In Defense of Better Questions
I’ve watched three small humans learn to walk. None of them learned to walk in exactly the same manner or at exactly the same point in their development. However, there were some common developmental steps along the way.
Once a child gets enough body control to support their own head, they then progress to rolling over. That motion eventually shifts to scooting, which then transitions to crawling. This is the point where parenting gets much more difficult, as the child is no longer basically stationary. But after crawling most children progress to “cruising” where they hang onto tables, couches, and chairs as they stand and shuffle along, supported by both their arms and their legs. Eventually, they begin to take steps away from those solid objects and actually begin to walk.
“I admit the question is an impertinent one.” Artist: Elizabeth Shippen Green Elliot. Public Domain. Image from LOC: https://www.loc.gov/pictures/item/2010716378/
The cruising stage is important for those unskilled at walking. Having solid handholds to allow the child to figure out the motor skills needed to shift balance, move feet, and make progress is needed for development. It would be a challenge for a child to move from crawling to walking without some sort of aided standing and shuffling in between. (I’m sure there are cases where children have skipped a phase, but they are exceptions.)
In more cognitive fields, it is common to practice a similar method of scaffolding learning. For example, the physics you learned in high school was incorrect. We generally teach Newtonian physics, which gives a rough approximation of how the world works. However, as the quantum experts will tell us, Newton was wrong about a lot of things. Still, that approach provides a handhold to develop an intuitive understanding of the world and, in most applications, even the simplified calculations of Newtonian physics will provide a close enough approximation of the behavior of the physical world for most of us. My high school experiments involving launching balls and moving weights came out pretty close to what the formulas said they would. The intuition gained from Newton’s physics lays the groundwork for those who delve into the quantum realm.
In a recent newsletter, Matthew Lee Anderson took exception to a (minor) criticism I made of his book, Called into Questions, in a review for The Gospel Coalition. Because I am not a regular listener to his podcast, Mere Fidelity, I apparently activated one of his pet peeves, which is practical application in the Christian life. (The only “podcast” I listen to regularly is Mars Hill Audio. I never got into podcasts and would generally rather read than listen. No, I do not have a Netflix account. I have benefited when I have listened to Mere Fidelity; I especially enjoy the banter between the hosts.)
The newsletter response, however, inaccurately represents my position. I stated that I wished that his revision of The End of Our Exploring would have provided more “handholds for readers . . . to learn to question better.” Anderson took that in a particular direction, ascribing positions to me that I do not hold.
Intentionally Theoretical
To be fair to Anderson, he intentionally moved away from practical application when he revised or rewrote the book. (There is an obvious genetic connection, but the newer book is substantively different and, in many ways, better.) In The End of Our Exploring, Anderson includes a chapter, “How to Ask a Good Question,” where he provides some general ideas about questioning. I purchased and read one of the resources he highlights in a footnote, Make Just One Change. It’s a book on helping students ask better questions, which has some positive advice but is, to Anderson’s point, too formulaic. In the newer version of his book, Anderson shifts that somewhat practical focus to a more theoretical one in the chapter, “Liberating Questions,” which replaced his “How to” discussion.
In the earlier book he notes there is a “sort of practiced art to questioning” highlighting professional disciplines like doctors, teachers, and lawyers, who have to learn the subtle art of questioning well (Exploring, 165). In the newer book, he states, “I am reluctant to provide practical guidance for questioning well, as it quickly becomes a formula or a checklist” (Questions, 158). The move from somewhat concrete to more abstract reflection on virtues was intentional.
Perhaps, then, I am critiquing Anderson for not writing the book he didn’t set out to write. Fair enough. I still commend the book he did write. In fact, I assigned the earlier book to my elder daughter and will assign the newer version to my younger children in their homeschool curriculum. However, I did feel it necessary to let the TGC readers know what they were getting, which, in my opinion, could have benefitted from some principles to help novice questioners make progress on their journey. That’s my job as a book reviewer.
Reading The End of Our Exploring pushed me to explore the question of questions, especially with regard to the skill of asking questions within an academic setting. I’ve since read several books on the Socratic method of learning—something practiced at Anderson’s alma mater— but none of them have been tremendously helpful. (I may not have encountered the right book yet; I’m dabbling more than digging here.) I was hoping, given Anderson’s continued experience in the classroom, that he would move in the opposite direction toward some principles (not necessarily a how-to) that tend toward the practical. The fact is that I haven’t found a good book (it may exist) that provides clear principles on the sort of conversational questioning Anderson commends, one that can help the beginning questioner gain purchase on a challenging skill. These skills would be best learned in community, of course, but those communities can be hard to find. Those of us who want to create them may need some help.
Defense of Practicality
I suspect that part of the issue is that the art of asking questions is so subtle that those who are really good at it are disgusted with attempts to distill a methodology for the novice. Just as the quantum physicist may shudder at the simplistic inaccuracy of Newton she was taught in high school, so it may be that teaching a beginner method that isn’t really correct may make the expert questioner nervous.
In both books, Anderson notes that “distinguishing between good and bad questions is like distinguishing good and bad music.” He also highlights the “‘touch’ that separates great pianists from good ones” (Questions, 158; cf. Exploring, 164–65). There is an intangible quality, an eye, or a feel that differentiates the good from the great in every discipline. You can’t checklist your way to the Hall of Fame in a sport, to musical greatness, or to academic excellence. On the other hands, you can often checklist your way to adequacy. And adequacy is a precursor to excellence.
In his rebuttal to my suggestion of practicality, Anderson equates my “handholds” with “the standard use of ‘application’ in contemporary evangelical homiletics.” That is interesting, and had Anderson asked me a better question in his email to me thanking me for the review and foreshadowing his response, he might have discovered that I, too, am not a huge fan of “5 Ways Your Prayer Life Can Take Off” and similar forms of sermonic application. Many times the worst doctrinal errors in contemporary preaching occur not in the exposition, but in the application.
In fact, at one point, I had so thoroughly embodied one theologian’s assertion that “the meaning is the application” that when I taught, I paid little attention to helping people apply the content. However, as I’ve taught more, both in the nuclear industry and in the church, I’ve realized that the existence of bad application is no reason not to seek to do application well. When I encounter historical examples, especially in the Puritans, of people thinking deeply (sometimes obsessively; see Packer, “Puritan Preaching,” in A Quest for Godliness) about application of Scripture in their sermons, I realize that not providing some application of the rich content I’ve studied is one way of looking at the hungry, breadless mob and saying, “Let them eat cake.”
There are good reasons for caution in practicality. In his newsletter, Anderson suggests “that distinguishing between the substance and the application does no one any good, as it artificially bifurcates the two modes of reasoning (theoretical and practical) and often over-determines peoples’ imaginations.” Such a bifurcation is bad, because it suggests that one could master a particular technique of questioning without having the general character of a good questioner (which stems from virtue, as Anderson argues in his latest book). In that sense, of course, a book purely on questioning technique that distilled it down a formula would indeed be a way of “selling [one’s] soul” as Anderson worries. And yet, the theoretical and practical are overlapping domains that influence one another. The fact that they can’t be neatly separated (and should not be) does not mean there isn’t a difference. It’s like the body-soul question in humanity: bifurcation is impossible, but distinction is necessary.
Handhold vs. Checklist
Anderson implicitly concedes value to the practical aspect of questioning, offering a footnote with a link to a blogpost by Fred Sanders (his former teacher, who wrote the forward to the book) in which Sanders offers some practical suggestions to the Socratic instructor. That brief post offers what I would suggest are handholds rather than a prescriptive checklist.
A “handhold” in my vision is not a rigid formula that must be followed. Thinking about the difference between “open-ended” and “closed-ended” questions as Make Just One Change does is helpful, even if the book’s whole methodology is overly formulaic. That book falls into the danger Anderson is concerned about, though it has helpful aspects. However, Sanders’s suggested four categorical responses by an instructor caught flat-footed by muddy questions do not seem reductionistic to me; they are the sort of principles that would have benefited Called into Questions.
A pastor, having labored over the Word all week—cracking his head on it, as Anderson commends (Questions, 175)––should be in the ideal position to provide some suggestions how the text of Scripture can be embodied in the life of the hearers. Perhaps a sermon on Isaiah 6 might lead to the suggestion the congregants should seek to spend 5 minutes a day meditating on the transcendent splendor of God over the next week. Is that formulaic? Maybe. But it is a way to get someone started on a practice that inculcates virtue.
It’s when pragmatic and guaranteed results are commended in a sermon (e.g., “This is certain to keep your annoying co-worker from getting under your skin.”) that the failure is problematic. However, suggesting the practical step of meditating on the effulgent glory of God when you are frustrated after a meeting at work as a means of overcoming anger may provide the sort of handhold that is helpful to some in the congregation. It isn’t the end of the story, but it does provide a place to start; it’s a handhold, not a checklist.
Checklists are useful for pilots, surgeons, and nuclear plant operators to make sure small, important things aren’t forgotten when practical pressures come to bear on life critical activities. They don’t replace the nuanced skill needed to conduct the surgery, land the plane, or control the reactor. They help lay the groundwork for success.
When shopping, an inordinate focus on the list (a sort of checklist) can lead to missing good deals on steak that would be much better than the shepherd’s pie that had been planned. On the other hand, without the shopping list, I can guarantee I would make many more mid-week trips to the store. They have some value.
The same is true of recipes. Real cooking is the improvisational art of culinary chemistry, but one can often make an adequate version of a tasty dish by strictly following a sound recipe. I don’t want to try to recreate a dish from my imagination, through trial and error, when a chef could help me discover the basics with a recipe. I’m thankful for cookbooks that help me get started, even if they aren’t the real cooking experience. Improvisation comes after the first successful attempt.
In the end, Anderson is within his rights to see my suggestion for offering handholds and, like Bartleby, simply state, “I prefer not to.” It’s his book. Called into Questions is primarily about lifting the reader’s eyes to the world around and leading them to wonder at what God has made. It does that, in my opinion, quite well. At the same time, as someone who would benefit from some of Anderson’s years of experience in asking questions and cultivating an interrogative life, I feel justified in wishing that the revision to the book could have moved in the opposite direction, at least with some advice tacked onto the end.
I do, however, think he misunderstood my critique (it was brief; there is a word count limit; I’m sure I could have been more clear.) and made some incorrect assumptions about my views. Though I’m sure we don’t agree entirely, I don’t believe our positions on the matter are at opposite ends of the spectrum. That’s why I offered the critique, though I will use and recommend the book. It’s also why I will continue to enjoy his curmudgeonly personality that would take my mild critique as a chance to expound on one of his well-considered, if debatable, opinions.
Reading your Bible is a battle. There’s a reason why Paul lists Scripture as the sword of the Spirit in his discussion of the armor of God (Eph. 6:17). More even than that, Scripture reveals God’s character and is, thus, central to worshiping well (Psalm 119). That’s why reading the Bible is a battle.