Puzzle Maker, by Reed Lackey

Picture with me, for a moment, a machine. It has its own circuits, electrical impulses, and energy source. But this machine’s purpose extends beyond programmable functions to re-programmable functions. In other words, this machine can learn, can reason, and can deduce. It can evolve.

Such a device, which has populated countless science fiction stories for more than a century, is the central object of the recent World War II drama, The Imitation Game, starring Benedict Cumberbatch, directed by Morten Tyldum, and nominated for 8 Oscars including Best Picture. The story revolves around a team of brilliant collaborators trying to crack the code of the Enigma machine, the German super-cypher which allowed so many tactical advantages to the Axis armies by coding messages to its military units in a pattern that changed daily and could only be de-coded with another Enigma machine.

At the heart of the story is Alan Turing, a socially awkward but genius mathematician whose hope of success in breaking Enigma and winning the war lies in the creation and usage of the machine described in the first paragraph. Turing’s chances are a long shot, but his team believes in those chances, even if they don’t particularly care for Turing himself.

You see, Turing is very much like a human machine. He sees the world in uncommon ways and works out riddles which others can only shake their heads at in confusion. He comes under intense pressure from Commander Denniston, who has the power to pull the plug on Turing’s machine if it doesn’t produce results, and from his own personal struggles with hiding his homosexuality, which is criminally punishable in the 1940s. The story is quite riveting and Cumberbatch deserves every accolade being heaped on him for his portrayal of the brilliantly fragile Turing.

But there was one line in the film which I found frustrating. Turing’s machine eventually cracks Enigma’s code and the Allies now have a real chance at winning the war, but they must keep their discoveries a secret, lest the Germans completely redesign Enigma and all of the efforts to crack its codes become vain. This essentially means that they have to let some attacks from the enemy succeed and only subvert the ones that will tactically help them win the war. They have to know that civilians and soldiers are going to die, know how to save them, and choose not to.

They have to play God.

The line of dialogue which frustrated me came after the war had ended, while Turing is reflecting on all that had passed. He says, “God didn’t win the war. We did.”

Obviously, as a Christian, this line struck me provocatively, but also as a critical thinker, the line seemed a bit contradictory to me. My immediate response to this statement was, “According to the story, you didn’t win the war either. Your machine did.”

The ethical dilemma at hand is this: who gets the credit for a job well done? Is it the tool, or the craftsman? Most people would say the craftsman gets the credit, and I would tend to agree. But many of us don’t take that stance when we think about what we do and do not credit to God.

You remember that machine I told you about in the first paragraph? Well, now picture that the circuits are cells, the electrical impulses are brainwaves, and the energy source is a heart. We, as human beings, can learn and change; we can reason and deduce; and we can, both as individuals and as a society, evolve. Is what we accomplish creditable only to ourselves, or to whatever designer fashioned our organic gears to work the way they do?

If you believe in God– which of course, I do– you also likely believe that whatever you have been given to work with in life was given by God and that it is up to you to use it well and do valuable things with it. Alan Turing likely did not believe in God, or at least did not likely believe that God was very fond of him, and I find that to be quite tragic. Here was a man, brilliant and unique, with abilities far exceeding those of his peers, who was so cast down upon by the world around him that he seemed almost to identify more with machines than with mankind. As a result, he is credited with building, if not entirely inventing, the first computer. But he was rewarded for that credit by being discarded, tormented and driven to suicide by those who could not understand him.

As people wrestling with the idea of God, we tend to blame Him for what goes wrong, but credit ourselves with what goes right. That’s not always the case, but mostly it is. Could it be, though, that behind every victory there was a hidden hand pushing buttons and flipping switches to get things working the right way? Could it also be that behind every defeat, there is an equally unseen hand doing the same kinds of maneuvers, except in a more redemptive or recovering way than a preventative one?

I wonder if Turing’s story might have been less tragic if he had known that, just as he carefully and almost tenderly poured over his machine– named Christopher after a childhood love of his– that there was a Maker who just as carefully and tenderly poured into him all that made him brilliant and remarkable: a Maker who I believe might have been prouder of Turing than Turing was even of Christopher.

Many might disagree with me, especially in camps of faith, because of Turing’s homosexuality. I am not going to pretend that in one article, I can cut through all of the countless complexities and opinions of this immense social issue and land somewhere that everybody will affirm. But I will say that no matter where you stand on the subject, it is my conviction that we are not fashioned accidentally. It is my conviction that even the least of us are precious and valuable, no matter what confusing or messy baggage we bring with us into the arena of life. I believe we are born into a distinct purpose of hope, “fearfully and wonderfully made.” (Psalm 149:14)

But unlike us, who discard old and broken machines once they have fulfilled or out-distanced their usefulness– or become overshadowed by prettier and shinier machines– I believe God does not cease to care for us because we are broken. I believe it is precisely because we are all broken that He cares for us and wants us to be whole.

I believe that this is the essence of the Christian gospel: Jesus Christ didn’t die for your potential. He died for you. To redeem you, to rescue you, and to restore you to wholeness through a relationship with Him.

So from one tired, broken, outdated-model machine to another, I tell you that life is full of mysterious puzzles, complex problems, and impossible riddles. We aren’t going to solve every one of them ourselves and we certainly aren’t going to fix every broken part on our own. But we do have a Maker whose mystery eclipses all of this world’s puzzles combined, and in whom the solution to all mystery lives and breathes… and finds its home.