The Way, the Truth and the Life
An Integrative Taxonomy of the Human Condition
Fascinated as I am by the mythos of ages past, I recently completed the Netflix mini-series, “The Bible”, an unusually enthralling dramatization of select biblical epics, beginning with Abraham, meandering through Moses and David and ending with the latter half of the show following the trials of Jesus Christ and his disciples. One gripping exchange in particular stood out to me— plucked, as I would later learn, from the Gospel of John. Chapter 14 of the Gospel of John begins with Jesus comforting his disciples as he foretells of his ascent to heaven, telling them that he has prepared rooms for them in his Father’s house. When Thomas the Apostle questions how they can follow when they don’t know where he is going, “Jesus answered, ‘I am the way, the truth and the life.’” (John 14:6).
In this, Jesus affirms to his followers that their entry to heaven will come only through their devotion to him and the creed he preaches. Understated though it may have been, this was, in effect, an ultimatum; an absolute decree that left no doubt that there was only one path to knowing God and achieving salvation. Other religions, various agnostic schools of thought and my own personal philosophy will disavow this, but let us avoid the path laden with thorns because I am, for the most part, uninterested in this claim from a theological perspective. The idea, however, that there is a singular ideal path to a life well-lived arouses in my heart a matter of moral intrigue of a more nebulous persuasion.
Increasingly over the past 3 years I have been grappling with familiar uncertainties on the nature of purpose, hardship, ambition, service, and fulfillment and other, more inscrutable, ideas besides. An article I read recently, the title of which is currently beyond my recollection, stated that little is expected of us as students except to get good grades, and then to parlay that into a cushy job on the fast track to a successful career and ostensibly, a happy life. When I came to Yale, I was fresh-faced, newly bearded, excitable yet aloof, but also woefully overconfident and so very, very afraid. Later, I would come to realize I lacked direction, spiritually, intellectually or otherwise. I lacked focus, and if we hold it to be true that our focus determines our reality, then clearly I was living a blissful illusion. I found myself content to follow the well trodden paths others had traversed before me even though I knew not where they would lead, or whether they would even take me somewhere I wanted to go.
I have never been, and perhaps will never be, able to honestly answer the question of what I want to do — but recently I have begun to divine some clarity on who I want to be. Often I would scoff and shake my head in amused disbelief when I found myself riding meandering trains of thoughts to do with man’s search for meaning. Surely, if these questions had answers, then men and women far wiser than I would have already answered them. The more I searched, the more I floundered and in my childish frustration, I was all too willing to surrender. To wit, nothing was being asked of me except to get good grades and trudge along comfortably until I exited through Phelps Gate, just as I was ushered through it a lifetime ago, armed with a diploma and perhaps a fuller (and slightly grayer) beard but no particular vision beyond that with which I had entered.
Still, my much vaunted education, deficient in some aspects though it might have been, did impart some skills and a few proclivities, among them an inclination for systematic thinking. I knew that before I could act I needed to temper the chaos that reigned supreme in my head. My exposure to various classics of philosophy, politics and history has endowed me with a cursory understanding of the arguments on how to lead a life well lived, or at least those enshrined within the Western canon. I have always felt an intuitive deficit, a lack of a unifying thread to tie them together, because although, in my view, they did not necessarily compete, they were also decidedly not complementary.
While many of us are taught these aspects in isolation, there is no broader integrative “theory of the human condition” per se. Here I subscribe to the definition of the human condition as “the characteristics, key events, and situations which compose the essentials of human existence, such as birth, growth, emotionality, aspiration, conflict, and mortality.”
Keep in mind that, as is my tendency in philosophical arguments, I don’t seek to provide answers, but only guidance and a degree of rigor and reconciliation to ideas that grate instead of gel. So, let’s get to the point then, and try to fill in the gaps, while fusing some old lessons with some new intuitions:
Any discussion on meaning or purpose or fulfillment will naturally gravitate towards the theories of hedonic and eudaimonic approaches to life. Eudaimonia, a creation of Aristotle’s, advanced the idea that leading a virtuous life filled with meaning is the most worthy goal. The hedonic theory, most often associated with Thomas Hobbes, but with its root in the much earlier writings of Epicurus, posits that pure pleasure is the ultimate pursuit. Philosophers of later eras would contend that it is the intersection of these two approaches that leads to a life of holistic fulfillment.
Remaining unconvinced, I found myself, in the course of my studies, returning time and again to the teachings of both the European renaissance and those of classical antiquity. In particular, I found fascinating the phenomenon of renaissance humanism — the cultural transformation that cast away the shadows of the Dark Ages, and brought enlightenment to the people of Europe. The study of history, the arts, the sciences and philosophy flourished, and through it, we were gifted with some of the greatest minds of that era or, indeed, any other.
The Renaissance saw the emergence of polymaths who studied and mastered diverse disciplines from mathematics to poetry and astronomy — luminaries such as Leonardo da Vinci, Sir Isaac Newton, Blaise Pascal, Sir Francis Bacon, Galileo and numerous others. These intellectual titans believed first and foremost in the universality of their education — that they should seek to learn and master many different disciplines rather than limit themselves to one or a few. Their efforts led to some of the most groundbreaking works of art, literature, poetry, and discoveries of science and mathematics in the history of mankind.
It is this era, too, that resurrected the concept of perfection and the perfectibility of man. Perfection in this era came to have two contemporaneous definitions — that of being without flaw, and that of embodying excellence, even while remaining conscious of our imperfections. To Aristotle, perfection meant completion — to be without deficit.
So, moving along swiftly to the crux of my argument. My central thesis, as it were, proposes a median theory of fulfillment, one that cuts through the middle of the hedonic and eudaimonic approaches—and proposing that, in addition to pleasure and purpose, our fulfillment also requires us to pursue personal growth and understanding. This begins with the axiom that human life is multilayered and fundamentally divided into three:
The subsistence layer, in which we work to meet the basic needs required to ensure our survival. Among these are ensuring adequate food, water, protection from disease, shelter from the elements and from the vagaries of the wilderness.
Once these needs are fulfilled and are reasonably secure for some length of time, we become free to enrich the experience layer. In this, we seek to grow as human beings, and to love, laugh and prosper.
And finally, once we have achieved some modicum of success, we begin to consider the legacy layer — the impact that we would like our experiences to have had on others and on our communities and the world at large.
For those of you, like myself, who number neither amongst the 3 billion unfortunate souls mired in poverty, nor the lofty circles of the ultra-wealthy — our lives will largely be concerned with the experience layer. It is this layer that forms the largest constituent block of our existence, and also the one with the potential to be marked by both the highest peaks of elation and the very lowest pits of despair.
The experience layer itself is a mercurial creature of multidimensional complexity. My theory asserts that its canvas is split into quadrants:
The physical dimension — by which we seek to grow in fitness, to be of sound constitution, able to both thrive and endure in the course of our daily lives, to explore and appreciate the natural world, and to partake in the pleasures of the flesh.
The emotional dimension — by which we seek to know intimacy and passion, to master our baser inclinations and to do away with the darkness of wrath, avarice and jealousy.
The intellectual dimension — by which we seek to grow our understanding of each other and the world around us, to master complexity and contribute to the development of our societies.
The spiritual dimension — by which we seek to accept that which we cannot know, to maintain our capacity for wonder, to understand our purpose and to make peace with our own limitations.
Our circumstances at birth, both biologically and environmentally, will invariably determine the unique trajectory of our existence. However, it is through the acquisition and application of knowledge, that we can begin to wrest control from the forces that lie beyond our control and to steer our lives into more favorable waters.
Our growth along each of these dimensions is driven by what I have termed the knowledge cycle, which consists of seven phases — the creation, discovery, acquisition, appraisal, application, enrichment, and dissemination of knowledge. In increasing our understanding of ourselves, each other and indeed the universe at large, we begin to grow along each dimension. In Christian theology, there exists the somewhat obscure concept of divinization, or as the Greeks might call it — apotheosis, the act of man becoming God.
Taken at face value, this might seem especially blasphemous, but the term is somewhat more elegant and nuanced. The consensus definition, then, is “the highest point in the development of something; a culmination or climax”. Our ultimate aspiration as human beings should be towards achieving this apotheosis, the completion of our growth along the four dimensions of the human experience, upon which we will transcend our mortal coils and achieve true, lasting fulfillment.
In Islamic history, we tell the story of Isra’a — the Prophet Muhammad’s (PBUH) journey to Jerusalem, to the site where today stands Al Masjid Al Aqsa, and Mi’raj — his subsequent ascent through the seven tiers of heaven. At each tier, Muhammad met with one of his predecessors as a prophet and messenger of God, beginning first with Adam, the progenitor of mankind, and ending with Abraham, the progenitor of his lineage. At the edge of this seventh heaven lies Sidrat Al-Muntaha, the Lote Tree that marks the boundary beyond which no creation may pass, and beyond which lies the singular domain of the lord almighty himself.
It is this story that I most often recall as the most apt metaphor for the completeness of human understanding — aspirational and yet unattainable all the same. Constrained as we are by the bounds of time, and the limitations of our worldly form, we might only ever achieve true growth in 1 or 2 dimensions, or moderate growth in all, or indeed, very little growth at all. However, there remains one constant: our growth as human beings will forever be asymptotic, for no matter how much knowledge we amass, individually or collectively, there will always be understanding beyond our capacity to achieve.
But that doesn’t mean we should stop trying.
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My most sincere gratitude goes out to all the friends, colleagues and even fleeting acquaintances without whom I would never have advanced my understanding.
