just because
“Adam, give me a good word,” Kevin says at dinner, grinning down the table at our son, who, having said his amen, has turned his shaggy head toward the food in front of him.
The question presents a risk: Adam believes no is a pretty good word.
Somewhat reluctantly, Adam half raises his glance toward his dad in acknowledgement of the question, but forks a tender bite and, depositing it in his mouth, sits back. Adam doesn’t mind telling us plainly that he doesn’t like to talk, and he especially dislikes these mealtime conversations, as they distract from his primary objective. While for the rest of us gathering at table also means a chance to reconnect as a family, Adam’s agenda centers entirely on the meal. Kevin often says that nothing moves our autistic, language-challenged son to speak the way that food does. Pretend to take a bite from his plate or assume his bowl of ice cream as your own, and he becomes verbally vehement. I have spiritual autism: I don’t always want to pray, but nothing moves me to talk to God quite like what I perceive as threats against my physical well being. And when God calls me to fasting and prayer, I don’t mind telling Him I don’t like having our conversations during mealtimes.
Loving Adam means we want more than anything to talk to him, to connect, to have a relationship. So we don’t just meet his physical needs; we persist in drawing him out. We recognize his discomfort as a necessary path to building meaningful interaction. We ask questions he doesn’t want to answer, seeking real answers instead of memorized responses. I smile considering this, recognizing that God creatively finds his way around my recitations too.
Adam chews, flicking his eyes toward Kevin in smoldering glances expressing controlled consternation. But of course, fathers can handle such things, and Kevin does so patiently and without comment.
We wait expectantly, having learned that Adam, because of his challenges with language, has his own unique interpretations of it. Give me a good word could inspire anything from silliness to sarcasm to wisdom. Once, having been asked in a game to name three wars, Adam efficiently answered, “Star Wars One, Star Wars Two, and Star Wars Three.” And, on another occasion, while playing the same game, he blew us all away by swiftly and easily listing three specific arctic animals, of one of which the rest of us had never heard. Asking Adam questions, to reapply Forrest Gump, is like eating from a box of chocolates: You never know what you’re going to get. But for us, the answer matters less than the interaction itself. Every word is sweet. I have to remind myself of this sometimes, when our friends who love Adam engage him. I can mistrust love; I tend to want to jump in to make it a proper conversation. And then I remember meaningful interaction is about relationship, and intercession is about advocacy, not eloquence.
“Because,” Adam says finally, having finished his bite, his voice deep and pensive and serious, the syllables slow and firm and solid.
Give me a good word, Kevin says, and Adam chooses a word for reasons and depths and understanding when we don’t understand.
“Because,” Kevin repeats, considering, his expression curious and amused.
“Yes,” Adam says, in a tone that somehow manages to sound finished without sounding annoyed. His dad initiated this conversation; that matters. Adam picks up his fork, returning to the meal.
“What do you like most about ‘because’?” Kevin continues. “What makes it a good word?”
Adam puts down the fork. “Just,” Adam says immediately and succinctly, meeting Kevin’s gaze.
Just makes because a good word.
“Just because,” Kevin says slowly, offering me a smile, as Adam promptly takes up his fork and deposits another bite into his mouth. Sorry Dad, the gesture seems to say. I can’t talk more; my mouth is full. “You like just because?”
“Yes,” Adam says around his food, but it comes out more like a grunt, shapeless, like a masticated morsel.
Just because–words of faith, words that answer a thousand unanswerable questions; words that accept vast reason in place of infinite confusion. I am spiritually autistic, and in my childhood, I hated these words, believing, in immaturity and pride, that nothing could be justified or worthwhile unless I could fully comprehend it. Just because felt like no answer at all, or at least not answer enough. For me, it took God-taught, God-given wisdom to begin to discover the unavoidable limits of my own understanding, to acknowledge God. And now, I have a faith built on these two words, just and because.
“Because of the LORD’s great love, we are not consumed, for his compassions never fail (Lam.3:22). Because of his great love for us, God, who is rich in mercy, made us alive with Christ even when we were dead in transgressions—it is by grace you have been saved (Eph. 2:4-5).” Why is an undeniably just God so mindful of me? Because He loves me. Why does He want to talk to me? Just because He loves me. How will I manage today? Only because He loves me. How could I, being so fatally flawed, ever enter into His Kingdom? Just because He loves me. Just because–just and because–but not because of me, just because of God–who He is, how He is, what He wants.
Just because sounds so simple, maybe even a touch dismissive, because as a response it demands that I let go of both performance and understanding. But then faith, while launching courageous obedience, also sets me free, and, in God’s upside-down way, that simplicity, filled by and surrendered to Him, instantly becomes profound and holy. Just because–that vast and incomprehensible grace–is only just, after all, because of God’s great love.
But what exactly does Adam mean by this, I wonder with a smile, knowing Adam to be a simple soul, but a soul filled with and surrendered to God, and thus ultimately a soul profound and holy. Adam has wry humor like his dad, and he could mean to give an answer that is really no answer at all. I search his eyes now for defiance and find none. In his gaze I see only depth and honesty, only the resolution to try.
I would expect Adam to love because for its explanations. Like me, he finds frustration in things he can neither anticipate nor interpret clearly. But Adam’s wisdom surpasses my own in this: as someone who chronically struggles to understand, who has no choice but to daily accept an insurmountable lack of understanding, Adam has found real contentment, a way of life, in just because. He is Peter, practically responding to undisputable authority, “It doesn’t make sense to me, but just because you say so, I will put down my nets.” Just because Dad asks, I’ll answer. Just because Dad wants to talk to me, I will try. Just because you say so; I obey. Just because you love me, I have what I need.
I’m speculating, of course. Adam can’t tell me exactly what he means to say, and that’s okay. He talks and I’m happy, just because.
