What I Don't Know

Different, indeed, is it from the known,
and also it is above the unknown.
Thus have we heard from the ancients who explained it to us.

That which is not expressed by speech,
but that by which speech is expressed:
know that to be God, not what people here adore.

That which is not thought by the mind,
but that by which the mind thinks:
know that to be God, not what people here adore.

That which is not seen by the eye,
but that by which the eye sees:
know that to be God, not what people here adore.

That which is not heard by the ear,
but that by which the ear hears:
know that to be God, not what people here adore.

That which is not breathed by the breath,
but that by which the breath breathes:
know that to be God, not what people here adore.
~Excerpt from the Kena Upanishad



When I was in elementary school, I had a teacher who used to complain that I never asked any questions. She would say that asking questions was a sign of intelligence. But for various reasons—some temperamental, some environmental—I experienced not knowing as dangerous. To me asking questions was a sign, not of intelligence, but of ignorance. The world, with all of its unknowns, was threatening and because I did not feel I could engage it or inquire about it, I became isolated from it.

Passages like the one above from the Kena Upanishad help me to remember that not knowing is an essential part of the experience of God, and, by extension, the world. The passage is a warning against literalism, certainly, but it is also an invitation into mystery. It is a call to ask questions, to inquire, to wonder, to play.

If I cannot hold an attitude of openness or wonder or inquiry, I become isolated from God. To put it another way, the moment I become attached to my ideas about God, or about anything at all, I have lost my connection to the Divine Mystery and the sacredness of living.

In Jungian analysis, the goal is to get the conscious mind (the part of us that we know) to dialogue with the unconscious mind (the part of us that we don’t know) and thereby be enriched and changed.

Not knowing is difficult. It requires humility and (at least for me) courage. It requires the willingness to examine and, perhaps, let go of some of our most cherished notions. My fear of not knowing is the fear of looking foolish or making a mistake. It is a fear that somehow if I don’t know, if I’m not in control, I might cease to exist, as if my being is made up solely of the bits of information I have been able to acquire. It’s as if I’m afraid my encounter with the Divine Mystery would be annihilating instead of transforming.

The lesson from the Kena Upanishad, though, is that the ineffable reality of God is also an essential part of our own being. And since God is "That which is not thought by the mind, but that by which the mind thinks," our being is ultimately rooted not in what we know but in our coming to know, that is, our openness to life and the world. Not knowing, therefore, is not a ceasing to exist, but a coming to be.

Perhaps, then, the willingness to make mistakes, to look foolish, to be surprised, to be changed is a truly sacred attitude. And maybe asking a question is really a form of prayer.