When Understanding Cannot Close: How I Continue to Act • Record reality Piece memory

Introduction

I have long held a view that I’ve mentioned multiple times in my writing: human beings tend to seek certainty in the midst of uncertainty. This tendency is not purely rational; it functions more like a mechanism for maintaining internal stability. When a person remains for a prolonged period within ambiguous, incomplete, or even contradictory information, without any provisional explanatory structure, it becomes difficult to continue acting, and equally difficult to sustain psychological balance.

As a result, we instinctively do several things: we construct causal relationships for events, we search for explanatory pathways for phenomena, and we compress complex problems into conclusions that we can accept. Even if these explanations are not entirely accurate, they still provide a structure that allows us to continue living within a relatively stable version of the world.

In this sense, human beings are not simply pursuing “truth,” but are continuously constructing a way of understanding that can sustain their own actions.

1. How Viewpoints Are Formed

In a previous article titled How Viewpoints Are Formed, I outlined a simple framework, which I will briefly revisit here. In that framework, I proposed that a person’s viewpoint is primarily shaped by three factors:

the information they have access to (the scope of what they understand as “facts”)
the way they process that information (their logical and reasoning capacity)
and their subjective preferences

This framework has proven to be quite effective in practice. For instance, in a work setting, when disagreements arise within a team, I tend not to judge who is right or wrong immediately. Instead, I look at whether there is asymmetry in information, whether the analytical paths differ, or whether the priorities are simply not aligned. Many conclusions that appear to be in opposition can ultimately be reduced to structural differences rather than straightforward errors.

The same applies in everyday life. Many arguments are not fundamentally about logic, but about the fact that different individuals are observing different “partial worlds.” Once these elements are separated and examined, conflicts often become understandable, and in some cases, even resolvable.

For a long time, I held an implicit assumption:

As long as information continues to increase and logic becomes clearer, we can gradually approach a more reasonable understanding.

2. A Question That Could Not Be Explained

However, this understanding broke down when applied to a specific problem.

During Easter, I was exposed to more narratives about the resurrection of Jesus, including biblical accounts and discussions built around them. My instinctive response was to apply my existing method: to examine sources of information, evaluate the consistency of narratives, and search for a logical pathway toward explanation.

But very quickly, I realized that this path could not be extended.

This problem could neither be approached through additional information, nor resolved through logical inference. It did not even resemble a “complex problem”; rather, it felt like something entirely outside the current cognitive framework. The difficulty was not that the answer was hard to reach, but that there was no entry point at all—like attempting to solve a problem using a familiar method, only to discover that the problem does not belong to that system.

This led me to recognize that what I encountered was not a problem requiring more effort, but one that could not be processed within the current framework.

At the same time, it brought to mind another observation: much of the historical narrative we accept is, in essence, not directly verifiable. We accept it not because we have personally confirmed it, but because we trust certain forms of record and testimony. Even so, narratives like the resurrection still trigger a much stronger sense of dissonance.

At this point, the nature of the question shifted:

I could no longer attempt to determine whether it was true or not; instead, I had to begin asking how to engage with a problem when my existing methods no longer apply.

3. A Reconsideration of “Possibility”

At this point of rupture, my first shift was a change in how I understood “possibility.”

Previously, my cognitive structure assumed that the world is ultimately explainable. A phenomenon was either already explained, or simply not yet explained—but in principle, it could be integrated into the existing framework.

Now, I began to acknowledge a third state:

Some phenomena may, at least for now, lie outside the limits of my current capacity to understand.

This acknowledgment did not lead me to “believe more things,” but rather to stop prematurely excluding possibilities that I could not explain. I no longer required every question to converge into a single, unified explanatory structure.

Thus, in the case of the resurrection, the shift was not at the level of conclusion, but at the level of boundary:

I no longer require it to be explained.

More importantly:

Compared to whether a possibility is reasonable, what matters more is whether I am willing to acknowledge and allow that possibility to exist.

This form of “allowing” is not agreement, but a kind of cognitive openness that enables me to remain in relation to the problem, even without understanding it.

4. A More Practical Question: What Do I Do Next?

However, the more significant impact did not come from this shift alone.

The more critical question became: if a problem truly cannot be explained, then what should I do next?

Previously, my thinking followed a clear sequence: understand first, then judge, and finally act. In other words, action depended on conclusion, and conclusion depended on understanding.

But for this category of problems, that sequence breaks down.

And this is not limited to religious contexts. In everyday life, we frequently encounter similar situations: we lack complete information, we cannot form a definitive judgment, yet we must still act.

For example:

In a relationship, you cannot be certain whether it will lead anywhere, yet you must decide whether to continue investing in it
In a career path, you cannot predict the future, yet you must still make a choice
In major decisions, you cannot prove which option is optimal, yet you must bear the consequences of your choice

What these situations share is this:

Action often precedes conclusion.

5. A Shift in the Way of Thinking

As these reflections came together, I began to notice a shift in my focus.

Previously, I was concerned with whether I had arrived at a more accurate conclusion.

Now, I am more concerned with whether, in the absence of a conclusion, I can still maintain a stable way of thinking and acting.

This can be summarized in one sentence:

When understanding cannot be closed, how do I choose to continue existing and acting?

And this further implies:

Action no longer depends on a definitive conclusion.

This is not a rejection of rationality, but an acknowledgment that rationality itself has limits—and within those limits, one must reorganize how one acts.

6. Returning to the Question Itself

Returning to the question of the resurrection, its meaning has changed for me.

It is no longer a proposition that requires a true-or-false judgment, but rather a test point: it tests not the conclusion itself, but how I respond when I cannot explain something.

Do I reject it outright?
Do I force an explanation?
Or do I allow it to exist, and continue to act?

These different responses ultimately reflect how a person relates to uncertainty.

7. Unverifiable, Yet I Choose to Believe

Following this line of thinking, I am eventually led to a more concrete question: when a proposition can neither be verified nor falsified, can I still establish a meaningful relationship with it?

For me, the answer is yes.

However, this form of “belief” is not a judgment grounded in certainty, but a choice made with full awareness of uncertainty.

In other words, it is not:

I do not know, therefore I believe

but rather:

I know that I cannot verify it, and I know that this uncertainty will not disappear, yet I still choose to believe

This choice does not arise from logical necessity, but resembles more a directional decision. It may be based on the information I have encountered, the ways of life I have observed in others, and the sense of relationship and order I have experienced in the process.

Therefore, when I say that I begin to believe, or that I am willing to enter into a certain tradition of faith, it does not mean that I have obtained a definitive answer. Rather, it means:

In the absence of a definitive answer, I have chosen a direction in which I am willing to continue acting.

End.