A New Feature: The Rabbi's Address

We are pleased to announce the commencement of our cooperation with the Rabbi Adin Even-Israel Steinsaltz Institute and the publication of materials specially prepared for the member communities of the EAJC.

This article is based on a lecture delivered by Rabbi Adin Even-Israel Steinsaltz at the Novosibirsk Akademgorodok of the Russian Academy of Sciences.

The Questions We Ask

In the Arabic language, there are approximately two hundred synonyms for the word "camel," while the Inuit language possesses just as many terms for snow. Why do Russian or Hebrew lack such a vast number of synonyms for these concepts? The explanation is straightforward: a desert dweller, whose sole living companion is the camel, naturally observes it with meticulous attention. He distinguishes between a small camel and a large one, a beautiful and an unsightly one, a male and a female, a swift and a slow one, assigning a distinct name to each. Similarly, in the realm of perpetual ice and snow, one learns to discern the subtlest variations—details that an inhabitant of Israel, who sees snow perhaps once a year, would never notice.

This was precisely one of the challenges I encountered when I began translating the Talmud. The Talmud contains over thirty synonyms for the word "question." No other language possesses anything comparable. One term denotes a "simple question," another a "complex question," and a separate word exists for a question arising from the contradiction between two concepts. This taxonomy continues extensively.

From the vocabulary of Arabic, one can readily conclude that Arabs live in an environment abundant in camels, just as the Inuit language reveals that its speakers dwell amidst snow. In what kind of world did the creators of the Talmud live? In a world where questions far outnumber answers, and where questioning forms the very foundation of existence. This may seem unusual, as we are accustomed to the notion that religion provides answers to all queries—both asked and unasked. Religion is perceived to possess certainty rather than doubt; it declares rather than questions. Yet, in the sacred book of Judaism, the Talmud, there are far more questions than answers. It comes as a surprise to many that Judaism does not fear inquiry.

In any discipline, answers are important, useful, and essential; however, every scientist knows that they are often mundane, whereas the questions are far more compelling. Philosophers of science argue that periodically, science must re-examine its foundational premises, which means that to discover a new field of research, one must formulate entirely new questions.

Seeking answers to the same repetitive questions leads to a dead end, a phenomenon that has occurred repeatedly in the history of science. Such an approach reveals increasingly minor details, which only serve to confuse the researcher without yielding any genuinely new knowledge.  Someone once summarized modern scientific trends as follows: "We know more and more about less and less, so that eventually we will possess complete knowledge of nothing."

There are universal questions that every human being asks by virtue of human nature. We are not always consistent in this pursuit, nor always intellectually honest, and at times we are not even conscious of asking them, yet this does not alter the underlying reality. One of these vital questions, which a person addresses to themselves, is formulated in "Pirkei Avot"—one of the foundational Jewish texts on morality and ethics—as: "Whence did you come, and whither are you going?"

A well-known Arabic parable tells of a king who demanded a concise summary of human history. Yet, even for this task, the scholars required so much time that the king grew old. On his deathbed, he summoned the chief sage—who had also reached an advanced age—and requested a two-word summary of human history. "They were born, they suffered, they died," the sage concluded.

This is a remarkably accurate summary. However, a logical question arises: if this is the case, where are we rushing, and for what purpose? It is impossible to address this in a few words. My intention is merely to raise this question anew as one of those queries to which it is beneficial to return, even if they occasionally deprive us of sleep. People often prefer to avoid this question, as the answers can lead to profound consequences, fundamentally altering our worldview.

From this perspective, a scientist occupied with counting the facets of a fly's eye possesses a distinct advantage. No matter the count, it does not require a change in their way of life. Such tasks engage the intellect but do not trouble the soul. Questions such as "why do I live?" or "why does anything exist?" are far more difficult to resolve, and indeed, no possible answer can ever be exhaustive.

In a different formulation, this is the very first question that appears in the Tanakh. The Creator asks Adam: "Where art thou?" Today, at the beginning of the 21st century, He addresses this question to every individual; yet, to this day, it seems no satisfactory answer has been given. Once uttered, this question remains eternally relevant, forcing each person to ask: "Where, in essence, am I?"

I would like to address another of those questions that haunt us in the pre-dawn hours. Many of those present in this hall are of Jewish descent. I do not intend to define who is a good Jew and who is a bad one, but I wish to pose a question: what does it mean to be a Jew?

A major breakthrough in psychology was the concept of the "complex." What is it? It is a state engendered by a problem that an individual is incapable of formulating and confronting. It tormentingly persists in the subconscious, remaining unresolved. Both in Russia and in many Western countries, Jewish identity has become a form of psychological pathology for those who bear it. The "Jewish complex" develops where Jews are ashamed to raise the question of their Jewishness, hesitating to look the truth in the eye and ask: who and what are we?

One of the fundamental tenets of Greek philosophy states: "Know thyself." I do not offer answers; I raise questions. I am attempting to conduct a form of group psychoanalysis for individuals who, for decades, have hesitated to confront this painful issue, which originated in the third millennium BCE.

Each of these questions invariably leads to several others. These are not scientific inquiries, but existential ones—questions of human existence. They are often painful, yet it is essential to ask them, for such is the demand of our life and the reality in which we are immersed. And if we must suffer, it is only natural to ask: "To what end?"