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.