whence God?

[In this excerpt from a thing I wrote two years ago, an angry antitheist (to be confused with an atheist—sure, why not) tutors a ninth-grader.]

     "Here," said P.D., "I'll tell you what to write.  Tell your teacher you were born with a special problem-solving brain, which is your evolutionary advantage—some animals have great speed, size, strength, sharp teeth, powerful jaws—what you have is a brain.  When you see a problem, your superpower is the ability to work out that problem, outsmart it.  Some animals might muscle their way through, or get away fast, or fly, or spit poison, or whatever else, but what you do is you think creatively, you see all the angles.  But just as the turtle doesn't shed her shell when there's no one around to bite her, your brain doesn't stop working when it doesn't have a problem to solve.  Take the shell off the turtle and she dies, it's not some tool she can pick up and put down, it's part of her."

     "Her?"

     "They have female turtles, yes.  So in the end, when your brain runs out of food, so to speak, it starts to eat itself.  The classic question, the cliché, 'Why am I here?'?  Rephrase it—'What do I do?'—and that's your question, that's your evolutionary advantage, the ability to ask that question and, normally, to come up with an answer.  When you're trying to find food and shelter, Justin, when you're trying to escape from predators, the question is immediate and real.  'What do I do?'  How do I get that food from out of there?  'What do I do?'  How do I not get eaten by this thing that's faster and stronger than I am?  'What do I do?'  Some animals don't have to ask the question because they're faster, they're stronger, they've got bigger teeth—they're smaller and can hide under a leaf.  But you say, 'What do I do?'  And that's when you invent the lightsaber, and—problem solved."

     Justin laughed, very relieved by the joke.  "So," he said, "O.K., wait.  So—"

     "Then," said P.D., to Justin's evident despair, "when the problem's solved, whatever it is—when you can sit back a while, when the problem's less immediate, less clear, less direct—that's when you start looking at all of it, at everything, looking at yourself, and saying 'What do I do.'  That's why 'the meaning of life' is a shaggy-dog joke, a cliché—why it's the central question of all human existence—because it's wrong, the question is wrong, it's a question with no answer because the question itself is a misapplication of a tool, you're taking an evolutionary advantage and trying to use it to solve life in general, when that can't be solved because it's not really a problem, not in itself.  But you just go on asking the question.  'What do I do?'  What is my purpose?  'What do I do?'  What is the 'good life'?  'What do I do?'  What is right, what is wrong, what is good and evil?  And the only real answer is—asking that question is what you do.  'What do I do?' is what you do.  It's what makes you human.  If you don't use your mind, if you don't consider and contemplate, then you're not human, and you'll just die like a dog stuffed in a dog-sized cage.  But then you do also run into these questions that have no answers, and your problem-solving tool isn't designed for problems that have no solution.  So when that happens, what are your options?  Only to give up or go crazy?  Maybe instead you can redirect your efforts toward smaller, easier, made-up problems, such as—how to successfully destroy an enemy, a scapegoat—how best to serve a particular cause—or you can develop a whole philosophy whose whole purpose is to declare the problem solved, to force the case closed, like—'The answers are all in this book!' or 'Just listen to this man!' or 'this leader!' or 'dieser Führer!'—and that's why you made up God, Justin.  God is a toy mouse for keeping a house cat's hunting instinct occupied."

     Justin was fiddling with a pen and watched P.D. uncertainly.  "I should write that?" he said.

     "No," said P.D.  "You can't, I just said it."

     The two sat in silence for a few seconds, both staring at Justin's desk.

     Justin spoke: "God is a toy for cats?"

     P.D. turned to his earnest, befuddled charge who had asked this incredible question, and he thought for a second, then smiled a gentle mentorly smile and said, "Yes."