Socrates, the almost mythical father of Greek philosophy (we only know about him from what his followers recorded about him), once told his listeners that the wisest person is the person who knows that he knows nothing.  In his terse and sardonic way, Socrates had things exactly right.  Consider these words from the book of Ecclesiastes in the Hebrew Bible (chapter three, verse eleven):  "God has set eternity into the human heart, yet so that no one can discover the work which God has done from beginning to the end."
     Socrates, like the writer of Ecclesiastes, understood that although we humans are made to discover and explore, we are equally unable to learn everything we want to know.  Our finitude redounds against it.  Socrates did not disparage exploration and questing, yet he was quick to advise that, in the end, it will not produce totality of explanation.  How can contingent creatures master the permanent?  We may acquire vast amounts of knowledge, not a bad thing, but until we realize our worldly limitations, we will not know that which is the most important knowledge of all, namely, that we will never know everything--and that because of this we really know nothing.
     And oddly enough, it is that which we cannot know that is most important.  To wit, if we, small as we are, in ourselves could know something, how important could it really be? It's important in its time and place, yes, but how important is it, really?  It's often what we do not, indeed, cannot, in ourselves, know, that proves to be the thing that we should most know.  We walk amidst contingencies and realities we cannot possibly fully comprehend.
     God, and life, are bigger than we can possibly imagine.  Why otherwise are we here?