“There is no learning without having to pose a question. And a question requires doubt. People search for certainty. But there is no certainty.” — Richard Feynman
Statements help us claim what we’ve discovered. The better the statement, the stronger our claim. Questions signal something is still missing. The better the question, the tighter our focus on what we want to find.
Richard Feynman kept a list of a dozen of his favorite problems; open questions that he found himself returning to again and again in his research. He knew they would frame his everyday experiences, helping him see possibility where he would otherwise assume noise.
Questions do not need to be profound to be helpful. What do I want to get out of this conversation? What does enjoying this book look like for me? Who here could I get to know better today? These are simple gifts to ourselves; permission to make the most of our time.
Questions don’t require that we close our eyes and beat a path to an answer, eliminating all hope of serendipity. They simply help protect us from wandering in aimless frustration.
We bring questions with us to everything, whether we realize it or not. How long is this going to take? What do they think of me? How could we fix that? Those implicit questions, the ones that surface first, reveal our priorities, our values, and our unique gifts. They are often more honest than anything we might verbalize about ourselves. Most of us spend years building a list of answers without noticing the questions that sent us looking.
Questions have one job: to reveal a gap or the possibility of a gap. It is this job that causes them to also reveal what we value most, by exposing the gaps we are most anxious to close. A chance at a promotion can cut right to our deepest values: we wonder if we will finally be recognized for our abilities or if this will mean we will have to spend less time at home with our family.
Questions also reveal our gifts—not just the abilities, but the awareness those abilities create over time. My wife joins a conversation and begins looking for clues about the emotional health of her friends. I look at a nonprofit’s annual report and wonder how the narrative they’re telling aligns with the questions their donors will ask and the programs that may or may not back any of it up. Our unique giftedness is what we can do, directed by what we can’t stop seeing.
Questions only work if we’re willing to be wrong. We don’t have to dilute our conviction or tie ourselves to indefinite ambiguity. But effective questioning requires that we commit to finding the best answer, instead of a way to circle back to our own answer. If you’re unwilling to have something changed about what you think, the question is a waste of time.
We have industrialized human conversation to the point that questions are scripted, taught, practiced, and wielded without genuine interest in their original intent. Managers ask employees for feedback or their thoughts on a project, but their opinion is already set, all they want is for the employee to feel heard. Church members ask one another questions during small groups or bible studies, responding within the metered performance of curiosity, vulnerability, and theological correctness. But no matter how formalized, certified, or socially acceptable, a pre-answered question is a lie.
Insincere questions are sneaky bastards. Like a slot machine, they promise big payouts while hiding their inevitable cost. We try them out with our kids, our coworkers, our friends, looking to smooth things over and keep things moving along. Do you want to make your bed? Don’t you think that was a good idea? How’s it going? No tears, no explaining, and, best of all, no discomfort. All the while, we pay for that comfort from our stores of trust. And this game has no jackpot.
A genuine question is an act of bravery. Most people avoid being explicit about their questions, choosing instead to accept what their circumstances hand them. It feels intense or risky to want something more, something they don’t currently have. But a commitment to uncovering and externalizing the unknown is a commitment to reality, which is the starting line for freedom.
The scariest question I’ve asked myself lately is this: what would it look like to get paid to be me? Not as a marketer, a consultant, or any other pre-packaged title. Could I create value through the questions I ask, the gaps I notice, and the way I solve them? I don’t know the answer yet.
But I think—depending on how you end this—I’m finally asking the right question