In English, “That’s a good question” does more than one thing. Sometimes it means exactly what it says. Other times it signals that the question resists a simple answer — that something deeper is being asked, and the speaker needs a moment to find their footing.
Good questions and foolish ones have this in common: neither yields easily to a quick answer. A foolish question leads nowhere, ending in meaninglessness. A good question, on the other hand, draws out a good answer. And yet, if even a foolish question can be met with a good answer, does it remain foolish at all? Perhaps there are no foolish questions, only foolish answers. A good answer has the power to turn even a poor question into a good one. It moves us forward, lifts our gaze upward, opens us toward the future. It turns us inward— and, above all, outward, toward one another.
In an age of pandemic, when uncertainty rose to its height and fear took hold of us all, the virus itself seemed to ask a question. What kind of world will unfold from this? How are we to understand this moment? What kind of world will we choose to build? As I wrestled with these questions, it felt as though the virus were speaking: that the cough of a single person can set the whole world trembling; that we are all connected, each life carrying weight and meaning; that the suffering of a neighbor can become my own fear. And perhaps, that it must become more than fear. That your pain must become my pain. That your pain must become my prayer. That we are not strangers to one another, but a single human family.