So many questions

This is a quick excerpt from Repetition, one of Kierkegaard's shorter works. It is through the voice of a character simply known as 'the young man', who is frustrated with his existence and wondering exactly why he was set down here:

"Where am I? What does it mean to say: the world? What is the meaning of that word? Who tricked me into this whole thing and leaves me standing here? Who am I? How did I get into the world? Why was I not asked about it, why was I not informed of the rules and regulations but just thrust into the ranks as if I had been bought from a peddling shanghaier of human beings? How did I get involved in this big enterprise called actuality? Why should I be involved? Isn't it a matter of choice? And if I am compelled to be involved, where is the manager - I have something to say about this. Is there no manager? To whom shall I make my complaint?"

I know this isn't for everyone. I know not everyone asks these sorts of questions. But I can relate. I ask these sort of questions quite often and can't help but wonder how peculiar our situation here really is. It's like what the lady said to Annie Dillard in Pilgrim at Tinker Creek: "Seems like we're just set down here and don't nobody know why."

I know there are Christian answers to these questions; Kierkegaard knew them, too. But the issue is not necessarily what the answers are, but what I do with the answers. The answers are there and are simple for me to say, but they can be incredibly difficult for me to live out, to actually exist in. Sometimes I despair of the answers because they don't feel satisfying enough. I can raise countless objections. But other times I'm struck into an awe-filled silence, fascinated by the whole thing, that I am called to believe that somehow this message of hope, love, and mercy, a God who has entered the world, truly underlies everything I see. But even in these times, faith is still incredibly difficult. It becomes something that I can barely grasp against all my objections, a ridiculous hope that I can only cling to desperately. I risk everything to believe against my own understanding, that somehow this thin message, this whisper in the shouts of uncertainty, this rumor of something greater that is so easily ignored, might somehow be true. How can I rest my entire existence on something so fragile and mysterious? How can I let go of everything I think the world should and should not be? How can I cry out to God with everything I am, hear only stillness, and yet somehow continue to believe that I am not only heard, but loved as well? I can only answer these questions with the greatest difficulty, because I must risk everything I am, absolutely everything, on the hope of these answers.