But as horrific as the disease [Spanish flu] itself was, public officials and the media helped create that terror—not only by exaggerating the disease but by minimizing it, by trying to reassure. A specialty among public relations consultants has evolved in recent decades called “risk communication.” I don’t care much for the term. For if there is a single dominant lesson from 1918, it’s that governments need to tell the truth in a crisis. Risk communication implies managing the truth. You don’t manage the truth. You tell the truth.
― John Barry, The Great Influenza: The Epic Story of the Deadliest Plague in History 

American author and historian John Barry has written books on the Spanish flu pandemic of 1918, the Great Mississippi Flood of 1927, and the development of the modern form of the concepts of separation of church and state, as well as individual liberty. Today, perhaps more than ever, he’s been interviewed by many news organizations and journals as a historical authority on flu pandemics. Having recently read his book, The Great Influenza, I was struck with the dominant theme of his work: tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. We shouldn’t distort, pervert, or manage it, Barry argues, for this only creates fear and distrust. It did in 1918, and it will again today and tomorrow.

President Woodrow Wilson was convicted that the country must prepare for and support the war. To this end, Barry writes that Wilson created the Committee for Public Information. This agency’s work was to control all information the American public received. Just one year earlier, Wilson had pushed the Sedition Act through Congress, which made it a crime to say or publish anything that would negatively influence America’s war efforts. Barry cites the architect of the Committee for Public Information who stated:

Truth and falsehood are arbitrary terms. The force of an idea lies in its inspirational value. It matters very little if it is true or false.

The truth–or manipulation of the truth–lies at the heart of Barry’s convictions, as well as Wilson’s and those government officials who’d been designated as information czars wholly in charge of everything that American citizens should know and believe. And at this time when a flu pandemic was sweeping the nation, when many described bodies being piled up as cords of wood, when the country’s best scientists were feverishly working to identify the cause of and develop a potential treatment for this influenza, when military bases were decimated with death, when some towns, like Gunnison, Colorado, set up armed perimeters around their counties to keep the contagion out, and when death was a likely visitor to most families–at this time, the Committee for Public Information was pumping out pro-war advertisements and news articles, encouraging citizens to buy war bonds, employing a host of Four Minute Men to make rousing patriotic speeches in city gatherings and movie theaters, and prosecuting those who dared do or say anything “unpatriotic” .

On the subject of the flu pandemic, they were either silent or responded with patronizing assurance that this was just the ordinary grippe and citizens should take normal precautions: wash your hands, don’t spit in public, keep your feet warm, stay rested. They chose not to report the truth of the pandemic’s strength and its cataclysmic consequences. Perhaps they weren’t nearly as inspired by this truth as other truths that they believed were necessary to sustaining our war efforts. Or perhaps they believed this truth was one that they could conveniently shelve as WWI raged on in Europe. Regardless of their reasons, the truth about the pandemic was either downplayed or not reported at all.

Until the truth could no longer be denied. This grim reaper kept knocking and knocking through horrific stories of pain and death the likes of which most had never experienced. Real people with real stories–and photographs of the unimaginable consequences of pandemic. By then, tragically, the influenza had not only taken the country but the world. When Spanish King Alfonso XIII was stricken, the Spanish press covered the pandemic which was now ravaging Europe. Ironically, a virus which hadn’t originated in Spain earned the name Spanish flu only because the uncensored Spanish press were the first to write about it openly.

As I read through Barry’s book, I kept thinking about his central message to tell the truth. But the more I read, the more I was plagued with these questions: What is the truth? How do we know it’s the truth? Why does one individual’s truth differ from another’s? For years, I taught a high school unit on worldviews. I wanted my students to investigate the concept of worldview, to understand how worldviews differ, and ultimately, to determine their own worldview based on what they’d learned. As we began our unit, we used James W. Sire’s definition of worldview from his book The Universe Next Door:

a set of presuppositions (assumptions which may be true, partially true or entirely false) which we hold (consciously or subconsciously, consistently or inconsistently) about the basic make-up of the world.

We studied the “big questions” whose answers help determine one’s worldview: What is real? What is good? What is right? What is true? What does it mean to be human? What happens to humans at death? How do we know anything? What is the meaning of human history?

Our discussions regarding truth were often the most interesting and contentious. In short, we disagreed about what constitutes truth. Countless students offered statements like this: Well, you have your truth, and I have mine. Others countered with arguments like this: Something is either true or it’s not. There can’t be one truth for you and one truth for me. At the heart of these debates was the issue of whether or not truth was relative or absolute, whether or not truth could/should be determined individually and by circumstance OR whether it should be universal and immutable, for everyone for all time. It goes without saying that we never reached consensus on this issue. We did, however, identify major differences in how we defined and used the concept of truth.

Just yesterday, my daughter and I were discussing recent news reports on the Covid19 pandemic and asking these same types of questions: How do we determine the truth about this disease and its implications for us–as a world, a nation, a state, a community? What data, what evidence is true? What interpretations of this data/evidence are true? Who is speaking the truth? Why does one source’s truth appear to differ radically from another’s?

Unlike the government’s deliberate suppression of information regarding the Spanish flu pandemic, our government officials–as well as medical, scientific, economic, and public health experts–are providing us with ongoing information, an ocean of information that relentlessly crashes against the shores of our consciousness. We have a lot of information at our finger tips, at the touch of a button, the flip of a switch. And I think it’s safe to say that this information is filtered through each source’s worldview. That is, we all see the world and our place in it from the lens of our particular worldviews. Because these worldviews differ–some subtly and some drastically–we should expect that arriving at the truth will be challenging, at best. We should expect that we’ll have to read, listen, and view widely and from a variety of sources. We should expect that we will have to critically weigh all that we learn if we are to determine what we think best defines the truth.

Some may argue that, in an ideal world, we would all share the same worldview; hence, we would all define and arrive at truth in the same way. But we don’t. And we won’t. This is, perhaps, the truest thing I can write today. We can bash those whose worldviews (and truths) differ from ours, or we can learn from them. We can ignore sources that we’ve generally deemed untrustworthy, or we can regard them with cautious skepticism, entertaining the possibility that they may provide us with kernels of truth. We can quickly fix labels of good guys and bad guys, or we can withhold judgment until–and unless–a preponderance of evidence justifies such labeling. In the end, the pursuit of truth will be, as it has always been, a laborious and ongoing individual endeavor.

Certainly, Barry’s admonition about telling the truth is one that we shouldn’t take lightly–not during a pandemic or ever. Who and what determines the truth, however, will continue to challenge us. As it should, for these questions will always be the crucial questions. And the answers to these questions will continue to shape our lives and our world, as they have decidedly shaped the past.

I shall look at the world through tears. Perhaps I shall see things that dry-eyed I could not see.
― Nicholas Wolterstorff, Lament for a Son

A few days ago, I read through the book of Lamentations. How doth the city sit solitary, that was full of people! how is she become as a widow! she that was great among the nations, and princess among the provinces, how is she become tributary! [Lamentations 1:1] It seemed a fitting book, for the sky was gray with cloud cover so opaque that the sun had little chance of breaking through. Much of the world was widowed, sheltering in their homes, confined within four walls previously regarded as sanctuaries. Leaden with regular news reports of the pandemic sweeping across the world, the days stretch on, and our hearts and souls are heavier than hearts and souls should be.

Or perhaps not. In his book Falling Upward: A Spirituality for the Two Halves of Life, Father Richard Rohr writes:

In much of urban and Western civilization today, with no proper tragic sense of life, we try to believe that it is all upward and onward–and by ourselves. It works for so few, and it cannot serve us well in the long run–because it is not true.

Rohr has a point here: we really don’t have a proper tragic sense of life. It is all upward and onward for most of us, most of the time. If our hearts and souls become heavy, we push on. If we feel as though we may be drown in the miry pits of our circumstances, we literally pull ourselves out by our own bootstraps. And we do it all independently, refusing to ask for or accept help. We are not a lamenting people.

At least not publicly. In private, we lament much more like the prophet Jeremiah who cried out:

My eyes fail from weeping, I am in torment within; my heart is poured out on the ground because my people are destroyed, because children and infants faint in the streets of the city. [Lamentations 2:11]

In private, we are tormented by loss, by fear, by doubt and insecurity. In private, we often pour out our hearts, and our eyes fail from weeping. In private, we can sometimes be first class lamenters.

Perhaps both Richard Rohr and Nicolas Wolterstorff are right: collectively and publicly, we need a proper tragic sense of life and a teary worldview that allows us to see what dry-eyed we could not. In short, perhaps we should be a people of lamentation. Not a hand-wringing, self-pitying, complaining kind of people but a genuinely lamenting people. In his book, Movies are Prayers: How Films Voice Our Deepest Longings, Josh Larsen writes:

Christian lament is not simply complaint. Yes, it stares clear-eyed at awfulness and even wonders if God has gone…Yet at its fullest, biblical lament expresses sorrow over losing a world that was once good alongside a belief that it can be made good again. Lament isn’t giving up, it’s giving over. When we lift up our sorrow and our pain, we turn it over to the only one who can meet it: our God.

If we’re not particularly good at genuine lamenting, we’re even worse at accepting and understanding paradoxes like the one Larsen presents here: expressing sorrow over losing a world that was once good alongside a belief that it can be made good again. Today as more people die from Covid19 and quarantine measures persist, many may fear that with each passing day and each new positive test, the world that they once knew as good is being lost, bit by precious bit. To grieve and yet still believe that this world can be made good again? This is a paradox that challenges us. It’s generally either we’re going to hell in a hand basket OR don’t worry, be happy. It’s the rare public (or private) individual who can hold both of these realities in their minds and souls.

Yet, this is the foundational paradox of lamentation. And we need to both understand and practice it. We need to cry out in desperation for our world, for our communities, for our families, and for ourselves. And not just for pandemic reasons–for all sorts of loss and pain, collective and private. I take great solace in all those biblical figures who cried out to God, who laid their pain, anger, and despair at his feet in unabashed lamenation. These are the pillars of our faith, and they openly and regularly lamented.

Michael D. Guinan, a professor of Old Testament, Semitic languages and biblical spirituality at the Franciscan School of Theology in Berkeley, California, believes that we have lost a healthy sense of lament in our personal prayer life and in our communal, liturgical life. He argues that even in the funeral rite–the only real context in which lament is generally practiced–we may short shrift it. He explains:

Some years back, after the changes in the rite of funerals, a family I knew lost a child in a boating accident. A lot of pressure was brought to bear to “celebrate the Mass of the Resurrection, to rejoice in his birth to new life.” About a year later, their suppressed grief almost tore the family apart. Again, we must not deny honest pain, nor jump too quickly from loss to acceptance and skip over the lamenting process. Christian faith does proclaim a message of hope, but death and grief are still real.

We have always lived in a world in which hope, grief, and death live as necessary neighbors. Today, our personal and pandemic worlds are no different. And this is why lamentation is not only an appropriate response to our circumstances, it is truly the only response. We can’t deny fear and pain and skip the lamenting process. Not now–not ever.

In the end, as difficult as it is, we must learn to regard lamentation as a means of both crying out in despair and as a means of proclaiming hope. Just the other day, I saw a look of real fear pass over my granddaughter’s face as her mother and I were talking about the recent pandemic reports. As an eleven-year-old, her only real fears should be whether she passes a math test or plays her flute solo without error. To see the fear of pandemic cloud her worldview–even for a moment–was heartbreaking. Still, I wish for her the same thing that I wish for myself, that I wish for the entire world: that we will be people of lamentation who support and pray for our fellow lamenters, that we will look at the world through tears and see those things that, dry-eyed, we could not see before.

…for the growing good of the world is partly dependent on unhistoric acts; and that things are not so ill with you and me as they might have been, is half owing to the number who lived faithfully a hidden life, and rest in unvisited tombs.
― George Eliot,  Middlemarch

This is the quote that appears at the end of the feature film, A Hidden Life (2019), the story of Austrian farmer, husband, father, and devout Catholic Franz Jgersttter who was executed in 1943 because he refused to serve in the Nazi army. The other night, I watched this film, artistically and insightfully directed by Terrence Mallick. It goes without saying that the cinematography is spectacular with exquisite scenes of the Austrian Alps. But the story—

In 2016, the film Hacksaw Ridge featured the life of Desmond Doss, a Seventh Day Adventist conscientious objector. Doss refused to take up arms, but he willingly pledged his loyalty and services as a medic to the United States Army. Although initially criticized and harrassed by his peers and commanding officers, Doss ultimately not only earned their respect and gratitude but that of the world after he saved 75 GIs in the Battle of Okinawa. The recipient of a Medal of Honor, Doss humbly asked that his heroism not be publicized. Still, his heroism and story became public, and the world honored–and continues to honor–his piety and courage.

Jgersttter’s story is different, though. He refused to take the oath dedicating his service and loyalty to Hitler, even when others suggested that he might serve as an orderly in a field hospital. They argued that he could help others this way, that he wouldn’t have to be a combat soldier. It was the oath, however, that prevented him from serving at all. His own parish priest, as well as the local bishop, urged him to swear allegiance to Hitler, to do his duty to the fatherland and to spare his family from persecution and suffering. His neighbors and villagers quickly turned against him and his family, shunning them publicly and refusing to help with their harvest. His decision cost him dearly even before he was imprisoned by the Nazis. And this decision continued to cost his wife, children, and mother.

When he was in a Berlin prison awaiting his execution, he wrote:

Again and again people stress the obligations of conscience as they concern my wife and children. Yet I cannot believe that just because one has a wife and children, he is free to offend God by lying (not to mention all the other things he would be called upon to do). Did not Christ Himself say, “He who loves father, mother, or children more than Me is not deserving of My love?”

A Hidden Life is nearly 3 hours long. Unlike Hacksaw Ridge, there are no battle scenes. Truthfully, there is little physical action at all. What Terrence Mallick does provide, however, is an exceptional view of the psychological, emotional, and spiritual struggles of not only Jgersttter but his family members. For me, the minutes ticked by agonizingly, and yet I couldn’t look away. There were times, I admit, that I couldn’t really see the screen because tears had so filled my eyes, and the sobs that had gathered in my throat threatened to undo me. Here was beautiful agony, the sort that takes you to the foot of the cross and leaves you there, spent and awed. Here were a man and his wife who lived hidden lives of devotion and courage amidst a world gone mad.

Jgersttter’s life may have remained entirely hidden were it not for the research and 1964 publication of In Solitary Witness by Catholic sociologist Gordan Zahn. Zahn writes that Jgersttter’s story was nothing less than a repetition of an old story, the ever-recurring confrontation between Christ and Caesar. Even hours before his death, a visiting priest, Father Jochmann, directed his attention to the document that had lain for days on his prison table, the document that contained the oath that, if signed, would save his life. But Jgersttter persisted, saying: I cannot and may not take an oath in favor of a government that is fighting an unjust war.

Jgersttter was beheaded on August 9, 1943. He died believing that his was, indeed, a solitary witness, one that would go unnoticed by all but his family. In several film scenes, he is asked the same questions by Nazi officials, priests, bishops, his attorneys and neighbors: Do you think that your refusal to pledge your allegiance to Hitler will benefit anyone? Do you think this will change the course of the war, that anyone will even know of your actions? Do you think your decision will matter at all? Jgersttter never waivered from his conviction that he could make no other decision as a Christian and that he need only worry about his loyalty to and love for God. He suffered no illusions that the world would notice or understand. He wrote:

Although people have accused me of criminal behavior and condemned me to death, be consoled knowing that in God’s eyes not everything is criminal which the world perceives to be criminal.

In 1984, the Austrian government issued Jgersttter a special posthumous Award of Honor, and in 2007, the Catholic Church beatified him. His once hidden life has now been revealed as the extraordinary life of devotion, courage, and sacrifice that it was.

I suspect that there will be many who live such hidden lives in these times of worldwide pandemic. There will be those who quietly and privately do the right things, the morally and physically courageous things. We won’t hear or read about them. Undoubtedly, these are the folks who won’t take to social media with posts regaling their actions. Still, inside their homes and neighborhoods, they will tend to those in their care. They will encourage others and affirm the gifts they have been given. They will literally keep the faith. Like Jgersttter, they will believe that their actions and decisions will go unnoticed by all but God, their families and, perhaps, their neighbors–and they will know that this is more than enough.

For much of my life, I’ve struggled with the compulsion to do more, to be more than who I am. For who I am and what I’ve done seem so small and petty. I’ve looked to others whose lives and works seem so large by comparison, their contributions so noteworthy. And I’ve found myself striving to walk in their footsteps, ones that I’ve discovered are clearly much too big for me to follow. Just the other day, my church issued an invitation for volunteers to deliver groceries in our community. As a retired person with the benefit of time, I was happy to volunteer until I read the qualifications for volunteers: between the ages of 18 and 59. I’m simply too old to help. I’m relegated to the age group whose job is to self-quarantine. To best serve others, I can’t literally serve many of them at all.

Years ago, I remember reading a devotional by Oswald Chambers in which he addressed those like me who lamented their seeming helplessness in the face of the world’s needs. He wrote that he often heard people say things like I can’t really do anything. All I can do is pray. And then he admonished us by claiming that prayer is the real work. Largely hidden work, I’ve come to understand that prayer is–as Chambers insists–the real work.

This is good news for those in the 60+ age group who, like me, currently find they can’t serve on the front lines. Hidden in my rural Iowa home, I can pray. For the growing good of the world, I can, like Jgersttter, turn my eyes to the only One whose allegiance ultimately matters. And I can find solace and solidarity in the knowledge that there are so, so many others who are praying, too.

In 1971, David Vetter was born with severe immunodeficiency. Known as the Bubble Boy, he lived his entire life of 12 years in a plastic bubble.

Imagine, if you will, the life of David Vetter, Bubble Boy. As I write today, some may argue that it’s all too easy to imagine this under the quarantine conditions of our coronavirus pandemic. It’s like living in a bubble, some say, cut off from life as we’ve known it. No socializing in groups larger than ten, no concerts, sporting events, school, etc. Bubbled in our homes, our worlds are shrinking before our very eyes. Like David Vetter, we’re dependent upon those with whom we live for whatever socializing and human contact we can get. Unlike David Vetter, however, our worlds are not so small that we can’t touch each other–or walk outside to touch a tree or stand, unencumbered, under the sun or stars. Our worlds are small, but not that small.

For his eleventh birthday, David Vetter wanted nothing more than to see the stars. And so his family wheeled his bubble and all its accompanying life-saving equipment into their yard where for twenty minutes, he gazed into the night sky. The following year, he would die at the ripe age of twelve. His world and his lifespan were, indeed, small.

Even before the pandemic and quarantining, I’d been thinking about the size of my own world, how it has shrunken as I’ve retired. Once, I stood in front of as many as 150 students a day and interacted with faculty and staff in my schools. My world seemed relatively large and my influence upon this world equally large. There were more days than I can count after which I worried about my influence on so many people. Was I teaching the right things in the right ways? Had I said anything that wasn’t right, wasn’t true, wasn’t relevant? What legacy–if any–was I leaving my students and colleagues? To be sure, this was heavy baggage, and like Sisyphus, I pushed this boulder up the hill of my days (and nights).

There is something thrilling and daunting about such large worlds. They spread out before us in continents of opportunities. They dazzle treasures yet to be found. They tease and cajole us with pastures that are greener. In these worlds, bubbles have blessedly burst into more glittering panoramas!

And yet, small worlds have much to teach us. Inside our bubbles, we can examine our own pastures with new eyes. Mine is pretty green, I must admit. Give me a good book, a walk in the countryside, a good Netflix series, a pan of cookies in the oven, a phone call with a friend or family member, and an afternoon with my grandchildren (who live 50 yards away!), and I’m happy enough to live bubbled in with these riches.

I’m not, however, diminishing the real seriousness of the pandemic and its implications for those who aren’t as fortunate as I am. And I’m not romanticizing this time. I am, however, taking the time to personally consider my life as it is today and as it may be going forward. Could I really live in a smaller world? And, perhaps, should I live in one?

For years, I’ve read much historical fiction and nonfiction regarding WWII. Clearly, the themes of oppression and genocide drive most of these works. Still, the overwhelming themes of hunger and isolation are right there as well. The lives of many Jews who went into hiding were exceptionally small. They lived in attics, crawl spaces, haylofts, cellars–places so small and so uninhabitable that most of us could never imagine them. They lived on turnips and acorns and scraps we wouldn’t give our animals. And their benefactors, those who risked their lives to hide their Jewish brothers and sisters? Their lives were necessarily small, too. They may have lived in their own homes and had some occasions to leave, but they lived painfully close to home–out of fear and necessity. For both the benefactors and the hidden, their worlds and lives were smaller than they’d ever been before.

As I’ve read about their lives and struggles, I’ve often asked myself if I could have survived under such conditions. Could I live on a half turnip a day? Could I survive lying in a crawl space without the ability to even sit up–for months? Could I handle the isolation of not being able to talk with or be with anyone? Could I handle the fear of putting myself and my family at risk by hiding someone or an entire family? I would like to think that, given these extreme circumstances, I would rise to the occasion and do things that I couldn’t normally do. I would hope that I could be a person who lives small so that others might live at all.

Today, my pantry is full enough, and I’m blessed to have my daughter, son-in-law, grandchildren and a couple neighbors nearby. I don’t have to get in my car to be with them. I can literally walk out my door and within yards, be at their door steps. Ours is a small rural world in southeastern Iowa, but what a wonderful small world it is! And how genuinely grateful I am to live in it.

As our worlds become smaller for the foreseeable future, we might all take the opportunity to think about what this can mean for us personally and for our world collectively. We tend to discount anything small as being less than desireable. But for centuries, the greatest writers, artists, theologians, and leaders have shown us the treasures that await those who embrace the smallest things. For generations, our grandparents and great grandparents have lived much smaller than we have, and their lives continue to bless us in surprising and lasting ways. All of these individuals are far above my pay-grade, so I feel complete assurance in making the claim that small worlds may be paradoxically large, indeed.

I’m hoping that I can be one who lives small, so that others may live at all. Like many, I’m staying home, refusing to hoard groceries and supplies, and praying. And I’m hoping that we can all take solace in the fact that when our worlds become larger again, we will look upon them with fresh eyes, with newfound wonder and gratitude. This alone is no small thing–pun intended.

Bubble Boy
for Griffin

 Decades ago before you were born,
 a boy spent his entire life in a plastic bubble
 because the world threatened to take him out
 with an arsenal of parasites and plagues.
 From his bubble, he could see children, like you, 
 who ran barefoot in the sun, 
 their fingers slicked with dirt,
 their tongues testing the wind. 
  
 Today, you dip your wand into a bucket of solution
 and a bubble big as a porpoise takes the air.
 It floats several exuberant feet off the grass,
 an Aurora borealis here in our own yard.
 You step to meet it, 
 but from the driveway where I stand, 
 it looks as if you’ve stepped into it—
 or perhaps it’s caught you.
 And once inside, your face opens in wonder 
 at a world glazed with color. 
  
 Soon you’ll poke it and it will burst, 
 coating your hair with soapy film.
 And then you’ll come running
 through the grass, you’ll laugh 
 and throw yourself, soapy and sweaty, 
 into your mother’s arms.
  
 At six years, suited up like an astronaut,
 the Bubble Boy stepped out of his plastic world 
 into his mother’s arms for the first time,
 arms that had pined for flesh—skin-to-skin love,
 one eager heart pressed to another.
 On his eleventh birthday, he asked to see the stars
 and they wheeled him into the yard 
 where—for twenty miraculous minutes—he gazed at the sky.
 At twelve, even the bubble couldn’t save him.
  
 Tonight, you’ll sit under the stars
 by the fire where we’ve roasted marshmallows.
 And later when you fall sleep, your sticky face against your mother’s shoulder,
 you’ll dream of all the things you want to see
 and touch. 

A good question is never answered. It is not a bolt to be tightened into place but a seed to be planted and to bear more seed toward the hope of greening the landscape of idea. John Ciardi

There’s something particularly satisfying and reassuring about tightening a bolt into place. The mere act–at the very least–gives the illusion of security: everything is locked down, everything has its rightful place, everything that needs fastening has been fastened. Although I admit that I’m not handy with a wrench, I’ve watched enough home improvement shows to know that there are those who wield wrenches with confidence and ease. These are the men and women who tighten bolts with a few definitive turns of the wrist, the folks who strengthen and secure.

Poet John Ciardi claims that a good question is not a bolt to be tightened into place but a seed to be planted. If Ciardi were alive today, I fear that he’d be pretty discouraged about all the bolt-tightening that we do in response to the big questions regarding the human condition and the state of the world today. We appear to use our wrenches too automatically, battening down answers quickly. I fear that we’ve come to regard such speed and strength with certainty. Those who answer promptly and forcefully are those who command respect. Those who respond post haste are those who often teach, lead, and inspire confidence. Regardless of the question, they have the answer.

Every era has faced its share of serious questions, and ours is no different. The increasing threat of the coronavirus comes with a host of its own big questions: How will we contain it, treat it, prevent it? How will it affect our economies, our governments, our educational and other systems, our very lives as we know them? We scour the news daily for answers to our questions. We argue that we just don’t have time for seeds to be planted; in the face of growing fear–and in many cases, panic–we need some competent bolt-tightening.

In his Holocaust memoir Night, Elie Wiesel writes about a conversation he had with Moshe the Beadle, a poor scholar of the Kabbalah and Jewish mysticism who lives in his town. Moshe asks the young Elie why he prays. After Elie claims that he doesn’t know why he prays, he and Moshe meet often to discuss man’s relationship with God. Wiesel writes:

He explained to me with great insistence that every question possessed a power that did not lie in the answer. “Man raises himself toward God by the questions he asks Him,” he was fond of repeating.

Perhaps this is why we often cower in the presence of the big questions: they possess a particular power that doesn’t lie in their answers. Even when we arrive at reasonable, researched answers, this power persists. It plagues us–as it should, Moshe the Beadle argues. This is the power of the seed bed that Ciardi speaks of. The power of questions that continue to germinate long after they are answered, the power of questions whose answers refuse to be tightened with a few turns of the wrench.

Do we raise ourselves towards God by the questions we ask? Moshe the Beadle repeatedly claims that this is so, and I suspect that many will agree with him. It’s our persistance and willingness to see quick bolt-tightening for its limitations that propels us towards God and towards better, more refined questions. And these questions, in turn, lead us towards better, more refined answers. This is not a quick or definitive process, though. It takes time; it requires doubt and speculation. Sadly, we’re not a people who are especially good at either patience or uncertainty. Give us handymen and women with strong grips and big wrenches, and we sleep much better each night.

In his New York Times best-selling book, Between the World and Me, Ta-Nehisi Coates writes in the form of a letter to a his fifteen-year old son, an African American boy who is trying to make sense of the racial injustice he faces in his world. Coates writes:

My mother and father were always pushing me away from secondhand answers—even the answers they themselves believed. I don’t know that I have ever found any satisfactory answers of my own. But every time I ask it, the question is refined. That is the best of what the old heads meant when they spoke of being “politically conscious”—as much a series of actions as a state of being, a constant questioning, questioning as ritual, questioning as exploration rather than the search for certainty.

Like John Ciardi and Moshe the Beadle, Ta-Nehisi Coates understands that questioning is a necessary state of being, a ritual, an exploration rather than the search for certainty. He is painfully aware of how we are tempted to accept secondhand answers, even the answers we ourselves have believed and may continue to believe. As a beginning teacher, I recall how I was often tempted to give immediate answers to student questions even when I was genuinely uncertain of their validity. To falter–or worse yet, to offer nothing–seemed like blood in the water to adolescent sharks who seemed poised for a feeding frenzy. Trip up the new teacher, ask her something she can’t answer, and watch her die a slow, agonizing death of shame. Mine was the legitimate fear of every new teacher, and much as I hate to admit it now, I may have offered answers that were, at best, incomplete, and at worst, simply wrong. Gratefully, I learned quickly that being certain was a luxury I could seldom afford. Better to live unabashedly with the knowledge that all questions possess power not generally found in their answers. Better to live humbly in exploration rather than a search for certainty.

German physicist Albert Einstein writes:

The important thing is not to stop questioning. Curiosity has its own reason for existence. One cannot help but be in awe when he contemplates the mysteries of eternity, of life, of the marvelous structure of reality. It is enough if one tries merely to comprehend a little of this mystery each day.     

The father of the theory of relativity, one of the two cornerstones of modern physics, Einstein was a brilliant man who successfully answered some seemingly impossible theoretical questions. And yet even a man who offered such incredible answers understood the greater value of constant questioning. And even more importantly, he understood that it is enough to merely comprehend a little of this mystery [of the world, eternity, life] each day.

We live in a universe of big questions, and I often find myself dwarfed by the sheer size and ferocity of questions which keep blasting through my personal force field like eager meteors. If I focus too long on their strength and number, I begin to drown in the futility of my predicament. If, however, I pledge to comprehend just a little more of this mystery each day, I find that I am willing and capable enough for the task. As are those who work daily to ask better, more refined questions about diseases and environmental hazards, as well as economic, political, social, educational, and philosophical issues. I find solace in their unwavering patience and persistance and take heart that their seed beds will ultimately bear more seed towards the hope of greening the landscape of idea.

Faced with difficult questions, as a teacher I learned to say, “I don’t know, but I’ll see what I can find out.” It was a good response then, and today, it seems like an even better one.