If love is the answer, could you please rephrase the question?

“If love is the answer, could you please rephrase the question?” — with this gleaming paradox, Lily Tomlin, the comedienne and philosopher of laughter, wields irony like a blade of light. At first, her words provoke a smile; they sound mischievous, even irreverent. Yet beneath the jest lies a deep and timeless unease — the sense that “love,” though often invoked as the cure for all human suffering, has become so worn by repetition that its meaning trembles beneath the weight of its own holiness. Tomlin, in her wit, does not reject love; she seeks to restore its clarity by questioning the comfort with which we proclaim it as the answer to everything.

Her quote arises from the tension between ideal and reality. Through the ages, saints, poets, and prophets have declared that love is the answer — the highest virtue, the bridge between souls, the salvation of nations. Yet the world remains divided, hearts remain wounded, and even the most passionate proclamations of love often dissolve into misunderstanding. Tomlin’s humor cuts through this contradiction: if love truly answers every question, perhaps it is the questions themselves that are too shallow, too selfish, or too afraid. In other words, the problem is not love — it is our failure to understand what we are asking of it.

Her words remind one of the ancient philosopher Diogenes, who wandered through Athens with a lantern, searching for an honest man. When people asked him what he was doing, he mocked their pretense of virtue by showing them their hypocrisy. So too does Tomlin, in her gentle irony, hold a mirror to modern humanity. We declare that love will save the world, yet we reduce it to sentiment, convenience, or transaction. We repeat the word like a charm but rarely endure its demands — patience, humility, forgiveness, courage. Her humor exposes this gap between speech and substance, between the word love and the lived act of it.

Consider also the story of Mother Teresa, who spent her life among the dying and the forgotten. When asked what love truly meant, she did not speak of romance or comfort; she said, “Love is doing small things with great care.” In that simple statement lies the rephrasing Tomlin seems to demand. Love, in its truest form, is not the answer to vague philosophical questions, but the response to real human need. It does not float in abstraction — it kneels, it listens, it bleeds. Thus, to “rephrase the question” is to make it concrete: not “What is love?” but “How can I love, here and now, where it hurts?”

Tomlin’s satire also carries a quiet sorrow. Her tone suggests that in an age of slogans and quick remedies, even love — the most sacred of human truths — has been commodified. It is printed on greeting cards, sung in hollow pop refrains, and used to justify desires that have nothing to do with compassion. Her wit asks us to awaken, to examine what we mean when we speak of love as the answer. For if we speak without depth, we risk making the word meaningless — and when love becomes meaningless, all other answers lose their light.

And yet, within her irony shines hope. To rephrase the question is not to abandon love, but to rediscover it. The humor disarms us, so that the truth may enter quietly: that love is not the answer to every question until we learn to ask questions worthy of it. It is not a universal balm, but a discipline of the soul. It demands selflessness in a world of self, tenderness in a world of hardness, presence in a world of distraction. To speak of love as the answer must mean, first, to live as if it were.

The lesson is simple, but profound: do not speak of love lightly. When you say it is the answer, make sure your question comes from the heart, not from habit. Ask not how love can serve you, but how you can serve through love. Question not the word, but your readiness to live it. For as Lily Tomlin teaches through her laughter, the truest wisdom is often hidden in jest — and the greatest truths, though ancient, must be spoken anew for each generation to understand.

So remember, O listener of tomorrow: love may indeed be the answer, but only when we have learned to ask rightly — not for comfort, but for transformation. For love is not the easy reply to the world’s questions; it is the courage to live them.