c k a r d g e n e r a t e a n d c o m m u n i c a t e m e a n i n g . 21 Keen, in his i n t r i g u i n g To A Dancing God, h a s r e m i n d e d us t h a t t h e J u d e o - C h r i s t i a n d r a m a in t e r m s of which so m a n y h a v e c r e a t e d m e a n i n g for their lives o p e n s w i t h t h e s t o r y t e l l e r ' s line " I n the beginning, G o d . . . . -22 T h e p o i n t is, t h e r e h a s e m e r g e d in c o n t e m p o r a r y p h i l o s o p h y , theology, a n d e v e n m a n a g e m e n t t h e o r y an a p p r e c i a t i o n for t h e " n a r r a t i v e s t r u c t u r e or struct u r e s of h u m a n life ''23 a n d the role of s u c h s t r u c t u r e s in the creation of meaning. B u t lest this a n a l y s i s b e c o m e too v a g u e , let m e r e p e a t a n o t h e r story, one t h a t i l l u s t r a t e s c o n c r e t e l y the role of s t o r y in c r e a t i n g m e a n i n g . Told b y N a n c y Gavin, it goes like this: I t ' s just a small white envelope stuck among the branches of our Christmas tree. No name, no inscription, it has peeked through the branches of our tree for the past ten years or so. It all began because my husband, Mike, hated Christmas. Oh, not the true meaning of Christmas, but the commercial aspects of it--the overspending, the frantic running around at the last minute to get a tie for Uncle Harry and the dusting powder for Grandma, gifts given in desperation because you couldn't think of anything else. Knowing he felt this way, I decided one year to bypass the usual shirts, sweaters, ties, etc., and reach for something special just for him. The inspiration came in an unusual way. Our son Kevin, who was twelve that year, was wrestling at the Junior League level at the school he attended, and shortly before Christmas there was a nonleague match against a team sponsored by an inner-city church . . . . [These] youngsters--dressed in uniforms consisting of ill-fitting boxer shorts, holepunctured T-shirts and sneakers so ragged that the shoestrings seemed to be the only thing holding them together--presented a sharp contrast to our boys in their spiffy blue and gold uniforms and sparkling new wrestling shoes. As the match began, I was alarmed to see that the other team was wrestling without headgear, a kind of light helmet designed to protect a wrestler's ears. It was a luxury that the rag-tag team obviously could not afford. Well, we ended up walloping them--took every weight class--and as each of their boys got up from the mat, he swaggered around in his tatters with false bravado, a kind of street pride that could not acknowledge defeat. Mike, seated beside me, shook his head sadly. " I wish just one of them could have won," he said. "They h'ave a lot of potential, but losing like this could take the heart right out of them." He loved kids--all kids--and he knew them, having coached Little League football, baseball and lacrosse. That's when the idea for his present came.
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That afternoon I went to a local sporting goods store and bought an assortment of wrestling headgear and shoes and sent them anonymously to the innercity church. On Christmas Eve I placed the envelope on the tree, the note inside telling Mike what I had done and that this was his gift from me. His smile was the brightest thing about Christmas that year and in succeeding years. For each Christmas I followed the tradition, one year sending a group of retarded youngsters to a hockey game, another a check to a pair of elderly brothers whose home had burned to the ground a week before Christmas. The envelope became the highlight of our Christmas. It was always the last thing opened on Christmas morning, and our children, ignoring their new toys, would stand with wide-eyed anticipation as their dad lifted the envelope from the tree to reveal its contents. As the children grew, the toys gave way to more practical presents, but the envelope never lost its allure. The story doesn't end there. You see, we lost Mike last year to dreaded cancer, and when Christmas rolled around I was still so wrapped in grief that I barely got the tree up. But Christmas Eve found me placing the envelope on the tree, and in the morning it was joined by three more. Each of our children, unbeknownst to the others, had placed an envelope on the tree for their dad. The tradition had grown and someday will expand even further when our grandchildren, standing around the tree with wide-eyed anticipation, will watch as their fathers take down the envelope. Mike's spirit, like the Christmas spirit, will always be with us. 24 I s it not clear t h a t this widowed m o t h e r a n d t h r e e s o n s f u r t h e r c r e a t e m e a n i n g for their lives in t e r m s of this story, in t e r m s of t h i s n o w - n a r r a t i v e t r a d i t i o n ? Indeed, t h e teller of the tale envisions t h e s t o r y ' s role in the c r e a t i o n of m e a n i n g even for grandchildren. A n d so it is w i t h rich m e a n i n g - c r e a t i n g stories. T h e y are p e r p e t u a t e d in t h e n a r r a t i v e h i s t o r y of a f a m i l y or comm u n i t y precisely b e c a u s e t h e y do c r e a t e m e a n i n g . There are, of course, a v a r i e t y of stories in t e r m s of which we m a y define ourselves. T h e challenge is to choose t h a t s t o r y or stories which place life in a v a l u a b l e c o n t e x t for us. T h e theological challenge is to choose t h a t s t o r y or t h o s e stories which place life in a g e n u i n e l y u l t i m a t e c o n t e x t . O u r w a y of b e i n g in the world will be d e t e r m i n e d b y t h e s t o r y or stories in t e r m s of which we int e r p r e t our life. Our c o n s c i o u s n e s s of t h e p a s t {that is, our u n d e r s t a n d i n g of our roots), our c o n s c i o u s n e s s of t h e p r e s e n t {that is, our u n d e r s t a n d i n g of w h o we now are}, a n d our c o n s c i o u s n e s s of t h e f u t u r e {that is, our u n d e r s t a n d i n g of w h o m we are to b e c o m e ) - - a l l of t h e s e m o d e s of b e i n g in t h e world are influenced b y the s t o r y or stories in t e r m s of which we define ourselves, in t e r m s of which we c r e a t e m e a n i n g for our lives. P a r t of w h a t it m e a n s , then, to be fully h u m a n is to c r e a t e m e a n i n g b y e s t a b l i s h i n g d e p t h relationships, b y c o m m i t t i n g o u r s e l v e s to p r o j e c t s t h a t give order a n d p u r p o s e to our days, a n d b y p l a c i n g our lives in t h e c o n t e x t of m e a n i n g - c r e a t i n g stories.
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References 1. Tolstoy, L., My Confession and Critique of Dogmatic Theology, L. Wiener, trans. New York, Colonial Press Co., 1904, p. 60. 2. Schopenhauer, A., The World As Will and Idea, vol. III, R. B. Haldane, trans. London, Routledge & Kegan Paul Limited, 1883, pp. 386-387. 3. See The Encyclopedia of Philosophy, 1967 edition, Edwards P., "Life, Meaning and Value of." 4. Russell, B., " A Free M a n ' s Worship." In Why I A m Not a Christian, P. Edwards, ed. New York, Simon and Schuster, 1957, p. 107. 5. See Hepburn, R. W., in "Questions about the Meaning of Life." In The Meaning of Life, E. D. Klemke, ed. New York, Oxford University Press, 1981, p. 225. 6. Sartre, J,-P., Being and Nothingness, Hazel Barnes, trans. New York, Washington Square Press, Inc., 1966, p. 754. 7. Camus, A., The Myth of Sisyphus. New York, Vintage Books, 1959, p. 3. 8. Ibid. 9. It was Sam Keen's use of this phrase with reference to his father's relationship to him t h a t first enabled me to see that, indeed, t h a t too had been my father's gift to me. See Keen, S., To a Dancing God. New York, Harper and Row, 1970, p. 100. 10. Ibid., p. 101. 11. Hepburn forcefully makes this point in "Questions About the Meaning of Life," op. cit., p. 213. See also Baier, K., The Meaning of Life, Canberra, Canberra University College, 1957, p. 21. 12. Hepburn, op. cit., p. 213. 13. Ibid. 14. Nielsen, K., "Linguistic Philosophy and 'The Meaning of Life,' " Cross Currents, Summer, 1964, 334. 15. Jaspers, K., "On My Philosophy." In Existentialism from Dostoevsky to Sartre, W. Kaufmann, ed. New York, Meridian Books, 1966, p. 140. 16. Ibid., p. 146. 17. Ibid., pp. 146-147. 18. No philosopher has emphasized this particular value of communication as intensely as has Jaspers. 19. Wiesel, E., The Gates of the Forest. New York, Holt, Rinehart and Winston, 1966. 20. MacIntyre, A., After Virtue. Notre Dame, University of Notre Dame Press, 1981, p. 201. 21. Peters, T. J., and Waterman, R. H., Jr., In Search of Excellence. New York, Harper and Row, 1982, pp. 61-62, 75,282. 22. Keen, op. cit., p. 91. 23. MacIntyre, op. cit., p. 163. 24. Gavin, N. W., "For the Man Who Hated Christmas," Woman's Day, December 1982, 88.
