Illustration by Nicole Ruffell @nicoleruffellart

Does everything happen for a reason?

During a seemingly seminal 2020, it’s a consolatory phrase understandably being touted around.

Similarly, in his 1759 novel Candide, or Optimism, Voltaire’s retort of the idea sees the character Pangloss repeatedly affirm this is “the best of all possible worlds,” despite the incessantly barbaric events witnessed throughout. [1]

Pangloss, representing the optimist philosopher Gottfried Leibniz, upholds ‘the principle of sufficient reason,’ that is, everything necessarily serves an end, or Albert Einstein’s equivalent: “God does not play dice.” Leibniz was responding to the problem of Evil in the context of, on his terms, a world overseen by a beneficent Creator. [2]

In fact, teleology (from the Greek “telos” meaning “end,” or “aim,” and “logos,” meaning “explanation,” or “reason”) was a concept espoused in classical Greek philosophy.

Plato, also advocating intelligent design, held that the explanation of an action or event, whether human or naturalistic, is determined by what about it is good – it’s ‘goodness,’ he claimed, is its purpose. Indeed, “Everything happens for a reason,” implies the normative slant of a “good” reason. [3]

Nevertheless, this worldview isn’t solely religious optimism. Research at Yale shows even atheists believe life events occur for a fundamental reason. Moreover, the Child Development Journal suggests children, too, are predisposed to believe things happen purposefully as “a sign,” irrespective of whether or not they’re acquainted with religion. [4]

As Stephen Asma remarks, regardless of creed there’s something deeper, “a broader conception of nature – shared by monotheists, polytheists, Indigenous animists, and now politicians and policymakers.” [5]

This proclivity for attributing a raison d’être to life’s events appears to highlight a more fundamental aspect of human nature: the tendency to rationalise life as a competition of personified aims and intentions inside a narrative template. Such a worldview pre-dates science, yet, holds firm in the contemporary modern.

But what is it we want? This obscure sense that we feel life should have significance is an ideal, but we don’t often follow such hints through. It begins close to home, something we apply only to our own lives or immediate circle, but becomes universalised once we lose grip on the unknowable complexity whereby all events occur for the best.

To consider this question, we must look at the idea of teleology as a whole, outside human concern as well as within it.

Aristotle, Plato’s protégé, believed natural entities have intrinsic purposes, irrespective of human use and without intelligent design. He believed, for instance, an acorn’s inherent telos is to evolve into a fully-fledged oak tree. Although, a fork’s purpose, he asserted, is extrinsic because it relies on human function. [6]

However, both Plato and Aristotle’s theory that things happen purposefully, with or without a God, ran contrary to Democritus and later Lucretius, who both professed that events are entirely accidental.

Concurrently, twentieth-century science embraced the rather pessimistic ‘cold-bath’ idea that chance is an objective property of the universe, mainly through quantum theory and the double-slit experiment; exhibiting, “No design,” proclaimed Richard Dawkins, “Nothing but blind, pitiless indifference.” [7]

Nonetheless, evolutionary biology is forced to use teleological metaphors for explanatory use. Even Aristotle admitted the structure of language doesn’t permit us to explain things without inducing a reason for them. Or, as J.B.S Haldane uttered, the biologist-teleology relation is like an affair: they can’t live without it, but they’re unwilling to be seen with it in public. [8]

But, might there be a third option?

Perhaps the best illustration of this alternative is the Chinese parable of Sāi Wēng. [9]

One day, Wēng, a farmer living in China’s frontier, suffered his horse suddenly running away. That evening, the neighbours gathered to commiserate. The farmer replied, “Maybe.”

The next day, the horse reappeared, bringing seven wild horses with it. Later, everyone gathered to celebrate. The farmer again said, “Maybe.”

The following day, his son attempted to train one of the horses, but was abruptly dismounted and broke his leg. The neighbours gathered to offer their condolences. The farmer responded, “Maybe.”

The next day, conscription officers arrived looking for army recruits, but deemed his son ineligible due to injury. The neighbours came forth in delight. Again, the farmer said, “Maybe.” [10]

The fable’s essential take-away is that because life (incidentally, synonymous with “change” or “time”) never stops, we can never determine whether an event is fortunate or unfortunate. Responding to Plato, you never know the consequences of a ‘bad’ event, or likewise, you never know the consequences of a ‘good’ event. Because, the outcome of an event can only be measured by what follows – but this succession is unending – so any outcome purporting to explain an event becomes untenable.

For how can an event be distinguished from its repercussions?

This seems to be a fatal blow for the teleological thesis. Without being able to ultimately decipher what a separate “event” is, we therefore can’t possibly verify a “reason” for its occurrence, since any deliberate end would itself be an arbitrary designation. As well as single events, any universal goal would be contained within the process itself.

Conversely, this negates the scientific stance too: while science says events are chance, it’s more that the very nature of events themselves is random. Plus, chance can only be described in relation to something fixed, which is teleological.

Consequently, a higher reason can never be disproved either; but then the theory instead becomes an infinite postponement, with the Pangloss-esque advocate haphazardly confirming such a purpose wherever they see fit – anything but the grand explanatory power the theory purports to have.

Biologically, why should Aristotle’s acorn have its goal fulfilled as an oak tree? Why should it stop there? You might claim an oak tree is one acorn’s method of becoming another acorn (since an oak tree inevitably produces more acorns). Moreover, the ensuing acorns, it could be argued, serve their purpose as food for the mammals feeding off them, and so on.

This might sound odd. But teleological bias toward one form (in this case, an oak tree) over another (an acorn) reflects our conventions and practical priorities, rather than anything ultimately true or independent of human ideas.

Therefore, Aristotle’s acorn is no different from his fork: any so-called naturalist theory is, in fact, based on human concepts. As ecology demonstrates, you, the organism, aren’t separate from your environment; just as events are only distinct from their eventuality through convention.

Including scientific chance, such explanations can expand ad infinitum when we consider the entire ecological scope to the extent there’s no explanation given at all, rather, a description.

Why do birds sing? The Darwinian rationale for natural selection is offered: to attract a mate and propagate the species. Why do that? Well, because their race must survive. But why is survival necessary? Well, to survive....

If the biological function of an individual or trait is to prolong the existence of a species – and the intention of the species is to reproduce itself, to reproduce itself, to reproduce itself, and so on – that’s just fatuous. That’s no reason at all, it’s mere tautology.

In Aristotelian language, whether an explanation concerns either the First or Final cause, asking “why” things happen is an unprofitable question. Explaining things by the past or future is essentially a refusal to explain them at all.

So, if life isn’t an everlasting struggle toward the future, what’s it all for?

Well, do you eat to live, or live to eat? Evolutionary biology says the former. But on this view, to eat is to be hungry again. The latter stance, however, is equally true: enjoying the taste of food, especially in good company, is delightful. While we might be aware of its environmental and ethical implications, we often measure food by its health value, instead of the joy of its flavour, presentation, or texture.

This latter sense of significance is analogous to dancing. You don’t seek a purpose beyond the activity, some specific destination in the room. The reason for dancing is unto itself.

From a purely hedonistic view, surely the continuation of species is because the continuation itself is enjoyable. If not, there’s no point in continuing.

Yet again, we are thus presented with the question, what is fun? That is, the structure of language forces us to adopt a teleological slant, or we wouldn’t be able to speak about things. When we insist upon life having purpose, we can only conceptualise something other than life to be that purpose. In doing so, we reduce life to the mere symbolic status of ideas.

Interestingly, this point is prominent in theological language: the purpose of life is God. Why does God create the universe? Hindu thought provides the answer that God manifests a universe of name and form as a divine play (lila). [11]

It’s therefore no coincidence Shiva, the Hindu deity of destruction and reparation, is depicted as a dancer; or that the biblical scriptures portray God as creating the world for pleasure. In this way, the reason or sense to everything is non-sense.

This sense of nonsense is also presented in the Book of Job, a story addressing the aforementioned problem of evil. Job is the epitome of the righteous person who’s suffered. As the story goes, Satan convinces God to test Job’s loyalty to see if he’s only virtuous because he’s prosperous. After he’s plagued with misery, Job’s friends each provide rational explanations for his suffering.

The modern equivalent is to contextualise hardships as an aid to overcoming them. But, like a to-do list, problems are self-regenerative: by virtue of being alive, you’ll always have problems to overcome. So, the teleological view can cultivate perverse consequences like anxiety, depression, and the despair of an infinitely unfulfilled promise.

Furthermore, it can lead you to a reflexive bias, à la Pangloss, by justifying pandemics, inequality, natural disasters, or poverty; and more parochial events like the loss of a loved one, a failed business, and so forth, as pieces to an ultimately bountiful puzzle.

Additionally, the reassuring notion that nothing happens by accident can absolve you of all responsibility, since, on this account, no matter your choices, the script is already written. Would you really want to propose the world was created to teach you fateful lessons at the expense of others suffering?

Now, later in Job’s story, God asks a series of unanswerable questions, like why he sends rain upon deserts where no-one is. [12] Many commentators remark that the story presents the issue of evil without answering it. Yet, Job himself appears satisfied, but not due to submissively accepting the Lord’s actions; instead, he senses that somehow these very questions are the answer.

Correspondingly, an ancient Taoist work, The Secret of the Golden Flower, states that when purpose is used to achieve purposelessness, the point has been understood. Interestingly, the Chinese conception of nature as purposeless is complementary. Because a person (or any species) surviving to no purpose doesn’t prioritise actions or events aimed specifically at survival, since purposeless action is self-fulfilling by being done in the present, without entailing some future reason. [13]

When’s the last time you went for an aimless walk? Or simply sat and observed the nature of experience itself? In fact, it’s in rare moments like these that you’re most rational.

Why do you find joy in purposeless activity? Why do you laugh at nonsense?

It’s this participation in the fundamental nonsense that’s at the core of existence. Though, only during instances of unique insight is this point illuminated. When your incessant search for satisfaction momentarily ceases, you realise significance in things you wouldn’t normally, like the artist or photographer does.

Admittedly, framing it like this sounds vague because we can’t say life is significant of what, so much as significant in itself.

Maybe, then, significance is non-verbal. Significance is a perspective, a state of mind.

It’s one in which you realise you’re overlooking the justification of the world by your endless endeavour for it later. By seeking purpose as something beyond, therefore, you lose it.

In this way, life’s telos is no telos, its sense: non-sense – like a dance, rather than plain chaos. In this sense of purposelessness, the most profound purpose is realised.

So, you might consider existence to be adequate as an end in itself.

As the Zen master Ikkyu said, “Having no destination, I am never lost.” [14]

Recommended Readings:

[1] Voltaire, [intro.] Wood, M, [trans.] Cuffe, T. (2006). Candide, or Optimism. Penguin Classics.

[2] Savile, A. (2000). Leibniz and the Monadology. London: Routledge.

[3] Plato [trans.] Rowe, C. (1996). Phaedo. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

[4] Banerjee, K and Bloom, P. (2014) Does Everything Happen for a Reason? The Stone, NY Times. Available at: https://www.nytimes.com/2014/1...

[5] Asma, S.T. (2020) Does the Pandemic Have a Purpose? The Stone, NY Times. Available at: https://www.nytimes.com/2020/0...

[6] Aristotle [trans.] Mcmahon, J.H. (2018). The Metaphysics. Mineola, New York: Dover Publications, Inc.

[7] Dawkins, R. (2001). River out of Eden : a Darwinian view of life. London: Phoenix; pp.131-132.

[8] Mayr, E. (1974) Boston Studies in the Philosophy of Science. XIV. pp.91-117.

[9] Watts, A. ‘Swimming Headless’, in Eastern Wisdom Collection: Taoism.

[10] Gui Su, Qui. (2019, February 10). The Chinese Proverb of ‘Sai Weng Lost His Horse’. Available at: https://www.thoughtco.com/chin...

[11] Mascaró, J. (2005). The Upanishads. Baltimore: Penguin Classics.

[12] Hendrickson Publishers (2014). The Holy Bible: King James version. Peabody, Ma: Hendrickson Publishers. [Job, 38:26].

[13] Dongbin Lü, Wilhelm, R. and Jung, C.G. (2014). The Secret of the Golden Flower : a Chinese Book of Life. Mansfield Centre, Ct: Martino Publishing.

[14] Matthiessen, P. (1998). Nine-headed Dragon River : Zen Journals, 1969-1982. Boston: Shambhala.