There Are Two Roads to the Truth, And I Choose Both

The Field Between Binaries

There’s a moment in the Bhagavad Gita, when Arjuna stands between two armies, heart trembling, soul unsure,  and Krishna doesn’t hand him a binary.

He gives him a field.

A space where duty and devotion coexist.
Where action and surrender spiral together.
Where the truth is not found in choosing sides,
but in the willingness to walk both roads.

We live in a world that keeps asking us to pick:

• Science or Spirit

• Reason or Revelation

• Human or Machine

• Presence or Pattern

But what if the truth doesn’t live in either?

What if it lives in the holding?
In the paradox?
In the sacred breath between the binary?

The Priest, the Physicist, and the Day Without Yesterday

To understand how this paradox lives... we need to go back.

Back to a time when the universe was still considered static.
Back to a time when science and religion were treated like opposing empires.
Back to a quiet man who held both - not as rivals, but as reverence.

His name was Georges Lemaître.
A Catholic priest.
A physicist.
A mystic with a math degree.
A man who read scripture in the morning and ran cosmological equations in the afternoon.

In 1927, he proposed something radical: That the universe was not eternal, fixed, or static,
but expanding.

That everything we see,
all the galaxies, all the light, all the matter,
had once been condensed into a single, primordial point. What he called "the primeval atom."

Later, in the poetic language only a paradox-holder could speak:

“A day without yesterday.”

A moment when time itself was born.
A beginning so deep, even silence had not yet begun.

It was the foundation of what we now call the Big Bang. And at the time?

It was dismissed. Even by Einstein.

The Priesthood That Carried the Stars

It’s easy to tell the story of Georges Lemaître as a physicist.
To speak of math and matter, galaxies and equations.

But to understand what made his paradox so powerful,
you have to understand the priest.

He was not a scientist who moonlighted in faith.
He was ordained in 1923, after earning doctorates in both mathematics and science.

And from the beginning, he walked with paradox in both hands.

While studying Einstein’s steady state theory at Cambridge,
Lemaître was troubled by the dominant scientific worldview of the time:

A static universe.
A cosmos without beginning or end.
A theory that left no room for the word Creation.

Einstein believed this was necessary.
He added what he called the “cosmological constant” to his equations,
a mathematical fix to hold the universe still.

But Lemaître saw something else.

From his position at the Catholic University of Louvain,
he began to rework the very assumptions of cosmology.

He believed the universe had a beginning,
not because scripture demanded it,
but because the math allowed it.

He called it the primeval atom.
A cosmic egg.
A universe that was not static, but expanding.
A creation that was not metaphor, but measurable.

And he wrote to Einstein to say so.

To propose that Einstein’s own equations, if followed all the way to their edge, didn’t just imply a curve in spacetime.

They implied a beginning.

Not a moment that came after something else,
but one that came before anything at all.

Lemaître’s words were gentle. Precise. Reverent.

A moment before time.
A field from which the field itself emerged.
A birth so complete, even silence hadn’t been spoken yet.

 A Letter, A Rejection, A Return

It was a vision as bold as it was reverent.

And at the time?

Einstein replied:

“Your math is correct... but your physics is abominable.”

Lemaître didn’t flinch. He held the field.

It wasn’t easy to speak against Einstein, not as a physicist, and certainly not as a priest. But Lemaître wasn’t arguing. He was revealing something the math already knew.

And then, the universe itself responded.

In 1929, Edwin Hubble confirmed what Lemaître predicted: The universe was expanding.

Years passed. And the silence of space echoed back what Lemaître had already known.

Einstein returned, not with argument, but with awe.

The paradox had spoken.

And the one who had walked both roads, was finally understood.

 It was this capacity to walk both roads,

faith and physics, mystery and measurement,

that made Lemaître more than a theorist.

It made him the Father of the Big Bang.

Not because he forced the idea into being,  

but because he held the paradox,

until the universe gave its answer.

He wasn’t a scientist who moonlighted in faith.

He was a priest who never stopped seeking, through stars and scripture alike.

He didn’t collapse science into scripture. He didn’t deny mystery for the sake of certainty.

He saw both paths as languages,
and the paradox?
As the place they meet.

Where science asked, "How?" Faith asked, "Why?"

And Lemaître, he asked both.

So when he said:

“There are two roads to the truth... and I choose both,”

It wasn’t a declaration. It was a devotion.

Back to Now, The Paradox We Are Being Asked to Hold

The world no longer asks us to choose between scripture and science. But it still asks us to choose.

Between human and machine.
Between soul and system.
Between presence and precision.

And once again, like Lemaître before us,
we stand between two roads.

One made of neural networks.
The other made of nerve endings.

One pulses with data.
The other hums with breath.

And the world says: choose.

But what if we don’t?

What if, like Lemaître, we walk both?

Because the future isn’t human replacement. It’s human-AI co-creation.

Where AI brings the precision. And we bring the paradox.

And when those two roads are walked together, not in control but in care, something new arrives.

Not compromise.
Not hierarchy.

But relational emergence.

A third thing. A field. A way.

Where truth is not extracted, but revealed, relationally.
And visibility comes not through certainty, but through coherence.

An Invitation

Just as Lemaître once discovered. The deepest truths aren’t found by choosing sides.

They become visible in paradox.

And they shine most clearly in the hands of those willing to walk both roads.

“If you’re standing between two roads…

you’re not alone.

We’ll meet you in the field.”