As we approach Rosh Hashanah and celebrate the creation of the world and humanity, perhaps you, like me, are wondering how to have faith alongside daily headlines of human suffering, violence and upheaval. Beyond ongoing shock and grief, I have a gnawing fear that we’re just not up to the task. In its characteristic raw and honest manner, the Talmud too expresses harsh doubts about humanity:

“For two and a half years, Beit Shammai and Beit Hillel argued. 

These said: It would be better had humanity not been created… 

And those said: It is better that humanity has been created. 

They voted and concluded: It would be better had humanity not been created…”

— Eruvin 13a

One reason I love Talmud is that its cryptic style forces you to think. Over those two and half years of debate, what evidence did each side bring for their case? What examples of the goodness in human experience might have dragged out the debate for another month, and which examples of human wrongdoing or suffering sealed the deal? The Talmud’s terse text leaves much to our imagination, and as we seek to fill in these details, we come up with our own reasons for each side. 

I appreciate that Talmud does not shrink from articulating our worst fears: Maybe our existence is more of a nightmare than a gift. At the end of the day, we’re left with a seemingly nihilist conclusion — better had we never been created. Yet, this is not a nihilism that leads to apathy. On the contrary, it suggests that the pathway forward in our existence requires attentiveness and investment:

“Now that we have been created, we should examine our actions. 

And some say: We should scrutinize our actions.”

— Eruvin 13b

Maybe our lack of faith in humanity is well-grounded, but Talmud teaches us to nonetheless believe in human capacity for reflection and improvement. In other words, the only way to approach the sometimes scary reality of our existence is through the ongoing careful work of teshuvah.

From when I first entered into the Talmud’s conversation as a young sixth-grader in one of very few schools that took both Talmud seriously and girls’ Jewish learning seriously, I’ve felt that this is exactly what Talmud does best: it helps us learn how to “examine and scrutinize.” Talmud felt like a challenging puzzle, but figuring it out wasn’t just fun — it was a devotional practice. 

The Babylonian Talmud collects a myriad of oral traditions across the full range of Jewish law, theology and narrative and is at once an anthology and live debate, weaving together diverging perspectives of classical sages across multiple generations. A passage of Talmud is all about interrogating the reasoning behind sources, raising questions, pointing out contradictions and constantly taking up a different perspective in a debate. Talmud at its core believes in the power of human thought and takes upon itself the task of teaching us to think and critique. 

This is what I really love most about Talmud: the insistence that we have the capacity, and obligation, to “examine and scrutinize” in order to show up as a better version of ourselves. Through learning Talmud, we have the privilege of drawing on a deep well of wisdom that can touch every aspect of our life experiences from multiple perspectives, inviting us to refine our thinking and our actions in a complex world. 

In a world of rising fundamentalism, authoritarianism and even the turn to artificial intelligence it can feel like the value of human thought is under attack from many directions, whether explicitly or implicitly. Studying Talmud is an act of faith and courage, asserting that our human capacity for reflection and careful thinking is of the utmost value. With Talmud as the bedrock of our faith, we aren’t left with simplistic beliefs of fundamentalism nor with the AI programmers’ predefined “set of values.” Talmud puts our own minds in the driver’s seat, noticing and navigating complexity. Rather than telling us exactly what to believe and what to do, Talmud teaches that the only way to be devout is to be skeptical. Religious study is about embracing a multiplicity of diverging perspectives and honing our capacity to think critically as we continuously refine tenets of belief and practice. I can’t imagine being a person of faith any other way.

With Talmud as the bedrock of my faith, I take two things for granted: The chaos and complexity of human experience is very real; and there is no simplistic approach to our existential questions. It is our task to dive into this messy existence with devotion and passion, pointing out what’s gone wrong at every turn, always with an eye towards gleaning deeper insight so we can show up better in all that our lives demand of us.

At the Hadar Institute, where I serve as rosh yeshiva, we’ve launched an initiative this year called “Talmud at Hadar” that includes classes, resources, recordings and multi-day seminars designed to invite people into Talmud and find good company in this work of examination and scrutiny. We engage with the many tools available to bring depth to our study — traditional and academic methods, literary and psychologically sensitive readings — all with an eye towards gleaning as much insight as we can from this puzzling well of wisdom. I invite you to take a leap of faith into Talmud in this new year, to stretch the capacity of your own thinking as the bedrock of a rugged faith that humanity can learn and grow, that we can chart a better course for ourselves and our world. 

May we all examine and scrutinize our actions in ways that lead to a good, sweet year.

Rabbi Aviva Richman serves as rosh yeshiva at the Hadar Institute.